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Second posting attempt!
I’ve taken Sandra’s brilliant prompt idea from last month and tweaked it. On a micro-fiction course some time ago, I was advised to find story prompts by combining a line of poetry with an instruction from a recipe.
For the April comp please write 400 words max of prose inspired by:
“Suntrap bay windows”
and
“If you see tiny parsnips about as we did after the dry summer of 1976, do not despise them.”Deadline is midnight 30th April.
***
The line of poetry is from ‘House on the A34’ in House on the A34 by Philip Hancock, CB Editions, 2023.
The recipe instruction is from ‘How to choose and prepare parsnips’ in Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book by Jane Grigson, Penguin, 1979.
The micro-fiction course was taught online by Helen Chambers at The Writers Company.
Three sleeps become one [342 words]
Odd the way memory works, Changes shape and emphasis as one grows older. For me, hearing myself echoing my mother’s faux cheery encouragement as she told me and Robin, my brother, ‘So, you’ll be staying with Granny and Grandad Trent for a little while. Just three sleeps – ‘ shocked me. That I was …. not exactly lying to my children, but knowing I was at least sugaring the truth. For one, my -in-laws hardly knew their grandchildren (and had made it clear that what they did know, they didn’t like. My bad influence of course. And it promised to be a sunny weekend which meant, if she had her way, they’d be confined to the sitting room all day, out of harm, except for cooking in the heat coming through the bay windows, with nothing but the stacks of yellow-edged, loose-paged books their father had allegedly got his education and intelligence from to look at. Or oft-done jigsaws, with missing pieces, to do.
An idea occurred, ‘Maybe you could ask Grandad if he’d like some help in the garden.’ That’d at least allow them to get some fresh air.
But they only had to last for one sleep.
Mother-in-law phoned our hotel Sunday morning, interrupting the best child-free sex we’d had for months.
Seemingly after a couple of hours indoors, Toby escaped outside (Granny having needed a lie-down) where, given the freedom of the vegetable garden he’d been encouraged to gather the past-it parsnips, as well as an assortment of leaves and beans and herbs. These he presented to Lucinda. She, lording it over the kitchen, made soup.
Grandad consumed a couple of bowlfuls with apparent enjoyment, praising her to Granny, ‘Proper performance she put on, making it, just like those ‘Bake-it TV programmes .’ Both apparently unaware of the danger of allowing seven year-olds- access to sharp knives and stove-tops. As potentially dangerous, according to the pathologist who carried out the post mortem on Grandad, as eating wild parsnips then falling asleep in the garden and getting sunburn. It’s the furanocoumarins, apparently.
UNTITLED (357 WORDS)
Preheat the oven to 220 degrees C.
Scrub the parsnips thoroughly, top and tail, then cut in half lengthways.
It’s Mum’s old recipe. I’ve never used it before, but George’s parents are coming for dinner and his dad is especially fond of roast parsnips, apparently. Or so George would have me believe. Honestly? I think it’s him that wants the blasted things; he’s forever asking why I avoid buying them.
Prepare the marinade by whisking together Dijon mustard, maple syrup (honey would be an acceptable substitute for the maple syrup, if necessary), olive oil, and salt.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! What am I like? I haven’t even looked inside the veg box to make sure everything came. There might not be any parsnips to cook! Instead, I keep thinking of you, sitting on the window seat with your nose in a book and your hair stuck up like a toilet brush, while Mum fussed around the kitchen, wearing the purple flowery pinny, and scrubbing the veg under the tap with that old wooden brush of hers.
Toss the parsnips in the marinade and place in a single layer in the roasting tin.
I remember you reading my copy of Jo’s Boys – a bit old-fashioned even then, but you were so engrossed – with the sun warming your back through the window, and the blanket that Nanna Joan crocheted for you wrapped around your knees. I must have been feeling sorry for you or something – no way would I have lent you that book otherwise! It’s strange, now that I think about it. I have no idea what happened to that book… and I can’t remember if you actually finished it or not.
Bake the glazed parsnips for 30 minutes, turning once, until golden brown and caramelized.
