Six at the Table

by Sheila Maher

  Mum brought home the mandolin from a Saturday morning shopping trip with Grandma in Switzer’s. They had been impressed by the in-store demonstration and Grandma insisted on treating Mum to one. Back in our kitchen, I stood at Mum’s elbow as she lifted the bright orange slicer out of its box, and with lots of warnings for me not to touch anything, she started to experiment. She brought in the bag of potatoes from the garage and said she was going to show me how to make chips, in a flash! She washed and peeled the potatoes first and then she was ready. She tried a flat blade, then a blade with serrated edges; she even tried slicing the potato first but no matter what she did she couldn’t get the chips she had seen during the demonstration. Then she said she’ d try shredding cabbage for coleslaw. She cut the cabbage into manageable pieces then quickly slid each piece across the blade. Too thick. She tried a different setting. Still too thick. And so she tried a narrower setting again. Eventually the cabbage fell away into the bowl below in the requisite slices. It was only luck that one of her fingertips didn’t join the cabbage.

  The mandolin was put to use on a few occasions during its first month in our house – mainly to make coleslaw. As soon as Mum felt she had used it enough to justify its purchase price, it was forgotten about. It lived out the remainder of its life in its original cardboard box, high up on top of the kitchen press, getting sticky with dust and grease.

  The electric whisk, on the other hand, was a huge success. I dreaded being asked to beat cream on a Sunday with the hand whisk. It required strength and dexterity I just didn’t have. I’d hold the whisk firmly with my left hand, keeping my arm rigid while my right arm rotated the handle around and around and around until my muscles ached. And still the cream was liquid in the bottom of the bowl. I’d have to ask Dad to take over. The electric whisk transformed this task. Now the only challenge was to turn it off at just the right time, to stop the cream turning into butter before my eyes. Mum was never pleased when she had to present a bowl of dry, crumbling and solidified cream with her apple tart.

  We got a SodaStream a few years after other people had tired of them. Aunty Mary brought it with her as a present from London. She insisted Mum and Dad would find it saved them lots of money, and with numerous demonstrations, she convinced them it was convenient and easy to use.

  Mum took to the SodaStream with enthusiasm. She persuaded herself she was being thrifty by using it. She gave each of us a personal demonstration. I thought it was very futuristic. When it injected gas into a bottle of tap water, it made a psssssst sound, like the opening and closing of the doors on the Death Star in Star Wars.

  Over the course of its first summer, however, the SodaStream’s popularity waned steadily. I liked helping myself to fizzy orange and ‘cola’. There was something charming about being self-sufficient when it came to soft drinks. Then it started to dawn on me that our occasional treats of fizzy drinks had now been downgraded. No more Lilt or Cidona – SodaStream didn’t do those flavours. We could choose from ‘white lemonade’, ‘orange’ or ‘cola’ – or whichever one was in the supermarket that week. And while Aunty Mary insisted that in a blind-taste test you couldn’t tell the difference between SodaStream and real Coke, you could. I could. It was never fizzy enough and definitely not sweet enough. Luckily for me, Mum’s enthusiasm also started to wane when she found herself going from shop to shop, doing a ten-mile round trip in search of gas cylinders and concentrate, neither regularly stocked anywhere. Before summer was over the SodaStream was in the corner of the garage, behind bicycles and deck chairs, only to be taken out again when Aunty Mary visited, so as not to hurt her feelings.

  The deep fat fryer probably saved our house from incineration. There were several close calls with the big saucepan of hot oil that preceded it. Mum always kept a damp tea towel handy when it was chip day, just in case. There was considerably less drama and tension when chips were being cooked in the deep fat fryer. It did, however, bring its own problems – the nasty job of changing the oil and the filter. Somehow this slipped into the realm of ‘men’s work’, and so Dad begrudgingly took on that task.

