pepper-bombed a solar bear. But this blankety-blank rooster gets the better of me. And no matter how hard I fling him or Toad “fetches” him, he always comes cackling back. Somewhere in me I admire him. But most of all I would like to admire him on a big plate surrounded by boiled potatoes and cooked carrots.
Walking into Arlinda’s kitchen is like walking into the boiler room on a steamship. When the government pulled the plug on everyone’s electricity, Arlinda just cleared the newspapers and magazines off the top of her hulking cast iron wood range and fired it up like the old days, and she’s kept the fire stoked pretty much ever since. I don’t know how she does it in there. The sweat pops up on me the minute I cross the threshold.
You don’t want to get in her way. Arlinda is a stout woman with shoulders as wide as a doorway, and she moves around the kitchen slinging pots and pans like she’s driving pirates off a gangplank. But, oh, her cooking. Arlinda makes all of the good stuff: roast beef, pork chops, fried chicken, meat loaf, hamburger hot dish, mountains of mashed potatoes. . . . It’s the kind of food where the only thing you want for dessert is to roll into a corner and sleep it off. But she’s not all steak and spuds. When those fiddleheads come to the table, they’ll be resting on a bed of fluffy rice and drizzled with dark vinegar made from windfall apples. In other words, they’ll look almost good enough to eat.
I help Ma set the table, while Dad and Toad carry in extra chairs from the sitting room. Dookie is supposed to be placing the silverware, but he’s over in the corner playing with a pair of spoons.
Clackety-clackety , say the spoons.
“ Clackety-clackety! ” says Dookie.
Ma just sighs and gets two more spoons.
As Ma and Arlinda stack the last of the food around the table, Arlinda has me stir the gravy. My stomach growls as I spoon the velvety brown liquid round and round, and if it wasn’t bubbling hot I’d guzzle it straight from the pan. Fat, salt, and mystery brown bits. There was a time people worried about these things, but when you spend entire days grubbing the dirt for chunks of old tin and iron, you don’t worry too much about eating gravy.
When we are all at the table, Toad says, “Let us give thanks.” As I bow my head I sneak a peek at the tabletop and see the fried fish and pork chops, buttered yams, heaps of green beans, fresh biscuits, salad straight from the greenhouse, and a steaming pile of mashed potatoes. Arlinda’s cracked ceramic gravy boat is so full it’s about to slop over. Even the fiddleheads—nestled in a bowl like slimy green sea creatures—don’t look that bad. The whole works is stacked on one of Arlinda’s ironed and embroidered tablecloths, and as I close my eyes and Toad starts in, I can’t help thinking that sometimes I have a good life after all.
Toad’s grace covers all the bases, and takes awhile. About halfway through I get hit in the head by what feels like a small insect. Then it happens again. I crack open one eye and instead of a fly, I see Dookie grinning evilly. He holds one palm out flat before him and just as I see the little white spot, he flicks it and the spot flits across the table, rises over Toad’s bowed head, and starts coming back at me.
It wasn’t enough for Daniel Beard to teach young boys how to make boomerangs that could slice a dog in two; he also included another section on how to make miniature boomerangs. On cold winter nights Toad sits beside the stove and carves them by the jarful. Unfortunately, Dookie knows where Toad keeps the jar, and whenever we visit he grabs a pocketful. The one he just flicked has made a U-turn and is coming straight for me. I duck and my forehead hits the edge of the plate, making it flip up and then crash down on my silverware. Toad stops his praying and all the grown-ups stare at me. I shoot a paint-peeling glare at Dookie, but he has his eyes closed, his head
Walking into Arlinda’s kitchen is like walking into the boiler room on a steamship. When the government pulled the plug on everyone’s electricity, Arlinda just cleared the newspapers and magazines off the top of her hulking cast iron wood range and fired it up like the old days, and she’s kept the fire stoked pretty much ever since. I don’t know how she does it in there. The sweat pops up on me the minute I cross the threshold.
You don’t want to get in her way. Arlinda is a stout woman with shoulders as wide as a doorway, and she moves around the kitchen slinging pots and pans like she’s driving pirates off a gangplank. But, oh, her cooking. Arlinda makes all of the good stuff: roast beef, pork chops, fried chicken, meat loaf, hamburger hot dish, mountains of mashed potatoes. . . . It’s the kind of food where the only thing you want for dessert is to roll into a corner and sleep it off. But she’s not all steak and spuds. When those fiddleheads come to the table, they’ll be resting on a bed of fluffy rice and drizzled with dark vinegar made from windfall apples. In other words, they’ll look almost good enough to eat.
I help Ma set the table, while Dad and Toad carry in extra chairs from the sitting room. Dookie is supposed to be placing the silverware, but he’s over in the corner playing with a pair of spoons.
Clackety-clackety , say the spoons.
“ Clackety-clackety! ” says Dookie.
Ma just sighs and gets two more spoons.
As Ma and Arlinda stack the last of the food around the table, Arlinda has me stir the gravy. My stomach growls as I spoon the velvety brown liquid round and round, and if it wasn’t bubbling hot I’d guzzle it straight from the pan. Fat, salt, and mystery brown bits. There was a time people worried about these things, but when you spend entire days grubbing the dirt for chunks of old tin and iron, you don’t worry too much about eating gravy.
When we are all at the table, Toad says, “Let us give thanks.” As I bow my head I sneak a peek at the tabletop and see the fried fish and pork chops, buttered yams, heaps of green beans, fresh biscuits, salad straight from the greenhouse, and a steaming pile of mashed potatoes. Arlinda’s cracked ceramic gravy boat is so full it’s about to slop over. Even the fiddleheads—nestled in a bowl like slimy green sea creatures—don’t look that bad. The whole works is stacked on one of Arlinda’s ironed and embroidered tablecloths, and as I close my eyes and Toad starts in, I can’t help thinking that sometimes I have a good life after all.
Toad’s grace covers all the bases, and takes awhile. About halfway through I get hit in the head by what feels like a small insect. Then it happens again. I crack open one eye and instead of a fly, I see Dookie grinning evilly. He holds one palm out flat before him and just as I see the little white spot, he flicks it and the spot flits across the table, rises over Toad’s bowed head, and starts coming back at me.
It wasn’t enough for Daniel Beard to teach young boys how to make boomerangs that could slice a dog in two; he also included another section on how to make miniature boomerangs. On cold winter nights Toad sits beside the stove and carves them by the jarful. Unfortunately, Dookie knows where Toad keeps the jar, and whenever we visit he grabs a pocketful. The one he just flicked has made a U-turn and is coming straight for me. I duck and my forehead hits the edge of the plate, making it flip up and then crash down on my silverware. Toad stops his praying and all the grown-ups stare at me. I shoot a paint-peeling glare at Dookie, but he has his eyes closed, his head
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