of the bucket on Rich Uncle Brianâs yacht. It didnât 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.
âWhatâs in it, Candice?â he asked.
âChicken, smoked sausage, onions, peppers, tomatoes, prawns, chicken stock, and rice,â I replied. âThough not necessarily in that order.â
âYou didnât peel the prawns before cooking them?â âThe recipe said to devein them, but I am not skilled at microcosmetic surgery, so I didnât. Should they be peeled?â
âItâs lovely, Pumpkin,â said Mum. She took a mouthful and chewed slowly. One of
her
veins stood out on her forehead. âSuch an unusual taste! Whereâs your plate?â
âAfter all that cooking, Iâm not hungry,â 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 Iâd served in the first place.
âDelicious,â said Mum.
âBeautiful,â said Dad.
âWhat made you choose this dish, Pumpkin?â asked Mum.
âNew Orleans,â I said. âI 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?â
Mumâs eyes clouded and a smile played around her lips.
âIâd almost forgotten,â she said. âYes. The dreams. The dreams I had when I was young.â
âIt wasnât when you were young,â I replied. âIt was only a few years back.â
âThanks,â she said.
âAnyway,â I continued, âthey donât have to remain dreams.â
âYou are kind, Pumpkin,â said Mum. âAnd I am very proud of you. Thank you.â
âFrench,â I said.
â
Merci
,â 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 wonât, if itâs all the same to you. I have just written it down for an English assignment and I am tired and canât face repeating myself. So Iâll cut to the chase (you wonât need reminding that I am making considerable efforts with American idioms)
.
I made people laugh today and it was wonderful. I didnât intend to. In fact, it wasnât 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 wouldnât 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 âOutside of a dog, a book is a