My Granny
Innovant Deis

 


Granny was an old, elderly woman. She had a load of wispy, dyed-black hair, a wonderful set of identical glowing chestnut eyes, a giant heavily-pimpled nose and lips the colour between bright pink and rosy-red. This mouth of hers was always spouting out ideas, ideas that came in a terribly fast rate. Some ideas she gave up after a few weeks, some she found so intriguing that she continued on it for three months (that was her record). Many couldn’t stand the midnight tapping of the feet when she got a delicious idea. Apart from that craze of midnight thinking, she also did things like pester the neighbours about the various materials she needs.

One day staring abysmally at the kitchen stove, wondering what to do, Granny had a sudden bright light flaring inside her. Of course! She thought, almost aloud. What caused this hit of inspiration was the sight of Mum’s new cookbook, glaring right back at Granny. At first when Mum bought it Granny thought it was no use – but look at what she can do with it! She could compete in cooking festivals, make mouth-watering delicacies and even create her own recipes! She imagined the how it would look like: she would be holding a giant book, named ‘Granny’s Recipes’. The crowd would be surging forwards hungrily for autographs. And together with this thought came another – she could make potions as well! Not those wizard sort of potions, but potions that would heal people. Five seconds later, her mind was clicking away. Then making a decision, she stood up and announced grandly (trying to hide the fact that she had no ideas for the past three days), “Well, well, well! How about collecting cookbooks and potion-making guides for a change! “

Her idea was absolutely absurd to us. Sensible Mum replied sternly, “Granny, if you don’t go around having odd hobbies, perhaps Joey could learn something from your olden days. Right, Joey?” Mum shot an austere look at me. Actually, I don’t mind Granny much, and often I agree silently with her peculiar propositions. This time, however, she had gone too far. “What do you want to use cookbooks and potion-making guides for?” Immediately, I regretted asking that single question alone. Granny was a person that liked to analyze anything that is aimed at her. This particular case set her off more ideas. Standing as rigid as a floorboard, her fluttery hair was the only thing that was moving, as she was in her ‘Thinking Mode’. There was tense silence. Then… “I was thinking about competing in cooking festivals and stuff like that. So when you asked that question, Joey, it set off a few thousand firecrackers in my mind. I would hold my own cooking festivals and instead of moving out three years later we’ll stay and give out food. I’ll go and prepare now…” and her voice trailed away, to leave a wisp of her words, “I’ll go and prepare now…”

That night, that disturbed night, was practically a place where you can’t try to sleep till it was one hour after midnight. That was where all the planning, voiced contemplating, pulling things out of every nook and cranny, endless foot-tapping, absent-minded scratching of the pencil and the worse, mock phone calls with the minister took place. It would start saying, “My dearest minister, here I present to you my gift of a dish…” Although we were already used to this, it still took us a few hours listening to the noise downstairs before we could sleep. Groaning neighbours were of no help either. A new couple who just moved in yesterday was starting to complain about the cacophony. Their baby was not all too helpful too. Wailing, crying and sobbing deafened us. It nearly drowned out the mindless muttering, nevertheless giving us a disquieted sleep. I fell asleep, thinking of the uncountable apologies that we have to repeat over and over again during early morning.

We were expecting angry protests, but the morning was stiff and clear of disorder. We peeped downstairs, and to our total dismay we found Granny covering the floor with books and more books! The problem was that the numerous neighbours outside, no matter how much they pushed, still couldn’t push against the fifty or so books that lined the doorway. Sighing, we treaded gingerly over the books, pushing the pile of books blocking the entrance. After going outside with my parents who were still in their pajamas, we were attacked by a hundred tons of obstreperous shouts. Unable to escape the frenzied hullabaloo, Mum and Dad said a hasty “so sorry, so sorry” and went back into the house and replaced where the pile of books had once been.