  The shallow egg poacher, with four saucers suspended over a bain-marie of hot water, came from Grandma’s house. It almost worked. Unlike poaching an egg in water, when most of the white disappeared into the bubbles, in the poacher the entire egg settled into its tiny bed to be cooked from below. The only problem with our poacher was that it was aluminium, made long before Tefal had invented non-stick cookware. No amount of butter prevented the egg from sticking. While it did manage to preserve all of the white of my egg, I inevitably lost most of the yolk as I scraped and tore the egg free with my knife. Preferring the taste of yolk over white, this was not a good utensil for me.

  The cheese-slicer Mum brought into the house a few years earlier worked, but so too did a sharp knife. You placed a block of cheese on a tiled board and brought a thin wire down through it. It cut straight, even slices, it cleaned easily and was used regularly. Then the wire snapped. Known for his ability to fix most things and reluctant to buy a new slicer, Dad took me on a bus into town to Waltons music shop.

  Out of his natural habitat, it took Dad a while to find what he was looking for, then he poked around rows of guitar strings until he selected one that looked the right thickness. The boy that served us at the cash register had long hair and a gold stud earring, his jeans were ripped and had big holes at the knees. He was not the type of boy I saw around our roads.

  ‘What kind of guitar is it you have?’ he asked Dad, evidently curious as to which one of us was the rocker – the tired middle-aged man in the gabardine or the chubby kid in the bright green coat.

  I froze. I knew I was about to be embarrassed by my Dad for the first time and I didn’t think I would be able to cope with the ensuing mortification.

  Dad replied without guile. ‘Oh it’s not for a guitar, it’s for my cheese-slicer.’

  I wanted to be anywhere but there, in my buttoned-up coat with my cheese-eating Dad, in front of that boy who was trying, but failing, to contain his mirth. I know I heard an explosion of laughter as the shop door swung shut behind us. Days later, in the privacy of my bedroom, when I recalled that scene my cheeks still burned red hot. And every time I sliced cheese with the slicer, with the B string taut in its handle, I blushed with embarrassment.

  Mum had a range of small utensils that she was very proud of. Her apple corer, which with enough wrist strength and control was useful to have to hand for the occasional baked apple. The ‘Parisienne spoon’, or butter-baller, as it was known in our house, made posh spheres of butter or melon to impress on special occasions. The hand-held electric blender made a sauce that had gone lumpy silky smooth in seconds. The pressure cooker made tender and tasty stews in no time out of cheap cuts of meat. The small, wooden-handled, corn-on-the-cob holders looked good in their special holder; they were never used. The metal half-moon-shaped lemon squeezer, which enabled a diner to squeeze a half slice of lemon over their dinner with considerably more mess than if they’d done it by hand, was always put on the table but rarely used by those of us in the know.

  Some gadgets were too complicated and had too many bits to be thought of as time-saving. Others failed to live up to their promise. Only a few stood the test of time.

  Tea Time Express

  Dad was getting out of hospital. I couldn’t wait. I’d been good all morning. I even tidied my bedroom without being asked. I put on my best dress and tights and my good winter coat. We went with Mum to pick him up, all four of us sitting on the back seat, keeping the front passenger seat free for Dad. The atmosphere in the car was uniform – everyone was giddy. I was excited to be seeing Dad again. I wondered if he’d look different or act different.

  I’d never been in a hospital before. Its noxious smell wafted into my face when we stepped inside the main door. It clung to my hair and clothes and followed me up many flights of stairs. It filled my nostrils and wouldn’t go away. I was too hot and the wool of my coat made my neck
itch. I stared hard into each room as Mum marched us through long corridors, now familiar to her, and past nurses’ stations. I stared intently at everyone. I wanted to be the first to lay eyes on him. I wanted to be the one to shout out ‘There he is!’ and run into his arms. There were people everywhere, propped up in beds, lying under thin covers, shuffling about in pyjamas, sitting in dressing gowns in communal tv rooms. It was awful. It was so big and so full of sick people, I want to run away from it. How could we have left Dad in such a place, all alone, for so long?

