Gone to Pot

by Jennifer Craig

  A Public Health inspector visited and approved my plan for a new kitchen so I called in a contractor to get on with it. I didn’t care how much it cost as long as I got what I wanted.

  After the wrought-iron tables and cushioned chairs arrived, the Crones came to take a look. I made tea and served it with the muffins I had ordered from Joan. It wasn’t our usual meeting and as everyone was divided into small groups in the arbors, I couldn’t ask them as a group what they thought. However, the lively chatter and laughter told me they liked the place.

  Most of them were keen to be waitresses as long as the shifts were no longer than four hours, but none of them had ever done the job before. Nina was too frail to serve and she didn’t bake. What job could I find for her? Design the menus maybe.

  I gathered the willing waitresses together for their first lesson—how to set a table. “You must be careful to keep your hands away from the cakes and you only handle cups by the handles,” I said.

  The group was unimpressed. “I always put the fork on the right when I set my table,” Fran said.

  “Oh, I don’t. I put mine on the left. With the napkin.”

  “Shouldn’t it be on the plate? That means in the middle.”

  “No, the plate goes on the left.”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t care where you put the fork. Just don’t touch the tines.”

  Was this what my workforce was going to be like? I hadn’t even begun on how to serve. Maybe I should hire a couple of youngsters too? They would give stability if a Crone decided not to show up, or if someone got tired. But then it wouldn’t be a place run entirely by older women.

  “I think we should wrap the forks in the napkins, don’t you Jess? That way they’ll stay clean,” Maggie said.

  “Good idea.”

  I was back in the kitchen when Laura breezed in waving a piece of paper. “Craig gave me the recipe,” she said triumphantly, “but I can’t make out the name of the special herb. Anyway, here it is.”

  Medicinal Brownies

  ½ cup butter

  4 squares (1oz/30g) unsweetened chocolate

  4 eggs at room temperature

  ½ tsp salt

  2 cups sugar

  1 tsp vanilla

  1 cup flour

  1 cup slivered almonds

  1/3 cup browned (word indecipherable)

  “I still don’t know exactly what the herb is,” Laura said, “and I can’t read this.”

  “Let’s ask Maggie,” I said and went to fetch her.

  “Here’s the recipe for my brownies.” Laura handed the paper to Maggie, “but I don’t know what the herb is. I think he said ‘kif.’ Do you know?”

  “Yes. It’s difficult to get hold of, but I do know of a source.” Maggie smiled.

  “That’s great, Laura,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be very popular. But I think we’ll call them Granny’s Garden Brownies not Medicinal.”

  “Good idea. But as these brownies do have a medicinal compound, I think we should limit them to one per customer,” Maggie said.

  After Laura had left the kitchen I said to Maggie, “What if someone, like the police, comes in and finds the ‘medicinal compound’ in the kitchen? What do we do?”

  “Don’t worry. You or I can store it at home and bring it in as needed. And we’ll add grated zucchini to explain the green bits.” Maggie thought for a moment. “And I don’t think we should advertise them openly.”

  “How would people know they’re on the menu?”

  “Word would soon get around.”

  “No. Then it becomes subterfuge. I think we should just have them on the menu, but limit them. Most people won’t realize they are different anyway.”

  The Grand Opening occurred one Friday in early fall. A huge bouquet of real flowers arrived from Swan and a note simply saying, “Gluck” with a happy face. All the Crones were on board, dressed in frilly, embroidered aprons. These had satisfied the sewing group, and the laundry problem, as the aprons were individually owned and taken home to wash. We decided on paper napkins of good quality with a design of bright red field poppies.

  Thelma, the official Hostess, outfitted in a long, mauve Edwardian dress that clung to her slim figure, a matching wide-brimmed hat trimmed with purple voile, and purple gloves, met people at the door and led them to a table.

  “How charming to see you,” she said. “What a beautiful day to enjoy a cup of tea and a homemade cake. Here is our list of teas and tempting confections.” She handed over a menu with a gracious sweep of her arm. “We do have coffee if you wish. Your server will be with you shortly.”

  Jason and Amy came on opening day and this time I was thrilled to be able to serve Amy. Jason gave me a giant hug. “I’m so proud of you, Mum. Owning your own café yet!”

  Amy looked around. “Jess, this is amazing! Such a change from the usual. I’m not sure about the carbohydrate overload, but what a treat.” She looked at the menu. “What shall we have, Jason? I think I’d like a date square.”

  “Mmm, a brownie for me, I think.”

  I served them tea and a plate of cakes and left them to it. When I went back, Amy gave me a huge smile and said, “Those brownies are the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  With shaking shoulders, Jason bent over to retrieve his napkin from the floor and then sat up to give me a nudge.

