Step with caution into Ina’s kitchen. You are likely to be accosted with a spoonful of something and the glower of a large woman, arms crossed about her ample bosom, tapping her foot impatiently.
It doesn’t matter that you just wanted a snack. You did step into her kitchen, her court, and no matter your lineage, you are now assimilated into her entourage of lady taste-testers (only women in this kitchen…and story).
And since you usually don’t know the something she shoved into your mouth, you are at a distinct disadvantage when venturing your humble opinion.
‘Well?’ Ina asks and without pause, ‘I know you are going to love it! It’s my best yet!’ Again, the questioning glower that excites fear in your stomach. Searching for the nearest exit and committed to wait for lunch, you whisper, ‘Yes, it was great! Thanks so much!’ And you are running, in your mind anyway, to the door.
‘Tell me more,’ Ina’s huge body blocking the door and your escape. Glancing furtively into her past, ‘I first made it in Wentworth. The women loved it! You know, everyone always seems to love my cooking?! Not that I’m bragging, of course. But even so…’
The mention of Wentworth sends shivers down your spine. You’ve heard the stories, more times than you care to remember. Ina spent fifteen years there after she bashed in her abusive husband’s head. Oh, he lived, alright, but only as a shadow of his evil self, no longer able to hurt Ina or, god-forbid, her kids.
Her gaze leaving the cells of Wentworth, returning now to you, you take a deep breath. ‘I always love your cooking, Ina!’ Edging your way past her toward escape, ‘This is very good! Thank you! I really don’t have any idea how you could improve it!’
Ebullient from your lavish praise, Ina steps back from the door. And you finally understand. All she really wants is to be recognized and loved. It doesn’t matter the food she serves. And you remember why you love this brash, unkempt, somewhat crazy woman so dearly.
No comments:
Post a Comment