You hated parsnips, didn’t you? Almost as much as I did. Horrible things. But Mum laughed and told you that if you were good, and ate all your vegetables, you’d grow up to be big and strong.
She lied, didn’t she? Although I don’t think she meant to.
You never got the chance to grow up at all.
Parsnip Wine
Our back-facing neighbours were the first to acknowledge our arrival. Each time I looked out, the ever-preened woman was at her bay window, dog-in-hand (at least I think the explosion of fur was of canine origin). Gerald supposed she were sun-worshipping, her glances only polite curiosity – then he always did see the good in everyone.
I waited until the woman was missing from duty before I stepped out with the rubbish.
‘Mayhew!’ she suddenly called from the fence, shaking the wits out of me. ‘Or Cynthia and Rupert, if you will.’
Names traded, she nodded down at our inherited vegetable patch. ‘Parsnips, I see. Tiny as yet, but do not despise them: we thought that of ours when we moved here in the Summer of ’76. A little tending and, come Autumn, they’ll be the finest ingredient for wine. Rupert has won gold year-on-year at the Willowdale Wine Society Awards with ours. Any resident can take part, if you’ll consider joining us.’
Her snort was copied by the floppy-tongued furball she clung onto.
Or was it a growl at me? The feeling was mutual.Gerald answered her call like a converted disciple, gaining acceptance in this leafy, insular village. His first attempt won a honourable mention.
He keeled over in the excitement.
The Wine Society members were a beacon of support, handling the reception of Gerald’s funeral at their HQ, aka the village hall. ‘Don’t lay Gerald’s efforts to waste,’ Rupert encouraged, his wife and attached dog fast approaching. ‘Yes, do have a go yourself,’ she gushingly agreed.
Both continued their friendly encouragement …
… until, call it beginner’s luck, I went on to win gold the next year.
It was after that the furball would accidentally escape from their house, burrowing its way into our garden. Plants were dug up. The parsnip patch became a stinking toilet.
‘But you should factor in wastage,’ Cynthia flippantly offered regards spoiled vegetation. ‘As for what Fifi leaves, I should charge: compost doesn’t come cheap.’
It was she who insisted Furball composted my parsnips. Who was I to challenge it?
And, I must say, this season’s were looking particularly robust.
Cynthia often glares from her suntrap bay windows, lip-chewing and eye-narrowing. Could it be the suspicion I might snatch another award from under Rupert’s nose. Or has she guessed why Fifi’s bark, strangely, has not been heard for some time?
397 words
Ten days left to enter the monthly competition for April!
Details here
Sandra, this is an atmospheric depiction of the personalities within a family, all so economically written. I’d never heard of furanocoumarins. What an interesting thing to discover! You built tension with all the possible problems resulting from letting children loose in the kitchen, then there was a fine twist at the end. Very enjoyable.
Seagreen, I really liked how you wove past and present together by using the recipe to show what the narrator was engaged in, and introduced the mystery of them disliking parsnips. Then there was the intrigue of the sibling, who was ill or debilitated in some way, and a satisfying conclusion. There’s a lovely rhythm and balance to the story.
Janette, I laughed out loud at this comedy! Village life, competitive neighbours and delightful revenge. You portray them all so effectively in a story full of incident and Cynthia’s ghastliness and strident voice come across well.
Janette – over to you for making me laugh as well as telling a good tale.
Well done Janette and Seagreen for such entertaining tales, and thank you Libby for forcing me into finding new characters to deal with this tricky prompt. I was grateful for the part played by Google.
Oh BOTHER! So sorry, Libby. I confess I found the prompt a little tricky, but I was getting the start of an idea. Then I got myself involved with something and forgot all about it.
Well done to all three entrants, especially Janette. I liked the stories very much.
Heck, I did not expect that. Thank you for such an awesome feedback, Libby, and for a competition prompt which challenged my writerly boundaries. Also well done to Sea and Sandra for their excellent stories.
I have nothing in mind for the next topic – a walk is in order to mull it over, not that I need and excuse to set out in this wonderful sunshine.
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