Enga mellom fjella

For the love of cashews [294] (299 words)

The phone buzzed. "I made peanut brittle."

"So... Hooves... You have everyone's address, don't you? I mean to say ... it couldn't hurt making up a batch a day and sending them our way! Or better yet, cashew brittle. I love cashews."

She laughed. It doesn't take much to get an Irish gal to laugh. I jotted it down, buy cashews.

I 'cook' by grabbing whatever's handy. Usually two pieces of bread and whatever can't scurry away fast enough. That last piece of bologna was real s l o w last night.

Maybe I should make cashew chicken, add honey and open that can of mandarin orange slices I bought last year when I could afford them.

I sighed. If Hooves only delivered...

I swear that the geraniums nodded in agreement in their window. Water, sunlight, dirt. They didn't demand much. Which was wise. The once full cupboards were looking a bit bare. I smiled reminding myself that I had made a goal two years ago to lose weight.

How much do cashews cost? Maybe peanuts would work.

I put on my coat to brave the cold and the frigid stares of my housemates as I slunk down the two flights of stairs and out the door into the night.

I didn't get far. The patrol caught me at the corner and demanded to know whether I was allowed out on odd days. I had forgotten.

Excuses don't matter these days. One strike and that's that. 'Thinning the herd' was their motto. Mercy doesn't visit dark cold cells where you don't eat if friends don't feed you.

I dreamt of peanut brittle. I dreamt of warmth and light. I dreamt that I called Hooves at home and as her phone rang on and on, I dreamt that someone answered.