Ten-Finger Exercises

memories of Friday night's lost entry

Sometimes a good idea comes to me and it seems so concrete, so tangible, that I'm sure I don't need to write it down. I can just reach out and.... Oops, I guess not. It isn't still in the car, or the bathroom, or the kitchen where I thought it. I need to get a tape recorder for my car, and otherwise write things down. This time I did write it down, at the stoplight, and not just my illegible scribble or cryptic note. Of course, because I wrote it down, I remember it anyway. (Good thing, because I lost the whole blog I wrote afterwards. I don't remember all of it though.)

My good idea, maybe good,...ahem, my idea was about a story I read to my class a couple weeks ago. Some of you have read it before. I may post it again anyway at the bottom of this page, because I'm sure I've edited it a bit from the original.

It, and several other things I've written, have a child-like quality to them. (That sounds ever so much nicer than child-ish.) I'd like to send it out to be published, but have never found a medium that seems as if it would be a fit.
Can't find any senior citizens magazines or Christian magazines with fiction in them.

So it occurs to me I should put them together in a book, along with poems like the one about the cane and other things that pertain to getting old. Maybe it would sell in the greeting card section and be a perfect gift for your semi-senile neighbor or your cracked up aunt, or even your soon to turn 40 friend as a gag.

Maybe I'd call it elderhumor or Tea Cozies or some not quite chicken-soupy sounding name.

Anyway, here's the story:

Kitchen Conversation

Rain had fallen steadily all Saturday, and, so far, the weekend had been boringly predictable. Bill watched football. Anna had done some quilting and worked on a project for her Bible class-- pleasant enough ways to pass the time, but nothing exciting.

“‘Relax, enjoy yourself,’ they tell me. ‘You’re retired. You’ve earned it,’" Anna muttered.

“What, dear?” Bill asked, not turning his head. The Seahawks were winning for a change.

“The grass must be a lot greener on the other side, I say. All this relaxing is tiring me out!”

“Um-hm.”

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to put a little supper together,” Anna sighed, heading toward the kitchen. She pulled her apron from the oven handle and opened the refrigerator door for a look inside. "Now, what was I looking for?"

“Uh, were you talking to me?” the milk carton asked timidly.

“No, silly, she was talking to me!” said the apron in a loud, clear voice.

“I guess I was just talking to myself, as usual,” Ann replied.

“Oh,” said the apron and fell silent.

Ann reached into the low cabinet for the heavy skillet. A saucepan lid came clanging out. “Now, where did you come from?” Anna exclaimed.

“What? Well, I was just leaning against the door there, minding my own business….” The lid sounded wounded.

“Never mind. Just get back in there and stay there. I don’t need you tonight.” Anna was irritated, but her voice softened when she heard Lid’s hurt tone. “ I think we’ll have a stir-fry.”

“Then I’ll see some action tonight!” Apron declared.

“Just what do you mean by that?” Anna said.

“Choppin’ and fryin’? Things’ll be flyin’!”

“I’m not denyin’!” Anna shot back, smiling. She was beginning to feel some energy. She took the baguette from its sack on the bench and quickly sliced it into generous slabs. After putting a chunk of garlic butter into each little maw, she laid the loaf on a cookie sheet and put it into the oven to heat later.

The vegetables were gathered on the counter: the celery, the onion, the bok choy, the mushrooms. They were all murmuring among themselves, excited and giddy about what was to come.*

“Okay, line up,” Anna commanded, and the celery stalks spooned up against each other, front to back, front to back, across the cutting board. They behaved nicely.

Chikak, chikak, went the chopping blade. Three neat stacks of celery c’s went sliding into the bowl; at least, most of it did.

The apron giggled. “Stuff’s a’flyin!”

“Now you,” said Anna, holding the onion steady by his tail. “Off with your wallpaper! There. Now, stay still. No, no, no, don’t go slipping all over the place!”

*“What if I don’t want to be chopped up?” wailed the onion.

“Why not?” the garlic asked in its big strong voice. “What else could you possibly want out of life? It’s what you were made for, boy. Now buck up.”

“Ooh, what courage! What leadership!” sighed the potato, rolling her eyes. “I wish she could use me too!”

“You’ll get your turn at the front another day,” Anna said.

“All right,” said the onion. “I’ll try to be brave if you’re sure it’s the right thing. But look, Anna’s crying!”

“You do have that effect on people, but they love you all the same,” the garlic assured him.

The onion slices rounded up and got back into position. Chikak, chikak, went the blade. First up and down, chik, chik, chik, chik, then across: chik, chik, chik, chik, chik.

“Who’s next?” Anna asked.

The bok choy waved its leaves and said, “I am! I mean, We are!”

Soon the chopping was all done. Anna took out the olive oil and poured a gl-op into the pan. As she started to turn on the heat, she said, ““Wait! “I’m forgetting something.”

“It’s about time you remembered,” scolded the pearly rice, having a clear view of the proceedings from its glass canister. “You’d be all ready to serve, and what would you put this stir-fry on top of? You almost forgot the most important thing!”

“My stars,” said Anna, “wouldn’t I have been upset!” That rice certainly has plenty of starch, she thought, as she set the water to boil.

Anna busied herself by setting the table while the rice began to cook. “Forks on the left, and spoons on the right.” She sang the words like a jump rope rhyme. “Knives are the soldiers standing tight. Glasses go above them, plates in between. Serve up the food for the king and the queen.”

The china gleamed with pride, and the crystal gave a little celebratory clink.

“Here comes the best part,” Anna said as she heated up the oil. “Garlic, I’ll put you in first so you can flavor everything.” She squeezed the plump buds from their overcoats and sliced them right into the skillet. “Um, smell…there’s nothing like it!”

“Now for the meat! Come here, beefy!” she said as she unwrapped the plate holding the slices of round steak.

“Are you talking to me?” came a voice from the living room. Bill’s eyes were still held by the tractor beams of the TV, but his chin shifted slightly toward the kitchen, his left ear aimed in her direction.

“No, honey, I’m just getting dinner ready.”

Anna stirred in each vegetable expertly, adding a little soy sauce and sesame oil.
Holding a piece of ginger root above the pan, she grated an inch of it on top of the mixture.

“Ooh, that tickles!” squealed the ginger.

“Tickles the tongue too, my dear,” Anna said.

By now the rice was done, and she piled it, steaming, onto two plates. Then she covered it with the aromatic meat and vegetables. She peeked into the living room, and the game was over--perfect timing! “Dinner is served,” she called to Bill.

“It looks wonderful!” he said as he sat down at the table. The Seahawks’ win buoyed him up, and she had his full attention. “How do you do it? I know it will taste every bit as good as it looks.” Bill was always so gracious with his praise.

“All it takes is a will, and a bit of imagination,” she said.

”Dear God, please bless this food to our use, and us to your loving service.”

The dinner smiled contentedly, its fragrance wafting upward. From all corners of the table there came a soft, “Amen.”