And Everything Nicebyjthserra©
And Everything Nice
It was all she could think of. The recipe rolled into and out of her consciousness as she waited in the cold, cold room. When it was quiet she thought of the stove and pots, of breaking eggs and mixing them. The adding of ingredients, spices, some sugar and spice… She couldn’t remember, what else did she need? She thought of the stove and pots again, how hot for the stove, how big of a pot, it was all so very important when it was quiet. But then it got noisy, all very noisy.
When it got noisy she thought only of ingredients. She'd whisper, "Some sugar, cinnamon and cloves." Sugar and spice came to her in the noise, but she was forgetting something. Eggs and flour -- yes, that was easy, butter and salt, always a dash of salt, but something, something was missing. Sugar, cinnamon, cloves…
And the sound sifted over her, she heard a deep rolling, and, was it a scream? No, not a scream, it was thyme, so sharp, angular, the shapes twisted in the spoon, much like a scream. No there was no scream… she whispered, "I need some sugar, some spices, that's all I need.” I think a cup of sugar and a tablespoon of cinnamon. Cloves and, perhaps sage, yes sage is what I will need, but not too much.
The mixing bowl was large, large enough for everything, but she had to be careful to measure correctly. She ran through the progressions in her mind, two quarter teaspoons make a half and two halves make a whole teaspoon. She continued, whispering it now, “Three teaspoons make a table spoon.”
She heard a name and her husband stood up. His hand trembled in hers, "Do you want to look?”
"Get me some sugar, and cinnamon," she replied, “I need at least a cup of sugar, but you can get the small jar of cinnamon, I only need a tablespoon or so.” A pan, she needed a pan, a large one so everything in the bowl can pour into it. Was that a twelve by twelve pan, or a nine by fourteen? There was a time that it wouldn’t matter to her, but now, certainly now it was so very important. Everything had to be just perfect, nothing out of place, nothing to interrupt this perfect recipe.
"Okay, stay here while I do this,” he whispered to her as he got up and followed a man into the bright light. She watched them for a moment, noticing the slow plod in her husband’s walk.
"And cloves, bring me some cloves. Yes, and some sage too, in the little jar, you know the ones, with the green label, yes that will do fine,” she whispered. She saw him nod to her and she knew, she knew that she had to get working at it, she had to fix it for him. She knew the recipe, knew it by heart… except, except for that nagging feeling something was missing, something was wrong.
Then she heard the rolling, slow, low rolling. That same rolling she had heard for so long tonight. She heard her husband gasp, and then whisper, "Yes, that's her." She looked up and saw the man holding her husband, as if he was about to fall. They stood a moment, the man whispering something to him. She waved a bit when her husband started walking back to her.
She felt his hand again, it still trembled. "We need to go do some paperwork," he whispered. There were tears running down his cheeks.
“Onions?” she thought to herself, “was she slicing onions? Why else would he cry?”
“But my recipe,” she said to him, “I am almost done. I only need a few things. I have the cloves and sage, it’s already in the bowl, and the flour and butter. I’ve already mixed them… ah but not tasting, I don’t have everything, I still need some things."
"What things?” he asked, helping her up from the soft chair. He took her hand and they walked together, she could feel him still trembling.
"Some sugar, some spice…"
"And everything nice," her husband whispered as tears poured down his face.
Yes, that was it. "And everything nice," she whispered. She followed her husband as he walked up to the large, gray desk. She watched as he began to sign some papers. She waited beside him thinking of the recipe, so happy that he reminded her of what was missing. "And everything nice," she repeated.