A little breathless she bumped through the kitchen door into the steamy atmosphere. No harm done and grabbing a towel she moved the kettle down, giving it some relief. Now the only thing she needed to find was an apron. She knew that there must be at least one here, hidden in a draw. She couldn’t cook without one as it helped her create the magic that every kitchen deserves.
And there it was. She found it and tied it on quickly she then pulled a small cloth out and hung it onto the waist tie. She was now ready.
She hadn’t seen eggs this brown, this big, or this rich in a long time. She imagined (and was grateful to) the fat chicken who had produced them. Their shells were thick and it took at least three hard taps before the goodness inside was free.
Smiling she boiled a pan of water. “Poached today,” she thought. “He would like them”.
And then she sprang into the back garden to gather flora and herbs. She found a course white linen tablecloth to spread on the table in the main room. She found fresh yellow wax church candles and positioned them perfectly around. And she threw open the main door just for effect. She found the earthenware teapot into which she created a perfumed early morning tea.
And he came padding downstairs, smiling at her in her apron and nightgown. He did not notice her feet which gave away the evidence of her earlier morning walk.
He smiled until he saw the eggs that were beautifully arranged on a platter, not the table. And he declared to her with much emotion and a heavy heart:
“How I wish women would stop trying to cook me eggs.”
Her eyebrows twitched. And he said something then that just silenced her. Why? Because one thing she knew how to adapt to anyone’s liking was an egg. He said:
“Nothing”.
He sat down at the table and spooned himself two of her eggs. She wasn’t even nervous. He ate and then just smiled. But she needed an open acknowledgment.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Good” he said with a smile.
She laughed and all was made well again.
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