Read Online Ironbark by Barry Jonsberg - Free Book Online Page B

the main street a couple of times. I even think about having a cup of coffee in one of the sad cafes, but they’ve got red-checked tablecloths and chintzy curtains that are all frills, so I don’t. It would depress me too much. There’d probably be a rosy-cheeked old dear trying to force homemade apple pie on me and I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions. It’s all so boring that when I get back to the supermarket and see Granddad sitting outside on a bench, I’m almost excited. I swear to God. He’s staring off into the distance, like always, a whole heap of plastic bags at his feet. It looks like he’s in a snowdrift. I plop myself next to him and rummage around in the shopping.
    â€˜Got the basic provisions, Gramps?’
    â€˜Thought you’d need some meat and veg.’
    Ah, right. Either Granddad doesn’t understand the basic principle that a chef chooses the menu and his own ingredients or he’s worried sick I’m going to feed him sushi or some other ghastly foreign filth. I can’t imagine Granddad would be the kind to suck on raw fish. Sure enough, the bags are full of steak and potatoes, with a few tins of processed meat. I’m guessing if it doesn’t moo, Granddad won’t eat it. Then I spot a little tray of pork chops, so that kicks that theory in the head. I hope he has somewhere chilled to store all this stuff, because I won’t be needing any of it. I’m not going to tell him that, though.
    â€˜Cool,’ I say. ‘Just need a couple more items. You wait here and I’ll get them.’
    â€˜Are you sure you wanna cook?’ he says. There’s a note of desperation in his voice. ‘I don’t mind, you know.’
    â€˜Gramps,’ I say. ‘Trust me. It’s what I was put on this earth to do.’
    That might be an exaggeration, but I do love cooking. I taught myself because I got tired of expensive takeaways and restaurant food. Dad reckons that because he’s got money spilling out of every orifice, there’s no need to use our top-of-the-range stainless steel stove or any of the expensive gadgets littering our kitchen. You know, appliances that look good on the off-chance someone from Better Homes and Gardens drops by for a photo shoot. He is the worst kind of phoney. So I made a point of cooking a few times a week while he was out with business colleagues, flashing the credit card and being sucked up to by a dude in a dodgy tux and a dodgier French accent. At first it was mainly to rough up the pots and pans, give them a few ‘lived-in’ scratches, but, to my amazement, I enjoyed it. I liked discovering how some ingredients merge together to form new tastes. I realised I had a flair for it. And imagination. I’m learning all the time and getting better.
    So I love messing with food.
    I pat Granddad on the back and duck into the supermarket.
    Life can surprise you sometimes. I’m not expecting the supermarket to be any great shakes. I’m willing to bet that packet soups are the red-hot specials, the newfangled idea from the mainland. But they have a deli and everything. What’s more, there are fresh herbs, spices and even a good number of Asian vegetables. I’m staggered, but stock up. The only blip is when I come to pay with my MasterCard. I say it’s my MasterCard, but it’s actually an additional card from Dad’s account. A thousand bucks limit. He doesn’t trust me with anything more, in case I blow it all on wine, women and donations to Greenpeace. He’d be happy enough with the first two, let me tell you. It’s a Gold Card, the kind that tells the world you don’t have to bother with anything so working-class as price tags. The woman at the checkout turns it over a few times as if she’s expecting to see a Monopoly logo on it somewhere. Even when it’s scanned and the bank gives the thumbs up, she wears this expression that