The worn wooden handle of the knife fit comfortably in Scott’s hand - its blade dutifully sharpened to be able to split a hair. Fortunately, slicing bread didn’t require such precision.
The loaf resting on the cutting board differed greatly from what he had grown up with on Beacon Hill. Every Thursday, Winnie’s milk bread infiltrated the smells of old leather and heavy tapestries as its warm yeasty aroma traveled from room to room. Her identical, crusty loaves lined up for inspection on a flour-dusted cloth - ready to assist in the victories of melted butter and elderberry jam.
On the other hand, Maria’s hearty bread wasn't subjected to the confines of a pan but shaped by its baker’s hands. Each unique, rounded loaf with visible grains of barley, oats and wheat effortlessly commandeered the last spoonfuls of spicy soup or puddles of dark gravy. And, when called upon, it fulfilled its culinary duty by supporting thick slabs of smoked ham and slices of -
Scott glanced over at his brother’s contribution to their sandwiches. “Half a cow. The mound of beef you’ve carved would equal half a cow.”
Johnny scrutinized the towering stack of bread slices assembled at the other end of the table. “You fixin’ to dam up the north pasture’s stream and drain Martin’s Lake with that?”
Scott’s knife pointed to his participation in solving their hunger pains. “Bread is the staff of life.”
“Man does not live by bread alone.” Another portion was added to the half a cow.
A sixth slice joined the other five to secure the draining of Martin’s Lake. “Do you think, little brother, our religious-inspired philosophy will save us from the hellfires of Maria’s wrath once she discovers our midnight raid?”
Johnny’s lopsided grin ushered in the verdict. “Nope.”
The lopsided grin bounced down the table and landed on Scott’s face. It wasn’t the caper originally planned for the evening. However, he found pulling this one off to be extremely satisfying and necessary. It was satisfying not to be butting heads with his brother and a necessary distraction from his earlier skirmish with the tune caller.
“Mustard.” Johnny brought the knife down to stick in the middle of his mountain of shaved roast beef to emphasize his proclamation. “Can’t see my way clear in enjoying this without mustard.”
“Agreed.” Scott’s invasion of the pantry commenced with only a few minor mishaps of spilled flour and an overturned potato basket before the jar of grainy mustard presented itself. With a keen eye, generous dollops of the sharp, pungent condiment flicked off the end of a spoon - hitting each of his six bread bull’s eyes dead center.
“Your aim is true, brother.” Johnny's statement was one of appreciation.
“It's all in the wrist.” To demonstrate further, Scott slid the empty mustard jar down the length of the table. A balanced spoon on two left-hand fingers catapulted end over end from an abrupt slap to its handle from the right hand. The spoon landed inside its intended target with a clatter. “Your big brother is a walking repertoire of useless talents.”
“Is one of those useless talents stackin’ a sandwich?” A rumbling growl of hunger from Johnny's stomach indicated the immediate need for such a skill.
“It is. But, wait -” Scott held up his hand for silence while his eyes reviewed the table’s inventory. “An additional key element is required. A tomato.”
“I know where a firm, luscious, velvet-skinned, blue ribbon beauty resides.” A devilish wink punctuated the statement.
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Madame Dumont’s Boarding House for the Lonely Heart?”
“As tempting as that sounds, Boston, I believe the garden can satisfy our current desires.” The kitchen door emitted it's customary creak as it opened.
“Best take a candle. The half moon doesn't provide much tonight.”
Johnny turned, pointed to his face - “Eyes like a cat.” - and then disappeared.
Scott stared at the empty doorway. “Right.”
A butter knife had evenly spread one mound of mustard on a slice of bread and was calmly addressing another when the first distant goddammit was uttered from the garden. The sound of a kicked metal bucket, cracking of wood, a grunt of pain closely followed by a second goddammit took place by the time Scott reached the sixth slice.
“Half-pint and I are going to be havin’ a talk.” A slight limp accompanied Johnny and the sought out key element back to the kitchen. “Garden tools scattered all over - a man could be killed.”
“I'm surprised your prowess in night vision didn't earn you a backside full of buckshot as a looter. Although -” Admiration for the prize tomato seized the moment. “I commend you, sir. Well worth your injuries in the line of duty.” Scott’s knife equally distributed the spoils of war.
