Posts
Let's break out that Coke and Mentos.
It's going to get rough.
So you can probably imagine what I'm about to do now, but I'm planning something a little more elaborate. As today is a day of fireworks, so I thought a nice show of Coke and Mentos might be something new and exciting. But of course, we don't call it Coke and Mentos back in the 18th-century; we call it the 'fizzy beverage which makes you feel like you have acid running through your nose' (or fizzy beverage for short) and 'candy tablets'. I truly wasn't sure how to perform the whole experiment, so I turned to the omniscient Google for help. I received about 209,000 results in my search, and began reading. The scavenger hunt that ensued was intense. We were expecting guests that afternoon (makes me look a bit like a dunce, doesn't it?) and Elizabeth, my dear wife, did not appreciate anyone's presence other than hers and the servants' in the kitchen as she prepared a meal for about twenty persons. From what I could smell, it appeared that we were having the traditional roast beef in 'mystery meat sauce', as I like to call it, with a side of fattening, buttery, mashed potatoes topped with spinach, mixed with spices such as white peppercorn and mustard flour. That's just the appetizer.
I slightly dreaded even approaching the kitchen, for the wrath of Elizabeth Randolph was like facing down British artillery with nothing but a twig. As I made my way stealthily across the expanse of green to the little house of sturdy brick, I attempted to devise a plan, calling upon my youthful days in the service of the cause, knowing that my only chance was to be as alopecoid as possible. I considered my chances. The servant girls kept their mouths running like a windmill in a storm, and they knew that when it came to culinary matters, I had as much authority as a fly on a wall. Then I would come face to face with Elizabeth, and that was the end of that. Maybe if I were to slide down the chimney... no... too large... how about sliding along the wall like a spy... no... curse you, Burger King... I was left with having to fend them off myself. As I neared, I could hear the screams, the frustration, the impatience, and the anxiety. Through a murky window, I could make out the ladies rushing about with copper and iron pots, cauldrons, and even a small brazier for last minute cooking. I could make out faces filled with the pressure of one too many guests expected, hair in total disarray, and hands blistered from the beginning of work in the wee hours of the morning, with no end in site. Their starch white aprons, so carefully ironed every night after the guests had departed, were now a colorful assortment of ingredients, ranging from the most decadent of white wine sauces dropped in a rush; the leftovers of some peeled chicken; the crumbs of the locally renowned Randolph sponge cake; the uniquely fizzy strawberry jam from the local apothecary (it's a queer one) on Chester Street; the aforementioned spinach without all the jazz put in yet; and other unidentifiable ingredients. Smoke ardently waited to escape as I quietly opened the weather-beaten oak door, the sound of the hinges quite similar to a chicken suffering through a slow, painful death. Much to my surprise, no one seemed to take notice of me, or if they did, they must have sensed that I was a man on a mission. The scene that surrounded me will never cease to exist in my mind: the servants, in their disorganized and discombobulated state of attire and appearance, moved like the currents in one of Dr. Franklin's electrical presentations. The smell of spices from the West Indies, the Canaries, and the Orient filled the air like lavender in the spring garden. Broths bubbled like Mr. Patrick Henry on the House floor in their gargantuan cauldrons of a rough iron. Huge slabs of bovine slowly cooked and browned on their spits, manned by a heavily sweating servant occasionally applying a tangy marinade, that I came to eventually love after so many years of marriage. A triumvirate of exhausted ladies continued to pound with special tools a prodigiously, aesthetically appealing slew of mashed potatoes. Smoke continually swirled about the room, creating a fog with visibility of about a foot. At the head of the whole production was my dear wife, Elizabeth. She donned her famous cooking dress, composed of red, inexpensive fabric with no design that was always present in the kitchen. She moved from one spot to the next, correcting a dose of butter, advising the best way to stir in solid objects such as corn, chiding the hasty and the lazy, and all the while, managing to keep her hair completely intact. I dodged out of her path, tiptoeing along the shadows cast by the wall on the far-end. I had spotted a bottle of the fizzy beverage neatly placed alongside several age-old wines and champagnes, its green glass like those of a snake’s eyes in the dark. The label boasted “The World’s Finest Fizzy Drink, A Joy At All Festivities.” I grabbed it, and in my haste, nearly gave it to the floor. I was just out the door when I heard someone clear their throat.
Oops.
“Looks like someone has been to the kitchen, eh?” Elizabeth was giving me the raised brow, tapping her flour-covered foot impatiently on the rough wooden floor.
“Why, yes, I have been! Off for a fizzy drink…” My words trailed as both brows raised, and she said,
“After twelve years of marriage, have you not learned a thing?”
“Maybe one or two,” and with that I took off, bottle in hand, plan in mind.
Afterward, I wrecked my desk attempting to find my saved-up roll of candy tablets, a delicacy for the whole family that comes about once a week. I found them lying in the back of the middle drawer, hidden by mounds of blank subpoenas and constable reports. They were in good condition, of the assorted flavor (my favorite are the yellow ones). I grabbed a scrap of paper and proceeded to the parlor. In the little table is a secret compartment where I keep my most beloved playing cards. I decided against them and used the old, musty ones that everyone tries to avoid because of the smell. I hadn’t really thought of any safety precautions at the time, but really, who ever said tat being drowned in a fizzy beverage was a bad thing. I snuck over to the serpentine path that cuts through the gardens, surrounded by massive brick walls on either side. I carefully laid the open bottle on the flat surface; formed the paper with space enough for the candies to fit in; held the card and tube over the space at the top of the bottle… and blastoff. Fizzy beverage was EVERYWHERE, coating the walls, the ground, and the bushes. The fountain did not end for a good, whole two minutes. I myself was like a happy banshee, gulping it down, whooping with joy on this grand 4th of July.
Do you find me ridiculous yet?
No comments:
Post a Comment