Chez Saga

A certain someone asked me "I know how to make gnocchi, but I want to know how you make it; so tell me!"

... and I thought: well, everybody knows how to make gnocchi, but when a certain someone told me her recipe didn't come out quite right and did she add too many chocolate chips ... (chocolate chips?)

Well, an intervention was necessary. So as a bucolic and spritely clarinet plays in the background, here I am in my little 'cafe boeurf' white cooking apron with my costar, Saga Louise who will . . .

[*pause* 'phfina looks around kitchen, not seeing costar, then looks back at the camera.]

Excuse me one moment.

['phfina pushes up her sleeves and stalks off, stage left]

[sounds of a scuffle, and a 'No, I won't go out there!' and 'Oh, yes, you will!' and 'You do it! It's your show!' and 'But you're the guest star; I can't have this show without a guest star!' and 'Since when have you had guest stars on your blog?' and a stamping of a foot and a 'Saga! Git out there NAOW!' and after a time of pulling and pinching and digging in of heels comes:]

"Ladies and gentlemen," an out-of-breath 'phfina pants, "may I present our guest star, Saga Louise!"

TA-DAAH! goes the the trumpets.

Hmmphf! goes the put-out Saga, and she whispers out of the side of her mouth, 'I'm only doing this 'cause you dragged me out here.' and then Saga pauses, and asks a concerned: 'This isn't live, is it?'

'phfina looks innocence herself: "Of course not!" I exclaim, affronted ... but why is my hand behind my back, fingers crossed?

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, on with the show. So, to make gnocchi you take these mashed potatoes and ..."

[Saga gives 'phfina a quick tug on her sleeve]

"Hm, yes, Saga?"

'How did you make the mashed potatoes?' she whispers soto voce.

"Oh, well, you tell them, Saga, you know how to make them, right?" I say encouragingly.

The camera pans to Saga, she *gulps* and shakes her head vigorously no! turning almost as pale as 'phfina.

Le sigh.

Then she adds: "You made them; you tell them!" forcefully ... if a whisper can be forceful, that is.

"Actually," I admit, "I didn't cook them, so ..."

I pause undecided.

Saga begins to whisper in my ear: "Well, you could . . ."

"Saga!" I interrupt and stamp my foot. "Look, you're on my show, there are millions of people watching right now, so talk to the camera, okay?"

"Millions?" Saga gulps.

"Well," I shift my feet, "maybe ten thousand or so, but ..."

Saga starts to make a hasty retreat stage left. "You said it wasn't live!" she wailed.

I grab her arm, "Saga, you have to stay, I need you, and the show must go on!"

"What could possibly convince me to stay here will millions of people staring at me!" Saga struggles to free herself from my vise-like grip.

Hm. I think. Saga's fearful eyes get terrified with the resolve that comes over me. I jerk her hard into me. She careens into my body and I wrap her in my arms, tilt her head back, and capture her lips in mine.

We kiss. We kiss hard, me forcing her into me and me into her. She struggles at first, but I'm not an aikido ninja master (mistress, actually, or maybe 'masteress' 'cause 'mistress' might mean ... well, actually, I'm that, too ... amazing what you can be thinking while entwined in your lover's arms in a full-on lip-lock) for nothing, and eventually her struggles weaken and cease, and I feel her yielding to me, giving herself to me and to the kiss.

I like this feeling. I hold the kiss for a while longer, to let her know this is real, this is forever, this me, and I have her and she's mine.

Her arms come up, and wrap me in them, pulling herself more into me.

... a fade to black would be really good here ...

Eventually I pull back.

Saga, eyes closed, head tilted back, has that dreamy look about her.

"Wow!" she breathes out.

"You do this show with me, and afterwards there be more of that, and ... well, a lot more than that for you, sweetie," I promise.

Saga perks up at this, opening her eyes expectantly, "Really?" she asks eagerly.

"Really-really," I said, pleased.

"But if I ..." she begins, worry creeping into her voice.

"Saga, you will," I interrupt, "It's all part of the charm of the show."

"But, ..." she protests.

"Saga," I get all authoritative and toppy, "if you don't do what you're told, then NO SPANKIE FOR YOU!"

"You wouldn't!" she says in shocked disbelief.

"Wouldn't I?" I dared.

"What?" she wails, "No spankies? That's too cruel!" And did she, in fact, stagger back and press her hand to her head?

My snigger at her ham-handed mock-semi-serious acting brought her back to the present, she came out of her pose and looked around furtively.

"Erhm ..." she essayed.

"So," I said, business-like, kindly rescuing her, "shall we continue with the show?" and then I add in an aside, "or is it NST, and am I sleeping on the couch tonight?"