The decision was made to forgo the luxury of dishes. Why dirty two plates when sandwiches could be assembled and eaten on a perfectly good table top? Sitting back while enjoying the first bite of his double-stacked roast beef sandwich, Scott glanced around at his surroundings. It appeared two plates were the only items he and Johnny hadn’t dirtied in Maria’s usually spotless kitchen.
“You and the old man had words earlier.” Johnny posed the question-more-of-a-statement between bites of his sandwich.
With a mouthful of his own sandwich, Scott simply nodded and chewed. Swallowing permitted additional details. “Murdoch insisted on more of his words than mine. In my book that’s called a lecture, not a conversation.”
“Knowing how well a lecture sits with you, I’m surprised you have an appetite.”
“I believe a pot just called the kettle black.” Scott pulled a piece of roast beef from his sandwich and plopped it in his mouth.
“I believe it just did.” A brief pause for a finger to scoop up a drop of mustard from the table for consumption. “Think he regrets that Melbourne letter?”
Well, little brother, which letter are you referring to? The one that eventually dumped Kinsey into our laps or the one from Pinkerton hidden under his blotter? “Your guess is as good as mine. I find our father prefers not to share his regrets.”
“Gotta have a few before you can share them.” Johnny studied his half-eaten sandwich. “You regret he sent the letter?”
“I did. A little. In the beginning.” A slice of tomato attempted to escape its fate but was retrieved and returned to Scott’s pre-dawn dinner. “Lately, I can't imagine not having her around.” Curiosity grew from his brother’s lack of a response. “What about you? Having regrets my little cousin stepped off the stagecoach?”
“Like I said, brother - gotta have’em before you can share’em.”
Scott watched Johnny resume his attack on the roast beef. If there was an expression of regret, he masked it well behind his sandwich. Returned focus to his own sandwich brought about a revelation. “This needs horseradish. It grows wild near Boston. Proper Brahmins can’t get enough of the stuff.”
Two pinky fingers stuck out from the firm hold on the sandwich at the end of the table. “Let me sign up for some etiquette lessons before we start growing it.” Johnny’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Or maybe I should start practicing now before the potential business partner arrives in a few weeks.”
“Not necessary.” At least he didn’t say grape crushin’ Cassanova.
“I thought that grape crusher was from Boston.”
I spoke too soon. “Grapes.” Stretching his legs out under the table, Scott sat back to digest his over-indulgence. “Did I ever tell you the fable of The Fox and The Grapes?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Is this one of those tales by the Aesop fella - the one with morals?”
A smirk surfaced. “Indeed it is. The story’s short.”
“So are my morals.”
His brother’s playful grin inspired an eye roll. “The tale tells of a fox who sees a clump of grapes hanging from a tree. Now, this fox - he decides he must have them. He’s convinced it’s the only way possible to quench his thirst. He jumps to retrieve the grapes, but they are out of reach. He jumps again and again. He tries every possible way he knows to get them within his grasp but never succeeds. The fox finally gives up and regrettably, walks away - telling himself - convincing himself - the grapes are sour - spoiled - and not worth having.”
With the last bite of his roast beef disappearing, Johnny mirrored his brother’s relaxed posture. “And?”
“The way I see it, the moral of the story is that a person often begins to hate what he can't have.”
The silence stretched the actual minute into the sense of an hour before Johnny leaned forward - his pensive expression matched his tone. “I could never hate her, Scott.”
Encouraged the fable had served its purpose led to the next question. “And the person who can have her? What about him?”
“¡MI COCINA!”
The shriek knocked the younger brother out of his chair. “Jesus! Maria?”
“Maria!” Scott’s eyes assessed the damage to the woman’s domain. “What time is it?!” The pinkish hue of a soon-to-be sunrise filtered through the thick-paned window.
“What have you boys done to my kitchen?!”
San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
“Words are like bees – some create honey and others leave a sting.” Winnie’s words rang true over these last several hours.
There was the unwanted sting of disapproval embedded in my father’s lecture. I have difficulty accepting a reproach without resentment from a man who had very little to do with my upbringing. I try to meet him halfway. However, my Garrett stubbornness runs deep.
Then there was the sting of realization when an old fable hits its mark. I know my brother could never outright hate my cousin. But hate comes in many unrecognizable forms and the damage can be just as severe and lasting.
Setting down his pen for a moment, Scott rubbed his upper arm as the sun began to claim another day.
And lastly, until this morning, I'd forgotten the surprising sting a wooden spoon can deliver in the hands of an expert.
~ S.
Comments