The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee by Barry Jonsberg Page B

of the bucket on Rich Uncle Brian’s yacht. It didn’t smell quite as bad, however, so I served it up. I placed brimming plates in front of Mum and Dad with what I hoped was panache (another French word!).
    Dad gazed at the food as if confronted with roadkill. He poked the jambalaya with a fork, possibly to establish if it was still alive.
    â€œWhat’s in it, Candice?” he asked.
    â€œChicken, smoked sausage, onions, peppers, tomatoes, prawns, chicken stock, and rice,” I replied. “Though not necessarily in that order.”
    â€œYou didn’t peel the prawns before cooking them?” “The recipe said to devein them, but I am not skilled at microcosmetic surgery, so I didn’t. Should they be peeled?”
    â€œIt’s lovely, Pumpkin,” said Mum. She took a mouthful and chewed slowly. One of
her
veins stood out on her forehead. “Such an unusual taste! Where’s your plate?”
    â€œAfter all that cooking, I’m not hungry,” I said.
    I think Dad mumbled something about that being wise, but I could be mistaken. I put another jazz CD on and watched them eat. It was strange, but when they finished there seemed to be more on their plates than I’d served in the first place.
    â€œDelicious,” said Mum.
    â€œBeautiful,” said Dad.
    â€œWhat made you choose this dish, Pumpkin?” asked Mum.
    â€œNew Orleans,” I said. “I remembered you said you wanted to see it before you died. The jazz, the French Quarter, the jambalaya and the gumbo, the saxophones on street corners. Do you remember?”
    Mum’s eyes clouded and a smile played around her lips.
    â€œI’d almost forgotten,” she said. “Yes. The dreams. The dreams I had when I was young.”
    â€œIt wasn’t when you were young,” I replied. “It was only a few years back.”
    â€œThanks,” she said.
    â€œAnyway,” I continued, “they don’t have to remain dreams.”
    â€œYou are kind, Pumpkin,” said Mum. “And I am very proud of you. Thank you.”
    â€œFrench,” I said.
    â€œ
Merci
,” she said.
    I washed the dishes and when I came back into the dining room, I discovered a small miracle. Mum and Dad were dancing. He had his arms around her waist and theyswayed gently to a slow rhythm. Her head was pressed against his chest. Their eyes were closed, but their lips were smiling. I watched for a few moments and then Mum opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Her eyes were smiling as well.

L Is for Laughter
    Dear Denille
,
    I have learned a lesson
.
    I learned it from Miss Bamford, my English teacher, which, on the face of it, is not surprising. But I am not talking about spelling, punctuation, and grammatical structure. I am talking about language, laughter, and life. Let me tell you what happened
. . . .
    Actually, I won’t, if it’s all the same to you. I have just written it down for an English assignment and I am tired and can’t face repeating myself. So I’ll cut to the chase (you won’t need reminding that I am making considerable efforts with American idioms)
.
    I made people laugh today and it was wonderful. I didn’t intend to. In fact, it wasn’t part of my thinking at all. All I wanted was to make the people in my life a little happier, but for some reason they found my actions funny
.
    I am
not,
Denille, a funny person by nature
.
    I cannot tell jokes
.
    I would not win any talent contests for humor. Actually, I wouldn’t win any talent contests for anything
.
    Let me give you an example of how my mind works when it comes to humor. Miss Bamford, my English teacher, she of the independently gyrating eyeball, once quoted something to my class. We were doing silent reading and had to bring along our own books (I brought my dictionary) and she said that someone (an American, I believe) had remarked that “Outside of a dog, a book is a