Zimmer: Scotch Eggs & a Broken Pot...

11

Amelia had risen early that morning with an idea and one that required she get her editing work out of the way. A fine day had been predicted and it had seemed like the perfect excuse for a picnic at the park. She secretly wished that she might see the mysterious Tal there, but at the very least, it would be lovely to get outdoors even if it was lunch for one, accustomed to being on her own as she was. She had found an old picnic basket with a full cutlery set and lined with gingham in a charity shop years ago and had always promised she would make good use of it, but it had only sat in a corner of a kitchen cupboard gathering dust, utterly dejected and unused. So, she concluded, there was no time like the present, as she whittled away in the hours before sunrise with yet another long and laborious dissertation to pay the bills.

The day catching up to her, it was already ten o’clock by the time she was finished with her work for the day and could move on to the task of picnic fare. She had perused Bellamy’s book the night before and set her heart on preparing potato pancakes with sour cream and scotch eggs for lunch at the park, along with the leftovers of the honey cake. Should her stranger not turn up, she comforted herself, there was no harm in Scotch eggs and potato pancakes for the day or so for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It was worth taking the chance and putting in the effort, which was something she was beginning to believe with a newfound fervour more and more these days.

A quick shower and deciding to dress down a little in a simple cream blouse and her old Calvin Klein denims and flip flops, Amelia was ready to head to town. This time, though it was a glorious day, she would take her grandfather’s fiat to save on time. Consulting the recipes earmarked on the necessary pages, Amelia wrote in pencil on a post-it all she would need for the picnic goodies, halving the ingredients as she went along as the recipes outlined that they were sufficient for four to six people.

For the potato pancakes

225g potatoes, 60g self-raising flour, ¼ cup of milk, 25g of butter.

For the Scotch eggs

4 eggs, 175g sausage meat, 1 teaspoon chopped parsley, 1 teaspoon chopped sage, finely grated rind of half a lemon, pinch of nutmeg, pinch of dried marjoram, 60g breadcrumbs and sunflower oil for frying.

She checked her larder next and placed a small tick along the ingredients she still had at home. Then she was off to the green grocers and the butcher and the general store, sure that it wouldn’t take too long for she wanted to make the park in time for lunch should Tal be there. She secretly wished that he wouldn’t think a picnic basket too forward on her part. But then taking the proverbial plunge with the professor first, and thereafter Renate, had raised the bar on all her previous expectations, and there was a graciousness to the enigmatic Tal, and this helped to reassure her.

Returned from her duties in town, Amelia first cracked on with the potato pancakes. Grating the potatoes, she next wrung them out in a clean tea towel to get rid of any excess starch. Then she sieved the flour into a mixing bowl and stirred in the milk, before mixing in the potato and seasoning well with salt and pepper. She heated some butter in a large frying pan and when the foam began to subside, she began to make each pancake out of the batter one tablespoon at a time, until they were golden brown on each side. That was relatively effortless, she congratulated herself.

For the Scotch eggs, she first boiled 3 of the eggs for 8 minutes, leaving them after to cool down, before peeling off the shell and coating each egg in the sausage mix she had meanwhile made of all the herbs and sausage meat and seasoning. Having whisked the fourth egg, they were dunked in the raw egg before being coated in the breadcrumbs and fried in the hot sunflower oil in yet another pan. Both the potato pancakes and Scotch eggs delectably browned, she remembered she hadn’t had breakfast, and well, best to sample the merchandise before poisoning the unsuspecting Tal. She plated herself up a Scotch egg and a pancake with a dollop of sour cream, and washing it down with a mug of tea she had to admit that if Tal was a fan of small good things, these indeed were a small, good thing.

She dusted off the formerly forlorn picnic basket, placing the morning’s labour in tupperwares inside with a bottle of homemade lemonade she’d picked up in town along and a blanket to lay on the grass.

“Ailuros, care to join me?” she called out wondering where the cat might be. As if predicting her mistress’s movements, the feline was already waiting at the front door. Grabbing a hat on her way out, cat in tow, Amelia smiled at the day bursting with such promise. Waving hello to the usuals as they passed the bodega, Amelia had to laugh, knowing she was going to garner quite the reputation as the crazy cat lady in the neighbourhood. But then, hadn’t she read that in Italy, the elderly ladies who spend their days feeding all the stray cats each day in the village are venerated by the society, with a name carved out especially for them... Gattara... She was sure that was it. So perhaps she’d be a gattara one day.

Arriving at the park, there was her stranger. She could tell it was him even from a distance now, a familiar profile and his mop of dark hair from behind. Feeling a little mischievous, she snuck up behind him, this time Ailuros close on her heels, and tapped him gently on the shoulder.

He turned, at first in surprise, and then smiled.

“Amelia! Ah, and Ailuros... To what do I owe the pleasure of this auspicious visit to my nick of the woods?”

“Well, it is such a beautiful day and I thought it a waste to enjoy it all by myself. Here, I’ve packed a picnic. Won’t you join us?”

“I’d be only too lucky! Thank you.”

With that, Amelia laid out the large blanket from her basket, placing a napkin on one side for her, and for him on the other, along with the tupperwares of potato cakes and Scotch eggs and moist honey cake, a couple of plastic tumblers and the lemonade in the centre.

