The Rural Voice, 1989-08, Page 40Ar''1
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38 THE RURAL VOICE
NOTEBOOK
Coralie's Cooking Column
Culinary art is not my specialty.
That fact I freely admit to. Allow me
to explain.
One day, I was standing by the
stove, vigorously stirring a pot of
something or other which I fervently
hoped would turn itself into a fragrant
pot of soup, when one of our sons,
whom we call The Rebel, ambled
into the room.
He peered into the pot, patted me
on the head, and declared: "Are you
ever a nice lady! Making a special
meal for Tippy!" (Tippy is our family
dog.)
"My dear son," I replied somewhat
testily, "have I got news for you! This
is our supper."
The Rebel hunched down, all the
better to peer into my eyes. Noting
from my expression that I was serious,
he declared that he wasn't hungry,
rushed out of the kitchen, packed his
bags, and moved out for three weeks.
Upon his return, he found me still
stirring.
"Moth—er!" he yelled.
He ran his laundry through my
washer and dryer, drank all the milk
in the house, dirtied half a dozen ash-
trays, then whistled as he ambled out
the door again.
He came back two days later.
"What's for supper?" he inquired
from the doorway.
"Soup," I yelled.
"Good-bye!" he called. He was
gone a month.
It soon became expedient to have a
revolving door installed in the house.
Sometimes, supper was so bad we
left together.
One day, to escape the odour of yet
another pot of soup, The Rebel and I
tried going through the revolving door
at the same time. It wasn't a good
plan. We were both injured.
We sat side by side on the steps,
nursed our wounds, and watched the
clouds of aphids.
"They," The Rebel stated with a
moan, "are even worse than your
soup!"
My faltering attempts at mastering
the culinary art of soup -making got so
bad that the dog took to carrying her
dish from neighbour to neighbour
looking for something better than I
could provide.
The neighbours reported us. Then
they sent a representative to our door.
Fortunately for me, I wasn't at home.
I was at the grocery store, buying soup
supplies.
Another son, whom we call The
Phantom, was at home, and he got the
a poem
by
Eileen
Burnett
Young Wife
"You'll have no trouble with the tractor."
Just learn intricate names of
a thousand parts;
Cherish huge tires that cost
a thousand bucks;
master braking, steering systems with
a thousand quirks;
Enough to give any woman
a thousand migraines,
Had he not also given her
a thousand summers
Along with his tractor to run.