In the afternoon, everyone had forgot the morning dais and Granny was off to borrow and buy her books. We had a sumptuous breakfast consisting of a French Apple Pie, Orange Float and a strange morning refresher potion, called a ‘Bodgizer’. Lunch, we hope, was to be a ‘hors d'oeuvre’, as Mum put it. Small wonders, it was. We had a steamboat sitting on a phosphorescent fire. We also had another round of Orange Float (it seemed to be Granny’s specialty) and best of all, steaming French Fries. Dessert was unexpected – we usually hardly have any. But it was such a good opportunity anyway so Granny made a blackcurrant cake and an ice cream for us all. It was at this point that Granny invited me to the world of cooking.

“Say, Joey, why don’t you help me out in the kitchen? I know that you’re good in Home Civics.” It was not a lie, of course. I was good at Home Civics and I did like cooking, but joining Granny in cooking was too much for me to handle already. How many cookbooks does she have? How would I ever be able to get the ingredients needed? Come to think of it, where did Granny get her ingredients? As if reading my thoughts, she said quickly, “I have all the ingredients you need. It’s all in the kitchen, so come on lets go. I’ll set a simple dish for young Joey here,” Granny said suddenly to Mum, “so he won’t be out for quite a time until he mastered the dish.”

With an excited bop in her fluffy pink slippers, she traipsed into the kitchen. A faint redolence of leftover French Fries filled the kitchen with a luscious aroma. I stepped in cautiously; warily watching Granny’s every single movement. Then suddenly, Granny stopped in her tracks and started counting the petite tiles on the wall. When she reached twenty, she pushed the tiles she had been counting and the wall made a noise somewhere between a screech and a whoosh. I gasped as the wall slid twenty centimetres or so. Granny, who didn’t make hear my gasp, went on fumbling around the hole. Finally, she saw what she was looking for: a miniscule dirty-gray button. Then at last when she looked at me, she explained, “This button can only be used when your parents are out. It empties all the cookbooks in the kitchen and living room (they are on top of trapdoors) and dumps them here.” Still half-confused and half-delighted, I stared up into Granny’s face. She caught sight of my expectant look, thought for a moment then told me all I needed to know: that this little hide-out was where my grandfather lived during the World War.

Noticing a cute little machine stacked away in a corner, I went over to see what it was. To my immediate surprise and horror, it was a walking and talking Barbie Doll! I hated those the most. Throwing them over my shoulder, I shuddered to think what other secrets would be stashed away here. The Barbie Dolls proved to make this sort-of-attic a playroom. I sighed thoughtfully; thinking what use was this to help me in my developing talent for cooking. I jolted again as Granny whispered in my ear, “Don’t you find this place wonderful for cooking up recipes?” Then my brain started to click. No wonder Granny brought me in here! She wanted to me know her secret, the secret that she has been hiding long since after my grandfather died. I looked up so fast my necked cricked and I gazed, bewildered, at her crinkled face.

Once I had a tour around the basement (Granny said there was an underground room too below this, but it was already stacked and full to the brim with the many things that Granny has) Granny brought me to the garden. “This house is a house of many quiet, unknown secrets. From the outside it may seem like an ordinary semi-detached, but if you venture closer and step inside you will find that the ordinary semi-detached that you thought it was at first has more than meets the eye. Down, buried under the garden is a small treasure trove. If you lift the pink loose tile in the corner of the attic you will hear a tinkling sound and you will be able to see into a Yiddish flower garden and an operated minute swimming pool. Five steps from that swimming pool into the garden will reveal a concealed trapdoor covered expertly with rags and arid sand. This will be the door to the legendary jewel of our family. So as I say, this house has many secrets. I am telling you all I know now so that you may discover more in the coming future.” Granny rattled off like a machine gun, all in one breath.

Almost fainting with this overload of information, I changed the subject to avoid more confusion. Coming back to cooking, I wondered aloud when I am going to start cooking. Granny smiled, seemingly equally relieved at this change of subject. “Why don’t we start now?” Clutching hold of my hand, Granny and I cavorted with resiliency and effervescence back into the house, where I have learnt now that many wonders live to be told of.

 

 

Copyright © 2006 Innovant Deis
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