Saga glowers at me, but waves regally toward the camera, but then seeing the camera and the whole crew, the boom boy, the operator, the director, her regal wave turns trembling and tentative.

"Good girl," I praise her, confidently, trying to instill her with my own.

My praise is misplaced, Saga digs her fists into her sides, taps her foot a few times and declares, affronted, "I'm not a girl, Melissa, you're the girl."

I just so love to see the fight in her: she is such a fem.

"Yes," I purr, "but I'm on top! And don't you forget it!"

"Promise?" Saga entreats hopefully.

Now it's my turn to be slightly embarrassed and give a quick look to the camera.

"Saga," I whine, impatiently, "Not now! Later; later!"

But she is not to be dissuaded. "When then?"

I whisper quickly, "Jeez, Saga, you sexpot! Tonight, okay?"

"Okay," she says cheerily, then gets a whistful, dreamy look, probably imagining the goings-on that will be occurring to her ... by me! ... later tonight.

Whew! did it just get warm in here? And did I just growl possessively? From whence did that growl come, besides from being ripped from deep in my (tiny, sigh) chest.

My, my, my! But it's not like she has anything to base on her imagination ... well, except for every moment, day or night we are alone in the flat ... alone together, that is: in the bedroom, of course, but also on this very kitchen floor, and then there's the bathroom and shower, and ...

Yes, I believe it is getting warm in here.

Um ... where were we?

Oh, yes, the cook show.

SO! I didn't make the mashed potatoes, my little niece is ... well, that's her specialty when their family has big meals that they invite me over to so I don't starve to death, which I won't but that's what they think, and that's kind of them, I guess, and annoying, too, but so it goes.

SO! Let's ask Elena Marie how she made the mashed potatoes. C'mon, Saga.

Elena Marie is, of course, deep into her latest novel, which is always so hard to keep track of which is her latest because she literally borrows fifty books a week from the library (I know, I've helped carry them) and she would borrow more if the library didn't set a limit! She's wearing a, God help me, Chairman Mao olive green cap, a red shirt and blue jeans. She had been wearing a white bandana, showing pride in her country's colors, but this is her favorite cap.

As for her person, she is Bella Swan. She has long, rich chocolate brown hair and two dark pools for eyes. She is going to be the subject of so much attention (from so many sources) as she grows, and, like, Bella, be so unaware of it all.

"So, Elena Marie," I say, "How do you make the mashed potatoes? What's your secret?"

She looks up indolently from her book until she notices the cam. "Am I going to be on your show?" she asks nervously.

"Don't mind that, sweetie," I say quickly, "just tell me how to make your delicious mashed potatoes."

"No," she says firmly. "I don't want to have the paparazzi follow me everywhere and ask me questions all the time. That's not nice!"

And she takes up her book and leaves the room, running into my bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"But ..." I say.

*SLAM* says the door.

I knock quietly on the door. "Elena, sweetie," I entreat and try to open the door.

Elena is leaning on the other side.

"Okay, honey," I compromise, "You won't have to go on the cam, but can you just, like, I don't know, whisper the recipe through the door and I'll tell our viewers it?"

"No!" Elena snarls.

I look around in desperation to Saga. She shrugs.

I mouth a sarcastic: "Well, that helps!" to her. Saga gives me a cross look and tries herself.

"Maybe you can write down the recipe and pass it under the door?" she offers.

Elena opens the door a crack and examines Saga suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"Elena," I say calmingly, "this is my friend Saga. She just came from Sweden."

Elena's eyes sparkle with interest.

"Really?" she asks incredulously, "just like the Swedish chef? Say something in Swedish!"

"Elena," I say, rolling my eyes, embarrassed.

Saga smiles kindly down at Elena. "What do you want me to say?"

Elena bounces with excitement: "Say 'urba-shurba'!" she squeals with delight.

"What?" Saga asks in confusion.

"Elena," I say firmly, putting my foot down: "No!"

Her face falls, but then I get an idea and whisper to her

(Elena is always hatching some plot or scheme with her playmates)

"Ask Saga to say the word 'the'"

"The word 'the'?" Elena asks in surprise. "Why?"

Saga's face turns beet red: "I say 'the' just fine, thank you!"

"Ooh!" I squeal, "say 'the' again, Saga!"

Saga gives me dagger eyes. "No!" She crosses her arms obstinately, looking very Old World regal.

"Okay, okay!" I backpedal, realizing I've crossed a line.

Us 'Merkans: so brazen. No social graces or aloofness whatsoever. Can't keep them in polite society at all. I'd probably drink out of the finger bowl or something. I'd probably use the objective case of a pronoun when I should have used the subjective case ... probably.

I blush in my own embarrassment.

