I lift the lid on the electric fry pan. The chops spit at me and their aroma leaps out in a cloud of steam and mingles with the smell of grease, wood shavings and garden fertiliser. It’s cold in the garden shed despite my warm trousers and woolen jacket, but I’m enjoying the pleasure of creating a meal. The chops smell wonderful. After poking them with a knife I decide give them a few more minutes. Replacing the lid I lower myself onto the beer crate to rest my knees.
It’s all a bit ridiculous really, but there you are. Sometimes you just have to take things into your own hands. It’s all very well her getting mad because she doesn't want me in her kitchen, but the trouble is she doesn't want to cook these days. I’m fed up with poached eggs on toast. I crave meat so much that my mouth is watering from the aroma of the chops, … and if it means I have to cook them myself, I will.
The wintery sun shines through the cobweb-framed window, warming my skull through my thin hair, and alights on my fellow conspirators - the tools of my kitchen. Shopped for, selected and brought home, down to this shed. It’s no good leaving them in the kitchen because she will spirit them away into her cupboards, or press them on our son William, when he visits. Already, two Pyrex plates have mysteriously vanished, as if they’ve travelled to another time zone.
My gaze lingers on the microwave. It has caused me a few problems since I first brought it home, until I realised it is really a square saucepan that boils things - providing you put something in it of course. I learned that to my cost. I once, foolishly, turned it on when empty, to warm it up. Minutes later - Bang, fizz, thwump! A $100 later it worked again.
Looking at my watch I’m surprised to find five minutes has passed. Daydreaming certainly fills in the time these days. I haul myself up to check the chops again, hanging onto the bench edge for leverage. How I wish I could have both knees replaced, but the x-rays show cancer cells in my hip bones. Surgery is out and painkillers are in.
The chops look perfect to my inexperienced eye. I lift them out with the tongs and place them into a casserole dish. Placing the tongs aside, I push a pair of pliers out of the way t make room for the dish on the wooden bench. Now what I really need is some gravy. All that lovely crusty meat juice is ideal. I've got some flour but I will need to go out to the garden hose for the water. Why didn’t I remember to bring some in a jug?
I look out of the window. The day is grey, with rain clouds scudding past. No wonder it’s cold in this uninsulated shed. A wind has come up in the last little while and I watch as several leaves fall from the peach tree. The first chill of autumn is signalling its arrival. Will I see another peach season? Will she?
No, I won't go and get water for the gravy. Instead, I will have mint sauce on them - if she hasn't thrown the damn sauce out, and I retrace the events of the last few days.
We had an argument over the telephone account. I commented there wasn’t enough cash in the housekeeping, so I’d paid for it. For some reason she railed at me, that for years she’d been topping up the housekeeping and paying more than me and it was about time I paid some accounts. I answered, under my breath, about all the money I spent on the car, going to and from town to buy groceries. She waved this comment away with a quick disparaging movement. “Phooey”, she’d said. I'd bitten back then, angry. that although there was so much she couldn't hear, or chose not to hear, suddenly she could hear very clearly my muttered comment.
Frustration at our enforced dependence on each other makes me shout, and my wife of sixty years yelled back - that if I didn't watch out, she’d divorce me and take half the value of the house with her.
I walked away, in a huff – to sulk. It really never gets any better. We should have separated years ago. Laziness has kept us together. Neither of us have the energy to take the first step and neither can we face the ensuing bitterness it will create. And so we continue to rub along together, not really happy - both frustrated with our lot and our failing health. This shouldn’t be what old age is all about. If you live long enough you shouldn’t get crosser. Instead, we should be grateful for waking up each day.
Yesterday, William asked me what we were going to do for her birthday. Why do anything? She’s anti-social at the best of times. All she does is sit and read, consuming books like the machine that munched up the branches of the cherry tree, when the power board cut it down. Does she remember all she reads? I could buy her a book for her birthday. Personally, I find it hard to read by the end of the day, when exhaustion sweeps over me like a drug. All I want to do is get off my feet. William can discuss it with his mother. William, our only child, a mixture of the good in both of us. Such a caring son. In that we’ve been very lucky.
