When more than four gather in the name of anything else other than the Son of Man, it is only a matter of time before daggers and drawn in the name of healthy discussion. And as usual before I could quietly extract myself a powerful finger and thumb attached themselves to my ear and I was lead back to the table by a sister anxious to reduce her backlog of words to say for the day.
“Not so fast dude, you’re not sitting by the sidelines on this one!”
The bone of contention was a very simple one. One school of thought (banana) were all for the idea of absolute honesty between partners. This eclectic mix of individuals was of the opinion that there should be nothing but brutal honesty between you and your significant other. Nothing was too small to pass under the radar.
The opposing group (orange) was opposed violently to the very notion of absolute honesty.
“This is not to say that you should lie,” the Chairlady of the Oranges said. “But there are times when the truth will cost you more than keeping it hidden. Some things should either be left unsaid or outright lied about.”
I cast my lot without hesitation with the Oranges. Granted, there are some things you should not lie about but then again there some others to which if you answered truthfully with one hand on the Good Book you will find yourself in the dog house, especially if your chromosomes are inclined to be the XY variety.
Casting aside the obvious ones like “Is she prettier than me” variety, there are other situations where it is imperative you cough loudly, yell fire, and while Jesus and his Father are occupied looking around, to lie through one’s teeth with a perfectly straight face.
Before her untimely demise in 2001, Michelle and I had a very good thing going. I was completely convinced that this was the woman I’d be handing her false teeth in the morning, after she had handed me my two walking sticks and both glass eyes some seventy years down the line.
I won’t enumerate all her qualities here but on a scale of 1 to 10 she scored a strong 45.
However, she could not cook. If she was captured in a world war and told her only salvation was to make the opposing enemy commander a cup of tea she’d be blindfolded and standing before a wall within half an hour. She could cook to save her life.
It puzzled and irritated her to no end that she could simply not master the art after several spirited attempts. The casualties of her efforts in the kitchen were not light. Several pots, pans and trays had to be retired prematurely after being caked with burnt substances that laughed in the face of hot water.
Saucepans advertised as burn proof betrayed the optimism of their manufacturers in the face of a determined foe.
She invented new compounds that were strong candidates for addition to the periodic table, including a solid that turned to vapour on heating and then turned to liquid as soon as it hit the kitchen ceiling.
The family housekeeper threatened instant resignation if forced to clean up after Michelle’s spirited efforts to tame the culinary beast.
Even when she boiled water there was always someone to either offer her a stop watch or to conveniently have business in the kitchen.
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” are sentiments I welcome with an engaging smile. Hear ye, hear ye, I enjoy a well cooked meal and will generally not turn it down.
Not that you’d know by looking at me – my metabolism is one of the most efficient systems in operation under God’s green earth. Allegations that I have a rumen I treat with the contempt that they deserve.
When it comes to cooking yours truly is slightly above average moderately good pretty good a freaking ninja. My only flaw is in the bread department where even the most discerning critic is unable to differentiate my bread from my biscuits. Bread is my Waterloo.
“Well my dear,” I told her with a brisk smile and arm round her middle. “We’ll make a cook out of you yet.” The snigger her mother gave behind our backs I treated with the contempt it deserved.
Several weeks, 5 aprons, several cuts and one singed eyebrow later it occurred to me that the choice between teaching the love of my life to cook and passing the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle was one I’d have to think seriously about.
Still, I like to think I made some progress – she could at least butter bread without burning anything and her coffee did not taste burnt.
A week later she proudly announced that she was cooking and catering a dinner for two and may I avail myself?
“Well, that might not be possible … I might need to have some light surgery done, plus I hear the polar ice cap is melting …”
“You’re coming!”
I came. Loose fitting garments in case I needed to find a lavatory in a hurry. Array of antacids in my pocket. Last will and testament in the care of my immediate brother. Unusually tender goodbye to mother and father.
I proceed for my Last Supper.
Her outfit seemed to consist chiefly of holes and it was quite some time before I rallied the troops back together in readiness for combat.
“Well,” I said with exaggerated cheer. “What’s on the menu?”
The spread before me left me in no doubt that extreme tact would be required that evening, and that I would have to think on my feet, or rather on my seat if this evening would not end in bruised feelings.
After looking through the repast on the table and being unable to identify anything as food, I let slip the dogs of subterfuge.
“Well my dear, since you know your cooking best, why don’t you serve a brother with the fruits of your labour?”
With that smile that usually cost me the last 5 seconds of my immediate short term memory she obliged.
“This is a beef stew,” she said ladling generous helpings of what appeared to be hot bitumen onto my plate.
“Yum! Smells delicious!” My best smile was brought to play.
“And these,” she pointed, “are chapatis. In fact have two.”
What appeared to be two wooden chopping boards landed on my plate with a clatter.
She she sat down immediately opposite me and looked at me with that engaging half smile that is not good for one’s heart rate.
“Well? What do you think?”
I looked down at my meal of bitumen and timber and up at her earnest and anxious face.
There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to decide between sitting on a white ceramic throne with 2 ply at his elbow while still possessing the love of a good woman and an untroubled digestion accompanied by loneliness.
It was a no brainier.
I picked up the top most chapati and was not surprised to see that it was as rigid as the chopping board it resembled. Taking a bite taught me the exact meaning of the term ‘breaking bread’. I crunched at my chapati with a smile on my face.
Now for the beef stew. I attempted to spoon some of the stew but the spoon was unable to dip below the surface and kept skidding smoothly over the surface of the stew but finally I got some onto the spoon and conveyed the contents to my mouth with a silent prayer, reminding God that I had forgiven all my enemies.
The bitumen and timber in my moth seemed to suck all the moisture out of it. I chewed heroically and swallowed.
She leaned still closer.
“Well?” her hands were clasped in anxiety brown eyes blinking. That she had gone to a lot of effort to prepare that meal was apparent. There was even a smudge of flour on the tip of her nose.
“A bit dry, maybe I’ll have some gravy” I said hoarsely reaching for the dish.
“That’s not the gravy, silly! That’s the jelly.” She pointed at the solid looking substance I was sure was the jelly. “That is the gravy.”
I attempted to secure a spoonful of jelly and aborted the mission the instant the entire mass of gravy rose as one, accompanied by the containing dish.
“Is it OK?”
I emptied an entire jug of water to restore my moisture levels.
“Well, the chapatis and stew are a tad dry but it ‘s not bad!”
The look of flushed delight and pleasure on her face left me in no doubt that lying through my teeth was one of the smartest things I’d done all day.
Four chapatis and several ladles of beef stew later, followed by a liquid jelly and several litres of water later I retired from active combat.
“So do I have your approval to cook for my folks?” She asked.
Without skipping a beat the inner strategist in me popped two antacids and got to work. Any action of this kind would expose my deception.
“Not quite. We still need to work on adding more chap to your chapati and more beef to your beef stew. Then we can unleash – er – unveil you to the public.”
The returning smile completely took away the sting of the increasingly biting indigestion.
So, would you be 100% honest 100% of the time? Methinks not! Tact, ladies and gentleman, tact!
And Michelle could kindly start canvassing with St Peter to let that little white lie (and one or two others) slide ? :)
The Miracles – Love Machine
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