Elena looks between me and Saga [note the proper use of the objective pronominal, fellow writeresses?]. She addresses Saga, "You look older than my auntie to be a friend."

Saga looks away.

"And you're shorter, too."

Elena Marie, matchmaker.

I intervene. "Actually," I say, "we fit together purrrfe - OUCH!"

Saga pinches my arm. Hard. There's going to be a bruise there.

"Shh!" she shushes me.

Elena Marie weighs Saga. "I like you," she decides. "I'll give you the recipe."

Then she commands: "Stay right here!" and closes the door.

Sounds of pen to paper, and Elena's flowing cursive. Paper being folded, then refolded. And then a crack in the door appears and Elena pokes the neat square to Saga. "It's a present for you," she explains.

Saga is touched. "Oh, how sweet!" she exclaims, causing Elena to smile hugely and blush at the same time.

Elena glares at me. "Be nice to her."

"Excuse me, young lady," I begin hotly.

"She's your guest," Elena continues forcefully. "... and you don't have any friends, so you can't lose this one. Who else would you get to hang out with?"

I'm surprised Elena knows how to use the words: 'hang out.' I thought her home-schooling parents wouldn't allow that kind of talk.

I cast my eyes down. And again Saga rescues me. "She is being very nice to me, sweetie," she reassures Elena kindly.

"Very nice," I emphasize with a wicked whisper.

I can see the blush on Saga's neck heat her collar.

Elena examines us both, glaring at me. I'm sure blaming me for the camera and mutters a cross 'hmmphf!' before closing my door on my face. I hear her return to her book.

I sigh. Must be hard to be a kid and read all the books you love all the time! Oh, to be nine again!

I tug on Saga's arm, and we return to the kitchen.

"Okay, Saga," I say. "Read out the recipe for mashed potatoes."

"Why?" Saga asks. "This is your cook show."

"Yes," I say, "and this is your recipe now, and since it's my cook show, I'm telling you to read it out."

What's with everybody these days? Why doesn't everybody do exactly what I tell them without question, but no!

Saga glowers, but unfolds the paper and reads out the recipe.

6 potatoes, peeled and quartered.

1 cup microwaved milk

1/4 cup melted butter

1/2 teaspoon of salt

Boil potatoes in water until done. Mash. Mix in milk, salt and butter. Mash. Serve.

Saga looks up at me: "But for how long do you cook them?"

"Good question, Saga, as I'm sure many of our viewing audience is asking themselves that very question," ...

... does my tone sound officious when I'm lecturing?

... I call out strongly, "ELENA MARIE!"

"YEAH?" she calls back from my room.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN TO TAKE OUT THE POTATOES FROM THE WATER?" I ask.

"WHEN THEY'RE DONE!" Elena answers as if schooling an addled child about an obvious point in the lesson plan.

I sigh. "BUT FOR HOW LONG?"

By the way, I hate shouting across the house, ... even when the house is a one-bedroom apartment.

"I DON'T KNOW," Elena answers, annoyed.

I push up my sleeves again and trudge over to my bedroom door.

"Yes, you do," I say reasonably.

"No, I don't," comes the still annoyed answer.

"So," I say, controlling my temper ...

... [I hate it when people say, 'I don't know' or 'I don't understand this.']

... "So, when do you know when the potatoes are done?" I ask evenly.

"I stick a fork in one, and it feels like it's ready to be mashed," Elena explains.

"And ..." I say, ...

Do you know how people say things that just beg the question?

Yeah. Okay, I'll play along.

"And so about how long after you put the potatoes in the boiling water do you check on them, normally?" I say, hiding a small smile on my lips.

If there's ever anyone to pursue an inquiry, well, then, that would be 'phfina: inquiry-pursuer extraordinaire!

"I guess, ..." Elena says, probably pausing, setting aside her book (reluctantly), and thinking it through, "after one or two Shaun the Sheep episodes I go check on them."

"Oh," I say, "okay. Thank you, sweetie."

I got my answer (6 to 12 minutes), and I didn't get all ... 'phfina-righteous about it, too.

Life is savored in its small victories.

And big victories, too, I suppose.

Otherwise, who would watch the Red Sox win the World series?

*ahem* I return to the kitchen as I'm sure Elena returns to her book.

So I pencil in the cook time for Saga and return my focus to the camera.

"Okay," I say, "now that you have left over mashed potatoes in the fridge that your relatives gives you three tons worth of because they don't think you eat without them feeding you, making gnocchi is a cinch. Saga, would you get out the mashed potatoes and the flour?"

Saga retrieves both. She asks: "You keep your flour in your refrigerator?"

"Yeah," I say. "Oh!" I add. "We need one egg. Saga, sweetie ...?"

She fetches me the egg.

