All this time, Jacinta had refused to use a mobile. Phone, that is. She had numerous mobiles hanging around the house, made from blown-out eggs, dyed, painted and threaded-through; they reminded her there was a hen outside and that made her very happy. She made pin-holes in both ends, and blew gently but firmly til both whites and yolks globbed gently into a bowl. Then she made omelettes, while dreaming of what design she should do. A lot of them had love-hearts on, but not all. She didn’t want to lose her edge.
Jacinta loved omelettes. They were honest and simple – the way she liked to see herself. But the MSG allergy was only the tip of the iceberg. Jacinta was high maintenance. And as for honesty, well, she’d left that behind in Dublin along with her Irish accent. In fact, even Kevin was now calling her “Yass”, according to her coaching. Sometimes she didn’t know if he was calling her by her abbreviated name, or making a meal of replying in the affirmative. “Yass,” he’d say. “Yes to vat?” she’d enquire, Germanly. “Yass, you. Yacinta. I was going to ask you if you had any ketchup. My omelette’s a little…well…dry.”
This was last Thursday. Jacinta had paused, her eggy fork halfway to her mouth. She was a mess of insecurities: she knew her limitations as a weaver, and she hadn’t yet found the right goat. None of the ones she’d “met” gave her the right vibes. Also, she’d known Kevin for 3 months now, and although he stayed most nights, there was a lot she didn’t know about him (except that he probably didn’t love her; goats weren’t the only ones who gave her vibes). In short, her love and business-lives were far from set – but you could never, never say the same about her omelettes. They were perfect. Never runny, but never dry. And replete with enough fines herbes to negate the addition even of salt. But ketchup? That had come out of nowhere. He’d never questioned the seasoning before. Was he deliberately trying to wound her? Or was he just getting bored?
She replaced the suspended fork to one side of her plate without a word. The bit of perfect omelette on it cooled as she rose and rifled through her store-cupboard. There was an old glass Heinz bottle in there; she knew there was, although it hadn’t been used since the last stress-burger emergency. She moved essence of this and tincture of organic that to get to it. Then she moved back to the table, hammering the blood-red sauce to the top of the bottle, upside down. It was what she had to do, but she didn’t have to do it for as long as she actually did it. Kevin winced – mainly because his omelette was getting cold. Yet again he found himself wishing for raw food, but Jacinta would insist that nothing be wasted, and that hen would insist on laying daily.
Before he knew what he was doing, the words came out of his mouth.
“Why don’t we cook something else next time? I mean, you can make lots of things with eggs. What about…I mean…what about…soufflé?”
Just at that moment, Jacinta’s hand connected – hard – with the bottom of the upside down bottle, and a huge pool of ketchup glopped onto the centre of Kevin’s plate. Jacinta felt as if her heart had glopped out of her chest. She wondered what she could make with the remains: she really did hate to waste anything.
To be continued.
Running the NYC Marathon for Alzheimer’s Society on Nov 1. Please sponsor me here.