  And then I saw him, sitting on the edge of his bed, his small tartan bag closed on the floor by his feet. He was staring straight ahead until he heard ten feet clattering in his direction. He looked around tentatively. Was he afraid to see us? Or was he afraid that it wasn’t us at all, but some other rowdy family here to collect a loved one? There was a split second of hesitation before each of us leaned in for a hug. He was smaller but he was Dad. I kissed his pale cheek. I didn’t have to be told to be gentle. Dad’s thin frame and gaunt face signalled the need for tenderness. The bandages around his neck and the pink dye on his skin held my attention all the way down stairs and back to the car.

  A Tea Time Express was a big deal in our house. Even though any cake Mum ever made was lighter, fresher and more substantial, a ‘Tea Time’ – as we called it – was a treat. It was usually when there was a family gathering – Grandma’s birthday, a visitor from abroad, or a Christmas get-together – that one appeared. A thoughtful, slightly more affluent relative might arrive at our house and proudly present Mum with the fancy red box with a yellow ribbon tied round it. ‘Oh you shouldn’t have!’ Mum would say. ‘Thank you very much. I just love a Tea Time!’ And she’ d take it from them and place it squarely on her kitchen countertop. The Tea Time Express was so exclusive it couldn’t be bought just anywhere. Only some shops sold it. There was even a whole shop just for Tea Time cakes in Dawson Street. Very occasionally Mum brought one home on a Saturday, after her morning shopping in town.

  Dad’s homecoming was definitely an occasion that needed to be marked with a special treat, so one of Mum’s flans or coffee cakes would not do. Mum seated Dad on the sofa in the sitting room, lifted his legs onto the pouf and then returned to the kitchen to prepare the tea and cake.

  The Tea Time was still in its red box, and when it was time to unwrap and cut it, I hovered close to Mum. I loved the ceremony of untying the ribbon (to save it for some other use), lifting the lid on the box, and catching my first glimpse of the cake. My favourite bit was when Mum removed the cake from the clear plastic wrapper and left this aside. As she cut the cake, I scraped my finger along the inside of the wrapper and scooped up any icing and crumbs that were left behind. Some icing yielded better results than others. The fondant icing, for example, stuck to the wrapper in large chunks that my greedy finger scraped up before Mum got a chance to retrieve them and place them back on the cake. If there was a big gathering in the sitting room, Mum would slice the whole cake, and carefully place the overlapping portions on a fancy doilied plate.

  There was Strawberry Layer and the more exotic Pineapple Layer. But when the Australian Layer arrived, it immediately became the star of the range. Mum only ever put one layer into her own cakes. Four or five layers, interspersed with jam and the sweetest butter-cream, meant that a slice of Australian Layer melted easily on your tongue. There was even icing on the sides, so every portion was generously endowed. No one wanted the heel or the crust of other cakes – they were too dry and hard. With the Tea Time, there was a fight for the last outer piece. The excess icing had oozed and lodged here during the cutting, and sometimes there was even more icing than cake in this last slice.

  When all was ready, we joined Dad in the sitting room and Mum passed around cups of tea, glasses of milk and slices of delicious Australian Layer. I listened attentively as Dad told us of his stay in hospital. Unused to the spotlight, he was not forthcoming enough for my liking – he needed to tell the minor details that make up a good story. Mum interjected constantly with titbits about how nice the nurses were, how good the food was, and how Mr McConvey, a very busy man, gave Dad positive news on his last rounds. I tried to stay focused but my eyes were drawn to the last slice of the Tea Time cake. I was willing everyone else to forget about it.

  After an excruciating amount of time, Mum said Dad look tired and needed to be left alone to rest. She tidied everything onto her trolley and wheeled it back into the kitchen. Then, in my usual helpful way, I offered to clean up the dishes so that Mum could return to the sitting room and relax with Dad. Gratefully, Mum accepted my offer. Catherine and Lucy were delighted to be relieved of any cleaning duties and Kevin was happy to play with his toys.

  As soon as the sitting-room door was shut and I had the kitchen to myself, I pounced on my haul. In two large bites it was in. But it did not taste as good as I’d anticipated. I licked my fingers to make sure I had not missed the taste in my haste to eat it. I’d eaten too much already. The sugar in the wedge of icing overrode any flavour from the sponge and jam. And thanks to my deviousness, I had a sinkful of dirty cups and plates to wash.