  “Made with real, local ingredients,” I said, “and baked by a master baker.”

  I had invited Marcus, but didn’t expect him to come. However, he appeared and hung around in the doorway looking ready to back out when Thelma rushed up to him and said, “Darling, I’m so glad you could come. You must sit here at this table reserved for very special guests.” She led him to an arbor at the back and sat down with him. As I appeared to serve she was saying, “Of course tea is on the house. Or would you prefer coffee? And which of these mouth-watering delicacies takes your fancy?”

  Marcus, silent as always, studied the menu.

  Thelma looked up at me and said, “I’ll take a break now, Jess, and sit with Marcus. After all the work he did here, he is our honored guest, is he not?” She laid her hand on his arm.

  I kept an eye on them as I served. I might have needed to rescue Marcus, but although Thelma did all the talking in her demonstrative way, he contentedly munched on at least six cakes and ignored her.

  Initially we attracted older customers who responded by sitting up straight and unfolding a napkin over their laps as if they were taking tea in a stately home. They seemed to enjoy the date squares and Claire’s chocolate cake the most, and would often have second servings.

  I listened in to reminiscences of the cakes they ate as children:

  “I haven’t had chocolate cake like this since my mother died.”

  “This tart is better than the ones Gran baked. I wonder if they do Yorkshire parkin?”

  That was a thought. I used to make parkin. I had enough on with running the place to be baking as well, but maybe I could teach one of the others.

  I didn’t think our café would appeal to young customers, but not long after we opened a teenager with long curly hair came in accompanied by a replica of Swan. They glanced around and as Thelma approached, he quickly turned to the door, but the girl stopped him and whispered something. Thelma seated them and I brought them menus.

  When I showed them the list of cakes the girl asked, “What’s a Granny’s Garden Brownie?”

  “It’s a brownie with a special herb that older people find helps their arthritis,” I said. “But younger people also seem to like them.”

  “We’ll have two, please,” the girl said. “And a pot of black tea.”

  As I served them I wondered how they would respond to what was clearly a new experience for them. They probably thought a teashop run by old biddies was weird, something to laugh about with their frie
nds.

  “What the f…, what is that?” the boy said pointing at the teapot.

  “It’s a tea cozy. Keeps the tea warm.”

  The girl fingered it. “Did someone knit this? My gran had one like it. Years ago.”

  “They still work,” I said and left them to it.

  After a while, they called me over. With a big smile the girl said, “We’d like two more brownies please.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “our policy is to restrict them to one per customer because they are so difficult to make.”

  “Right. Let’s have something else, Rob.” She studied the menu. “I’d like chocolate cake and a meringue. How about you?”

  He nodded. I took them the cakes. They dug into them as if they had never eaten cakes before.

  “We’ll be back,” the girl said as she paid the bill. “Your cakes are yummy.”

  And they did return. Along with their friends.

  After three months Granny’s Garden was so busy I had to hire kitchen help for the Crones. They continued to bake, but a couple of youngsters helped them with the menial tasks like washing up and taking trays out of the oven. Granny’s Garden Brownies were by far the most popular item on the menu, particularly with young people, some of whom became regulars. Thelma and I got much pleasure from chatting to them about their lives and their ambitions and over time, we became a sort of advisor to some—Agony Grannies, if you like.

  The customers who gave me the greatest thrill were Ed and Eva. Through a lawyer I had been able to pay for a room for Eva in a private nursing home in Nelson without Ed finding out. He’d been told that a trust fund that helped former loggers paid, and he accepted that.

  Once Eva was settled in her new home, he brought her to the café one morning for a Crones meeting, before we opened to the public. All the Crones came, brownies were served and we had a meeting.

  “It gives me much pleasure,” I said, “to welcome Eva back to Nelson and to our cooperative café, which, as we all know, has added so much to the local scene.”

  The Crones applauded.

  Eva looked around with a genuine smile. Then she reached for Ed’s hand and in a surprisingly strong voice sang, “Hold my hand, it’s a garden in Paradise. Lost in a wonderland…”

  All the Crones joined in and then someone started on Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay. Thelma jumped up and danced around each table singing:

  “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay

  I went to church today

  I heard the parson say

  Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”

  She thrust her bum out at every Boom and collapsed on a chair, breathless. Then they all got up and began to polka. Oh God, someone was sure to have a heart attack. How could I calm them down? Did I need to? What’s wrong with older women having a good time?

  Finally they all flopped, laughing, onto chairs. Someone said, “Is there anything else to eat?” and that set them off again.

