195
R. Linda:
I know it was several days later when I discovered you were at the Fat Farm, too. At first I didn't recognise you. I've only ever seen you with a mouthful of chocie, never without. So it took a moment for it to register that YOU were in me therapy group. I wondered to meself if you had a stash somewhere because you were always good at hiding the sweet stuff.
I knew instantly you squinted your eyes, sizing me up, that you did have a stash. You sat down, and your hands encircled your knees. Ah ha! I thought I bet she had fudge bars stashed in her deep pockets. I should explain to anyone eavesdropping that you are short, so normal pockets come down to your knees.
Imagine me surprise when a chocie-faced Weasil was led into the room. Me heart fell to me feet at first because he annoys me no end, stealing me chocies. He hordes it all and never shares, so to see him walk in made me grab the chair next to you before he could steal your stash if, by some lucky chance, you really had one. But I couldn't sit on both sides of you, and this is where I went wrong. I grabbed the chair on your right, he quickly recognised you and grabbed the chair on your left. OH, WHAT TO DO?
We couldn't ask you about the stash because the Fat Farm Police came in. Three of them. They stood blocking the doors. The drill sergeant stepped into the room, and while he fiddled with his clipboard, I counted ten chocieholics sitting in a circle looking famished for chocolate. He finally looked at us and walked over to the empty chair on the other side of Weasil and sat.
"Sooo, anyone want to tell me what they crave most?"
We all sat on our hands on one, wanting to be the first to yell out the obvious.
"All right, does someone want to tell me why you refer to chocolate as chocie?"
No one answered. We all looked at the ground.
"How about you, Mr. O'Sullivan, is it?"
I looked up, me mouth open and moving, but no sound came out. Oh, begorrah me, but I did not want to be the first one to speak.
"Come now Mr. O'Sullivan, surely you can tell me why this is?"
I spied a small silver wrapper winking at me from between his fingers. I knew if I answered, like Pavlov's dog, I might be rewarded with a milk chocolate kiss. I spilt all eager for the treat. I jumped out of me chair.
"Because HE can't speak English, and that's what He calls em' and because HE steals me goodies and, and, and . . . " I had got so worked up I found meself out of me chair pointing me finger in disdain at Weasil.
"Are you referring to Horatio Weasel, Mr. O'Sullivan?" The drill sergeant asked calmly, if not unctuously, knowing fully well I was.
"Why yes, I am," I answered, my mouth open to catch the treat that did not come. I sank back into me seat.
"Mr. Weasel, is it true YOU steal chocolate to satisfy your craving? Is your craving that bad you are an addict?"
Weasil sat there pressing his lips together, his eyes getting narrow as he glanced in me direction. Then he looked straight at the drill sergeant and said in his usual Weasilese, "Why dat iz true. I be a chocie thief uh da firsty magnatudie an proudy ah it."
Everyone turned to look at Weasil.
"What?" They asked in unison.
"He said, if I may," I volunteered, "that what is said about him be true, he hordes chocolates and is good at it."
"An proudy dunt ya fergit datty dere, Gabe."
"Oh, and he be proud of it." I opened me mouth to receive the treat that still did not come.
"'An ya speels me namie wit a "i" not an "e" dere mistah sergeant person." Weasil said, looking at his name on the clipboard. "Oh, 'an ya sayz it "wee zell" da emphasis on da ZELL." He smiled broadly.
I translated this also, but still no treat.
"Mrs. Egduf," the drill sergeant turned his attention to you. For a moment, I was confused, but I saw the look you gave me, so I said nothing about the name the drill sergeant so erroneously was referring to you by until I realised it spelt FUDGE backwards. I had all I could do not to laugh.
"Something funny, Mr. O'Sullivan?"
I must have snickered, not knowing and quickly covered me mouth and made like I was having a coughing fit.
"Uh, no. No, just a little Brussels sprout caught in me windpipe."
He turned his attention back to you.
"Mrs. Egduf," he began, but it was Weasil's turn to realise the name was not real and what it was backwards.
"Mr. Weaz el, is there something funny I am missing?"
"Nah, ha."
"He said no." I once again volunteered, mouth open, no treat.
"Mrs. Egduf, what is it about fudge you can't get enough of it?"
You took a deep, exasperated breath, rolled your eyes heavenward and thought for a moment. Then you said, "I call my fudge fantasy fudge. You melt these itzy-bitzy chocolate chipperos and throw in some marshmallow fluff, and then you slap the candy thermometer in there and the end result is a nice dark egduf, I mean fudge. And I don't like my fudge finger-licking good, gads no, I like it to have some crunch to it, it's still edible but kinda bumpy, ya know?"
All the chocieholics were learning forward in their chairs, soaking in the recipe, eyes bright, tongues licking imaginary fudge from lips, hands mixing invisible pots. Sad it was.
"And what is wrong with having a nice garden salad instead?"
"Nah, that's grazing food, crunchy yucky carrots, lettuce, sprouts and no bread. Cow food."
"Well, how about a pasta salad, a primavera, so to speak?" The drill sergeant tried to entice.
"I already did spaghetti yesterday, too much pasta, plus I can't eat pasta; I eat chocolate."
I thought to meself, how brave you were being.
"Well now, Mrs. Egduf, that isn't what we want to hear around here," the drill sergeant admonished gently.
Uh oh, I thought.
The drill sergeant signalled one of the Fat Farm Police by the doors, and he threw it open with a flourish. In was wheeled an enormous garden salad, five different kinds of lettuce, big beefsteak tomatoes and little bitsy cherry tomatoes, red onions, green onions, kale, and God knows what else. On the side, glistening in the fluorescent lights, were ten different salad dressings.
"Iz think iz gonner be sickie," Weasil stammered, holding his stomach.
End of part 3.