Turning the power off, I slowly open the shed door in case the wind grabs it, and pushes it wide. Carefully cradling the dish against my chest and considering my knees, I back out and close the door. I lean into the wind and walk up the path to the back door. If I’m honest about my progress I’m actually shuffling up the path. Today my knees and feet are painful. Arthritis is cruel. “Must be the cold,” I mutter.
In the kitchen I call out that dinner is nearly ready. Yet again she hasn't put on the vegetables, even though I asked her to. Neither has she set the table. I place the chops in the oven and check it’s on at the wall. I’m forever either turning the oven off, or turning it on, depending on where she has been last. My rage has gone now. Instead, sadness and despair fill me.
My beautiful bride, so vibrant, so intelligent, and such a good mother. All these attributes are now reduced to the deaf sedentary soul who sits in the lounge and won't or can't be bothered to have a conversation with me. What has life come to?
To hell with her birthday. I pull out my handkerchief and wipe the tears that well and spill down my cheeks. I blow my nose and hope she hasn’t heard, or she will growl about my manners. As I set the table, carrying the cutlery and condiments haltingly from the kitchen, wincing with the pain, I ponder. What is so great about her birthday anyway? It’s not as if it’s a milestone. She completely forgot my recent birthday. My sisters phoned from the South Island; William called in and each time she acted surprised that it was my birthday. Couldn't even remember it was my birthday for ten minutes! God it’s so frustrating. More tears overflow and form another trickle down each cheek, I don't bother to get my handkerchief out. I wipe my face with the corner of my cardigan. Enough with the self-pity Fred I growl to myself.
The potatoes are on the boil, the chops are still warm, the peas can be turned on now and there is just time for a quick whisky. The one good thing about crying at this age, I decide, blinking, is that your eyes are so wrinkled and red that no one can tell if they have been leaking tears or watering from the wind.
I walk into the lounge and look at her. She’s asleep on the couch. I gently move her shoulder and she starts in surprise. She raises her head and smiles. Her long hair, much thinner than when we met, is pulled back in a small bun, nearly all grey but with some of her welsh heritage still showing in the few remaining black hairs. Her brown eyes, milky and faded, look expectantly at me. Putting my mouth close to her good ear I tell her lunch is ready.
"Oh, how lovely " she says, “I'll get up and make a cup of tea for us." I don’t bother to answer, just smile, and drag my arthritic knees back to the kitchen. Within five minutes she will be distracted by the lovely meal in front of her. The scrape of the chair tells me she is at the table and has forgotten about making the tea, already.
Over the cup of tea I make later, I ask if she’d like to do something different for her birthday tomorrow and she is amazed, yet again, that she’s going to be another year older. “It seems like just last week,” she says “that I celebrated the last one. How old am I now?” Again, she’s surprised at my answer.
I could make the effort tomorrow. I might even try baking her a cake. That’d be a nice challenge. If it flops, I’ll feed it to the birds. She may not be here for her next birthday, and neither might I. To reach eighty-six is pretty special, although, it’s an even greater achievement to be ninety years old and still have all my marbles. Pride straightens my back and for a moment I forget my knees and dwells on today’s efforts.
I place her meal in front of her and she gasps in admiration and reaches for the mint sauce. I kiss the top of her head and pat her shoulder before returning to fetch my meal.
Who knew I could become such a good cook? Which just goes to show you’re never too old to learn a new skill. (The End)
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I take care of my eighty-two year old Irish father who can no longer cook for himself but is so hyper critical of every dish set in front of him. When he has visitors he wants to fool into thinking he is OK he cooks steak on a barbecue he rigged up in his shed, which used to be my step-mother’s conservatory. She died six years ago.
Your story reminds me of Dad.
I half expected the husband to find his wife dead when he brought the chops back in so it was a nice surprise to find she was still alive and they could eat a lovely meal together, all arguments forgotten.
This feels so true. And very sad.