Of late, I have been involved in some pretty serious contract negotiations with my thighs; they were quickly coming to an impasse and I had to act quickly to prevent disaster. My unionized pants boycotted the talks and my skirts hinted at following suit. Despite repeated attempts at a peace agreement, the atmosphere remained terse. As such, Monsieur Epinard Salade, aka, Thin Man, was called in to take over negotiations.
Initial advances were rejected by both parties. Happily, Mr Salade lived up to his reputation and after a time, began to make progress. I hoped to hope and breathed easier...but alas the situation was being threatened by a saboteur...
It was midnight. All was quiet. My family slept a peaceful and innocent sleep. I awoke. I knew not why. Still groggy, I rolled over. Then I heard it. Someone or something was out there! The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my ears perked and I lay as still as possible. Then, horror of horrors, I heard my name, whispered with a sing-song menace. I looked over to my husband for help. His eyes were closed and his chest slowly rose and fell. I was on my own.
I remained motionless as I considered my options. By and by, I came to the conclusion that I must face this demon. I must protect my family. I must get out of bed. As quietly as possible, I crept out of my safe haven. Tip-toe-tip-toe, down the stairs I went. At bottom, I straightened, tall and fearless. The sickening raspy song continued.
Lights off, I walked through the living room. On and on, I deftly avoided furniture. I made no noise. Turn. Look. It was coming from the kitchen! I steadied myself, preparing for what was to come. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what I was about to meet.
Squinting in the darkness, I saw a tiny beam of light. I approached, listening hard. I heard whispering. I reached out a trembling hand and opened the refrigerator door. Light flooded out, momentarily blinding me. I covered my eyes. I heard a tiny "ahem". Wide-eyed and terrified, I looked into the great whiteness, searching for that which knew my name.
And there it was. The tart. The tart I'd so lovingly made for my husband. Somehow, the strawberries I'd carefully placed on top of the pastry cream had rearranged into a terrible, yet delicious-looking, face. The seeds had come off the berries to form pupils and the leaves I'd left on for a pretty garnish were now awkward eyebrows. The strawberry halves fashioned an eerie smile. It spoke.
"Bon soir, Madame. 'ow are you zis evening?" I stared, mouth agape, shocked, terrified. The smile widened. "I was sinking about you and eet made me very sad to sink zat you 'ad not 'ad dessert. You must be quite 'ungry." It paused, waiting for a response. Despite myself, I began to salivate. The smile became a smirk. "You know, I won't tell anyone if you 'ave zhoost a tee-ny, ti-ny piece." Pause. "You know you zat want one."
I looked around the shelves for brave and strong Epinard. Where was he? To my dismay, I saw that he'd been shoved into one of the bottom drawers. Thin Man could not help me. I steeled my voice and told the tart that in fact, I wasn't at all hungry, still completely satisfied from my dinner of skinless baked chicken and green beans. The tart scoffed, the forced appearance of friendliness momentarily disappeared and the French accent waned for just a second. "Oh don't be such a bairn." It had made a mistake. I could see that in it's beady eyed grimace. But what was a "bairn"?
I closed the door to give myself a moment to think. Mind racing, I fought to remember where I'd heard that word before. Egad! It was Scottish slang for "child". But why would a Scottish tart be pretending to be French?
I had an epiphany. Nodding to myself, I remembered a conversation with my husband I'd had years ago. We were watching a football game between France and England and I noticed that the fans on both sides were virtually rabid in their support. I asked why. My husband, who is French, explained that after hundreds of years of wars between the two countries, despite the current peace, strong rivalries remain. He said, "Now, the battles take place on the football field."
I reopened the door and caught a glimpse the tart whispering feverishly with the German chocolate, who stopped immediately. I eyed the chocolate suspiciously, but it simply looked away and began to whistle - quite an accomplishment, I must say. I took my friend out of the drawer. He was nervous and seemed to want to say more, but he merely thanked me. I ignored the treacherous tart's attempts at further conversation and his German friend, who, upon realizing that I was not cooperating, tried to catch my attention. I closed the door and went back upstairs, baffled but proud of my self-restraint.
As I slowly walked the walk of the victorious, I knew I had to tell my husband that the battle is apparently no longer only on the pitch; allies are being made, lines drawn and someone out there has it in their mind to draw in the Americans.
Beware, my fellow countrymen. War is being declared on our thighs. It is obviously some sort of devious plan, even if I'm not sure yet what that plan is. Regardless, whatever your sentiments may be about the French or the British or the Germans, this battle is not ours. Be strong. Our backsides, or at the very least, our thighs, may very well depend upon it.
*Translations: epinard = spinach, salade = salad, bon soir = good evening
No comments:
Post a Comment