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
I know it was several days later when I discovered you were at the Fat Farm, too. At first I didn't recognise you. I've only ever seen you with a mouthful of chocie, never without. So it took a moment for it to register that YOU were in me therapy group. I wondered to meself if you had a stash somewhere because you were always good at hiding the sweet stuff.
I knew instantly you squinted your eyes, sizing me up, that you did have a stash. You sat down, and your hands encircled your knees. Ah ha! I thought I bet she had fudge bars stashed in her deep pockets. I should explain to anyone eavesdropping that you are short, so normal pockets come down to your knees.
Imagine me surprise when a chocie-faced Weasil was led into the room. Me heart fell to me feet at first because he annoys me no end, stealing me chocies. He hordes it all and never shares, so to see him walk in made me grab the chair next to you before he could steal your stash if, by some lucky chance, you really had one. But I couldn't sit on both sides of you, and this is where I went wrong. I grabbed the chair on your right, he quickly recognised you and grabbed the chair on your left. OH, WHAT TO DO?
We couldn't ask you about the stash because the Fat Farm Police came in. Three of them. They stood blocking the doors. The drill sergeant stepped into the room, and while he fiddled with his clipboard, I counted ten chocieholics sitting in a circle looking famished for chocolate. He finally looked at us and walked over to the empty chair on the other side of Weasil and sat.
"Sooo, anyone want to tell me what they crave most?"
We all sat on our hands on one, wanting to be the first to yell out the obvious.
"All right, does someone want to tell me why you refer to chocolate as chocie?"
No one answered. We all looked at the ground.
"How about you, Mr. O'Sullivan, is it?"
I looked up, me mouth open and moving, but no sound came out. Oh, begorrah me, but I did not want to be the first one to speak.
"Come now Mr. O'Sullivan, surely you can tell me why this is?"
I spied a small silver wrapper winking at me from between his fingers. I knew if I answered, like Pavlov's dog, I might be rewarded with a milk chocolate kiss. I spilt all eager for the treat. I jumped out of me chair.
"Because HE can't speak English, and that's what He calls em' and because HE steals me goodies and, and, and . . . " I had got so worked up I found meself out of me chair pointing me finger in disdain at Weasil.
"Are you referring to Horatio Weasel, Mr. O'Sullivan?" The drill sergeant asked calmly, if not unctuously, knowing fully well I was.
"Why yes, I am," I answered, my mouth open to catch the treat that did not come. I sank back into me seat.
"Mr. Weasel, is it true YOU steal chocolate to satisfy your craving? Is your craving that bad you are an addict?"
Weasil sat there pressing his lips together, his eyes getting narrow as he glanced in me direction. Then he looked straight at the drill sergeant and said in his usual Weasilese, "Why dat iz true. I be a chocie thief uh da firsty magnatudie an proudy ah it."
Everyone turned to look at Weasil.
"What?" They asked in unison.
"He said, if I may," I volunteered, "that what is said about him be true, he hordes chocolates and is good at it."
"An proudy dunt ya fergit datty dere, Gabe."
"Oh, and he be proud of it." I opened me mouth to receive the treat that still did not come.
"'An ya speels me namie wit a "i" not an "e" dere mistah sergeant person." Weasil said, looking at his name on the clipboard. "Oh, 'an ya sayz it "wee zell" da emphasis on da ZELL." He smiled broadly.
I translated this also, but still no treat.
"Mrs. Egduf," the drill sergeant turned his attention to you. For a moment, I was confused, but I saw the look you gave me, so I said nothing about the name the drill sergeant so erroneously was referring to you by until I realised it spelt FUDGE backwards. I had all I could do not to laugh.
"Something funny, Mr. O'Sullivan?"
I must have snickered, not knowing and quickly covered me mouth and made like I was having a coughing fit.
"Uh, no. No, just a little Brussels sprout caught in me windpipe."
He turned his attention back to you.
"Mrs. Egduf," he began, but it was Weasil's turn to realise the name was not real and what it was backwards.
"Mr. Weaz el, is there something funny I am missing?"
"Nah, ha."
"He said no." I once again volunteered, mouth open, no treat.
"Mrs. Egduf, what is it about fudge you can't get enough of it?"
You took a deep, exasperated breath, rolled your eyes heavenward and thought for a moment. Then you said, "I call my fudge fantasy fudge. You melt these itzy-bitzy chocolate chipperos and throw in some marshmallow fluff, and then you slap the candy thermometer in there and the end result is a nice dark egduf, I mean fudge. And I don't like my fudge finger-licking good, gads no, I like it to have some crunch to it, it's still edible but kinda bumpy, ya know?"
All the chocieholics were learning forward in their chairs, soaking in the recipe, eyes bright, tongues licking imaginary fudge from lips, hands mixing invisible pots. Sad it was.
"And what is wrong with having a nice garden salad instead?"
"Nah, that's grazing food, crunchy yucky carrots, lettuce, sprouts and no bread. Cow food."
"Well, how about a pasta salad, a primavera, so to speak?" The drill sergeant tried to entice.
"I already did spaghetti yesterday, too much pasta, plus I can't eat pasta; I eat chocolate."
I thought to meself, how brave you were being.
"Well now, Mrs. Egduf, that isn't what we want to hear around here," the drill sergeant admonished gently.
Uh oh, I thought.
The drill sergeant signalled one of the Fat Farm Police by the doors, and he threw it open with a flourish. In was wheeled an enormous garden salad, five different kinds of lettuce, big beefsteak tomatoes and little bitsy cherry tomatoes, red onions, green onions, kale, and God knows what else. On the side, glistening in the fluorescent lights, were ten different salad dressings.
"Iz think iz gonner be sickie," Weasil stammered, holding his stomach.
End of part 3.
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