  One day we were busy with American tourists visiting Nelson during spring break. They were some of our best customers. My café brought out reminiscences of visits to the Old Country and Devon cream teas and pubs, and they were very generous tippers. A smart young woman in designer jeans and a tailored jacket walked in and stood looking around. I bustled out of the kitchen to seat her. “Hi Jess,” she said.

  My eyes widened. “Swan!” I hugged her. “Oh Swan. It is so good to see you.” Tears welled up. “Let me look at you.” I held her away from me. “You look so…so, what? Professional. How are you? Come and sit down. How long are you here for?” I dragged her to a table.

  “So what’s with this? Have you become an honest woman? Hey, are those the same loafers?” She looked at my feet.

  “These? Oh these are the latest in comfort. And not from the thrift shop, I can tell you.”

  Swan sat down and stretched out her legs. She picked up one of Nina’s hand-painted menus. “Is this what you sell here? A high-carb fix?”

  “You should try the brownies. They’re our favorite. I’ll get you one with some tea.” I rushed to the kitchen and asked Fran if she would mind serving us as I had a special friend come into town.

  “It’s coming,” I said as I sat down. “Now tell me what you’re doing and how you are.”

  She looked quite different from how I remembered her. Less flakey, more serious, studious almost. No makeup at all and her beautiful eyes shone with health…and what? Serenity? Peacefulness? She really was a picture.

  “I’m only here for a quick visit, on my way to Vancouver from Spokane. With my family. They came this way for me because I so badly wanted to see you.” She smiled. “I’ve been dying to see your new business.” She looked up at the climbing flowers. “Sweet.”

  Fran arrived and set down a teapot, crockery, and two brownies on a plate. “Try one of our famous brownies,” I said as I pushed the plate toward Swan.

  She took a bite, stared at me, nodded, and said with a laugh, “What’s in them? As if I can’t guess. Are you still growing?”

  “I’m hoping to stop if we make enough money here. Trouble is, I enjoy growing. And I’m still getting great results.”

  “You could cut down. Say to one light. Is Marcus still around?” She finished her brownie and licked her lips.

  “He comes to fix things if I need him and carries in soil for me—that sort of thing. He’s just the same. He and Maggie trim. Maggie leaves this summer to go to school. Anyway, if I do cut down, I can trim by myself. But I want to know about you.”

  Swan told me about her program. She was acing it, she hung out with a gang rather than have one BF, she lived in a dorm on campus, her parents were less of a pain, and she missed Nelson. “I’ll always look back on my time here as the best years of my life. I was so free. I met such cool people. You, for one.”

  Me? Cool?

  “Tell me what your real name is. I know it isn’t Swan, is it?”

  “Nah.” She smiled. “But I’ll always be Swan to you.”

  I saw her to the door and stood there watching her walk down the street, toward the burnt-out restaurant where we had worked together. What would have happened to me if I hadn’t met her? She had changed my life. I would probably have ended up as a built-in baby sitter for Jason and Amy in their sterile house. I laughed. Well, bugger that for a lark!

  Acknowledgments

  Writers cannot write seriously without the help of many others. My grateful thanks go to:

  My brilliant and insightful writing group who always give me stimulating suggestions and ideas—Vangie Bergum, Jane Byers, Sarah Butler, Anne deGrace, Rita Moir, Kristene Perron, and Verna Relkoff.

  The city of Nelson, BC for its unique community.

  Three skilled growers who generously shared their time and knowledge.

  The memory of my Auntie Von, a feisty Yorkshire woman on whom Jess is based and who taught me so much.

  All the cheerful help and enthusiasm from Second Story Press.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Craig became a nurse in the UK shortly after WWII and immigrated to Canada in the 1960s. During her midlife crisis, she obtained a Bachelor’s degree in nursing, followed by a Master’s in education and a Ph.D. in medical education from McGill. She was on the Faculty of Medicine at UBC for ten years as an educational consultant. She is the author of the memoir Yes Sister, No Sister: My Life as a Trainee Nurse in 1950s Yorkshire, which sold more than 160,000 copies in the UK. She lives in Nelson, BC.

  Dedication

  For Auntie Von

  Copyright

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Craig, Jennifer, 1934-, author

  Gone to pot / by Jennifer Craig.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77260-034-6 (paperback).

  —ISBN 978-1-77260-035-3 (epub)

  I.
Title.

  PS8605.R346G66 2017 C813'.6 C2016-906966-4

  C2016-906967-2

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Craig

  Cover: © Greg Stevenson, i2iart.com

  Editors: Carolyn Jackson, Kathryn Cole

  Design: Melissa Kaita

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the

  Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our

  publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the

  Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  Published by

  Second Story Press

  20 Maud Street, Suite 401

  Toronto, ON M5V 2M5

  www.secondstorypress.ca