Tal had an easy way about him, Amelia found. And as if his green eyes could be any more striking, today they were remarkably accentuated by a green t-shirt with three Yoda’s making the universal signs for ‘Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.’ He gestured with his hands as he spoke here and there, and he ate with his hands in a comfortable manner, picking at the crumbs of cake on his plate with his index finger. Neat nails and expressive hands, though small, like his feet, which were bare yet again. He seemed to be without any sense of the self-conscious, and it was equally easy to be in his company because of this. Amelia relished the conversation between them, flowing without interruption, only for the occasional nibble and sip of lemonade.

“I believe you discovered me in a dark spiral yesterday,” he spoke with a sincere honesty. “I return to this spot in times such as these, to sit beneath this tree and feel the weight of something so much grander than me. Perhaps some find consolation in feeling they are immense, that they are the centre of what is important. For myself, what soothes me is to know how very small and insignificant I am at times, even irrelevant. That this tree does not need me and will remain long after I am gone.”

He paused momentarily and then catching himself continued.

“I once looked upon a moth when I was in a dark space years ago, looking for answers and not finding them wherever I thought I might, and the moth was somehow so small and yet so larger than life, its antennae, or antlers, as I like to call them, keeping perfect time to the music I was playing in the background. So, so exquisitely filled with life in such a delicate form. It was like discovering the ocean for the first time. Telling me what a fool I was, that I had shit for brains not to see so absolutely that I am so very much just a teensy, tiny piece of this most stupefying, magnificent tapestry on earth. That it is beyond even the greatest of minds to contemplate it in its limitlessness, and make their way back to society in one piece. A vision so epic, it would render us speechless for decades with even just one true glimpse!”

He placed his hands to his head and raised them outwards, held aloft in the air, gesticulating a mind completely shattered.

“It is as so many Greek tragedies warn us... To be so very mindful of hubris, a tragic pride that will send us to our doom if we are not careful. So instead, when I feel the void of self-importance encroaching upon my soul, I return here, leaving the bare room of my four walls behind me, until I remember again what it is to marvel. And then, well, then I guess you could call me a reluctant believer.” He said this with a humorous twinkle in his eyes but all the same, Amelia gathered the depths of which he spoke and quietly smiled in return, out of gratitude for his earnestness in all gestures.

“Ah, if only,” he sighed a mock sigh of exaggerated frustration, “if only we could all be more like Ailurous! So uncomplicated. It is a charmed life.”

“My mother was like that, from what I can remember, almost feline. So natural within herself. And it was as if all the world were unable to affect her. She was bold. So bold. But it was like it came without any cares or concerns. I’ve always wished I was more like her.”

“Oh but Amelia, do you not know of the broken water pot? You are so very much like that. You simply do not see it. I feel I am beginning to dominate the conversation with my ramblings but they do say the Irish are partial to a story or two, so it’s not entirely my fault, and if you would only oblige me this one last story, perhaps it might lift your spirits some to know that each and every one of us, is in our own way, just like this little cracked vessel.”

“I’m all ears,” Amelia assured him, thankful that she not continue down the rabbit hole of her own past much longer for her feelings were mixed and complicated and frayed at the edges with deep longings and sorrows.

And so Tal began his story, making a daisy chain with the dandelions around them as he spoke, his Irish lilt carrying Amelia off from her own nervous self doubts to a time and a place and a story long, long ago.

“A water bearer in India had two large pots. Each hung on an end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

“For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.

“‘I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologise to you.’ “‘Why?’ asked the bearer. ‘What are you ashamed of?’ “‘I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don’t get full value from your efforts,’ the pot said.

“The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, ‘As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.’

“Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again the pot apologised to the bearer for its failure.

“The bearer said to the pot, ‘Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.’

“So do you see, precious Amelia, how you are not unlike the broken pot. Look at today. I was prepared to spend the day alone in contemplative silence and yet here you have visited me, with such a wonderful spread of delights for us to eat and enjoy. And truly, it is a magical thing to break bread with friends. I pray that I am not too brash but would like for you to think on me now, after today, as a friend. To both you and Ailuros. It is no coincidence that so many spiritual practices are centred around traditions of feasting. From one to another, this is something they all share in, however diverse they may be. In all cultures and countries, it brings people together in joy and merriment and sacrament. So thank you, dear, dear broken pot. I now have flowers with which to return to the master’s house. You have made of me yet again a reluctant believer for all I was straying into narcissistic oblivion. And for that I am indebted to you. Here, lower your head.” Not one to interrupt the special moment between them, Amelia did as was told, while her newfound friend placed the daisy chain around her crown.

“Why do you walk barefoot?” Amelia asked before she had time to second guess herself.

“Ah yes. To remind myself to tread lightly and thoughtfully,” Tal responded without hesitation, smiling at her with that selfsame unfettered smile.

“Mmm... I like that.” And just like that, his strange green eyes no longer left her disconcerted. She gazed back at them with her own unabashedly.

“You have crumbs all over your face!” Suddenly she giggled, in spite of herself, with a long forgotten, deep seated mirth. He too began to laugh and laugh and laugh, until neither could laugh anymore without the threat of stitches, like children.

“Would you care for more cake?”

And so it was that they feasted and spread their legs in the sunshine out on the picnic blanket until the sun set on yet another fortuitous day for the once shy Amelia. Daisy chain of dandelions still atop her head, Ailuros followed behind as she made her way, empty picnic basket in hand, home and again, with that most peculiar feeling blossoming within. Happiness.

(If you can't wait to read Act 2, you can purchase the e-book here: https://www.amazon.com.au/Zimmer-Jocelyn-Fryer-ebook/dp/B09BCTYG9T)

Eggs in a Bowl by Elizabeth Floyd