"Okay, now you crack the egg into the bowl of mashed potatoes, and mix the two together..."

I wait. Saga waits. We look at each other.

"Saga, sweetie, would you kindly do that?"

"Huh?" Saga asks. "Oh!" realization dawns, and she goes about the task of cracking the egg.

"Recycling?" she asks.

"Um, no," I say, embarrassed. For composting, I'd need a composter. And a lawn. And a garden. An attached castle would be good, too. Heliport. Boat launch ...

Where was I? Oh, yes. I indicate the trash can under the sink, and Saga discards the egg shell.

"Okay," I say to Saga, handing her a wooden spoon, "stir the egg in."

Saga examines the long-handled spoon. I wonder if she's contemplating joyfully exclaiming "Bork-bork-bork!" and casting the spoon behind her in carefree abandon.

But her thought surprises me. She taps the flat of the spoon against her open palm and says, "This spoon could be very useful ... later."

And she gives me a warm, anticipatory grin.

"Saga!" I blush fire engine red (well, more like 'pink lemonade' is about as dark as I get, but it feels fire-engine red hot to me), "mind the PG rating of the show, if you please!"

Saga shrugs nonchalantly, pleased that she's scored a point against the ever-so-cool-as-a-cucumber 'phfina.

[hmmmm! cool cucumbers and their many ... uses ... NO! NO! later! Later!]

As Saga mixes the egg and mashed potatoes together, I get out my bread board and liberally sprinkle it with flour.

"Okay," I say when Saga finishes, as I'm a rather take-charge girl like that. "What we do now is mix in an equal part of flour into the mashed potatoes, but we do it gradually, so that the mixture goes from wet and starchy to a dry and doughy consistency."

Saga looks at me expectantly, so I sigh, and pour mashed potatoes onto the floured bread-board and then pour a generous dusting of flour over that. I begin to kneed the mixture, and where it gets sticky or runny I grab a handful of flour right from the bag and sprinkle it over that spot, continuing to kneed with my thickly flour-encrusted hands.

"Like that," I say and use my chin to point to the big lump of potato dough. "Now you try," I tell Saga.

She tries.

Much too delicate.

I sigh. Fems!

"No, honey," I say, standing behind her. I put my hands over hers, and she sucks in a surprised gasp of air at the contact of our flesh and bodies. I press her hands hard into the dough. "You have to be forceful as you kneed, okay? The flour and the mashed potatoes have to be fully integrated."

"Okay," she breathes out. I kiss her shoulder and step back.

"Hey!" she complains. "Why did you leave?"

"You were doing fine," I explained.

She rejoined right away: "And so were you!"

I smile at that.

"Finish here, sweetie, so we all can eat, eh?" I chide.

"Hmmphf," she snorts, but returns to the task.

"Okay," I say. "We need a pot of boiling water to put the gnocchi into when it's ready. You know the gnocchi's been cooked when it floats to the surface of the boiling water."

I prepare the pot and put it on high heat, and then preheat the oven to 350F.

"Okay, Saga, done?" I ask.

"You check," she says.

I check. It feels good.

"Okay, what we do now is to roll these into snakes and then from the snakes cut off one inch sections. Those will be the gnocchi."

I divide the big bread-sized dough into two section, giving one to Saga. With mine I take off a handful and with my own dusted breadboard I roll it into a long snake and with a knife section it into one inch pieces. Saga observes for a moment and then replicates what I'm doing.

As we're working, she whispers, "You're very intense as you cook."

I grunt a 'Yeah' noncommittally, focusing on the work.

"You're very intense about everything," she observes.

My mouth twitches down. Yeah, that's about right. I'm very intense about everything. Runs in the family. My mom, my dad, my brothers and sisters ... we're all very intense.

I've been watching my nieces, hoping that they'd be well-adjusted and social and sociable ... unlike, well: me. And, thank Heavens, they are. But they do read. All the time, and are rather strong in their convictions, even for young children. I hope they turn out all right. I pray that, for them, that they are happy, growing up and happy, being grown ups.

Unlike me: Miss Intense.

"Does it bother you?" I ask Saga.

"No," she says quickly. Which means 'yes.' "It's just that I don't see that in hardly anybody else I know ... except me."

She smiles wistfully.

"Then I guess we are M.F.E.O." I say philosophically.

Her brow furrows. "'M.F.E.O.'?" she asks, perplexed.

I smile back at her: "'Made for each other.'" I explain and pat her affectionately on the cheek.

"Oh," I say, "there's a bit of flour on your cheek!" and I go to wipe it away.

Of course, with my floury hands, this makes things worse. "Hm," I say, "let me get a damp paper towel and wipe it away. Must have you looking presentable!"