  Limits

  Mum called us in to dinner. She called us again, her tone a little angry now. Then she yelled for us to come at once. We sat down to a plate of baked pork chop with a thick rind of shiny gristle all along its back, a crisp-skinned baked potato and a pool of peas. On a side plate in front of Mum sat one large but anaemic-looking biscuit. It resembled two pale, giant-sized Rich Tea biscuits stuck together with an orange-coloured filling, visible through the large holes in the top.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘My dinner.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a Limit,’ she sighed.

  ‘Is that all you’re having?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ I was really at a loss.

  ‘Because I want to lose a little weight.’

  Silence from me. I was digesting this last comment. Is that why Mum sometimes ate smaller potions, or had a yogurt while we ate all the rice pudding, or had crackers when we had sandwiches?

  ‘Can I have them when I’m bigger?’ I asked.

  This time the silence was from Mum.

  Even though Dad was in bed most of the time, there was a note of optimism in the air. Mum was in need of a fresh start and a diet was her way of achieving this. Each evening I ogled her paltry biscuit. I wanted to try one so badly it might as well have been a Star Bar staring up at me from her plate. Then after a few days, it stopped. The Limits disappeared. I said nothing when I noticed Mum eating the same dinner as the rest of us.

  A week passed and I forgot completely about Limits. Then one cold evening, as we sat down to a comforting shepherd’s pie, Mum put a plate of dry lettuce and tomato with a white, skinless breast of chicken, curled up at the edges, in front of herself. I asked if she wanted to lose weight again and she said she was on the Scarsdale Diet. When we forked our way through a cheesy, creamy fish pie, she ate an insipid and watery piece of poached plaice. When we ate beef of any kind, she filled up on what Dad dismissed as ‘rabbit food’. When we ate pork, she ate more skinless and anaemic chicken breasts.

  A while later it was the turn of Unislim. The group met in my school on Tuesday nights. I wasn’t happy that Mum was in my school every week and walked down the corridors I’d vacated only a few hours earlier. Some of my pictures and projects were on the walls she passed. I worried that one of my teachers might be working late and see my Mum and talk to her. Teachers’ friendly after-hours chats weren’t to be trusted. It was always safer to keep parents and teachers apart.

  A little Unislim booklet sat on the kitchen countertop, with Mum’s meals for the next seven days all listed in great detail. I read it just to make sure that Mum wasn’t getting anything nicer than I might be served. There were lots of grapefruit, dusty rye crackers and salad on the Unislim menu. I was never envious of those meals. Limits were a different matter – I wanted
to make sure that that never happened again.

  Mum changed her clothes before going to Unislim meetings. She put on pale blue cotton trousers, wore flimsy plimsolls, and took off most of her jewellery. The second night she came home from Unislim she was in high spirits. She had lost three pounds. She said she thought her trousers felt a little looser. In celebration she made herself a cup of coffee and stuck two proper Rich Tea biscuits together with a thick chunk of cold butter. She put this little ‘sandwich’ and one of her chewy flapjacks on a plate and devoured them in front of the television while she watched the news.

  A Heart Foundation Diet was next. I overheard Aunty Eileen tell her that it was for very fat people, to help them shed pounds quickly before a lifesaving heart operation. Eileen had given it a go, but she looked the same to me. She handed over a contraband photocopy to Mum; it had been copied and recopied and passed down through a long line of hopeful, serial dieters; it was so faded that it was barely legible. There was lots of ice cream on this plan, which seemed very odd to me, along with cracker breads, beetroot and more white fish. I wanted to go on any diet that said I could eat a large slice of ice cream each evening, but I was not allowed. Mum put on three pounds after sticking to this diet for a few days – she threw it in the bin.

  Then Mum tried WeightWatchers. The weekly meetings were in Kevin’s school this time and the booklets listed similar foods as those in the Unislim menus. Diets soon blended into each other, one following hot on the heels of another; a life lived by the scales. Grandma grumbled when she visited our house with a greaseproof parcel of her delicate florentines, moist tea-brack or decadent almond fingers and Mum refused to be tempted.