Post 174: Is It a Cake or a Hippie Hippie Bake?
Anticipating something doesn’t make it happen, but the mind is quick — enjoy the Tom-foolery anyway.
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“After eleven” were my Darling’s instructions for a visit from a young lad I used to work with.
Master M has just hit 50 years old, and I’ve contracted him to make a stainless urn for my mum’s ashes, styled as an old barn — somewhere she can reside in comfort until the family cast her away into the sea sometime in the future.
He had a gift he wanted to give me, from his own wife’s fair hands, that might lift my spirits.
As I didn’t know anything else about his timetable, I decided to get myself together in case he was early. So, when I headed downstairs to feed Mr V and have myself a pre-steroid breakfast, I was tempted by the thought of what to have this morning.
Opening the bread bin for a couple of slices of brown to toast, I saw the crumpets lying there — all forlorn, waiting for me to find them. It might sound wrong that I’ve got a slow-to-stopped bowel and a voracious appetite, but I have. If I let my mindset take over, I’d eat all day. It’s got to be the steroids, but it could also be my body asking for a boost now that the chemo’s antics are well and truly gone.
I got the toaster out of the cupboard and set it to high — I’d rather have my crumpets crispy — and popped a couple of plump, white, porous patties into the vacant slots, pressing the button to go. Mr V was crying at the patio door, so I popped over and let him in to let me out and sort his breakfast too. The weather looked nice today and there was hardly any wind now. The garden stayed intact apart from the gas BBQ cover, which is now in tatters. Oh well — that’s not a biggie. The disruption in Eire, where all our family lives, was massive, however, so we’re really lucky living so far east, out of the way of the Atlantic storms.
Pop! went the toaster, and I headed back to choose a topping. Butter, obviously — but I think honey too. Lashings of honey. It’s not just a natural sugar; it’s a natural and healthy part of my life’s diet. I’ve always enjoyed the taste, especially if it’s a local one.
As I have three jars to choose from, I mulled over whether I should have, the expensive one or the local one from my Big Sis’ workplace up the road. The local won out, and I gobbled up the feast, wiping the plate clean with my finger to pick up all the honey that had dripped through the holes and thought it had escaped my clutches.
As I didn’t want to wake my Darling yet, I sat down in the lounge and contemplated my weary legs and shoulders from yesterday’s day out — nothing to worry about — and cast my mind back to a news report this last week that set my juices flowing.
So, sitting down, I could finish reading an online report about a young lady whose inquest was overshadowed by conspiracy and fake medicine…
I guess this paragraph might have to be edited in case of offence, but I’ve struggled with this story a while. The essence was that she (the daughter) had been found to have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and her mum (a struck-off nurse and Covid and medical conspiracist) convinced her to have the beetroot smoothies and the coffee enemas instead of the standard chemo — which would have “cured” her completely. I say that because, at the same time, my mate had to endure the same thing, and he’s all clear now — forty years older than she was, he’s now back to himself completely.
The problem I have is that the true potential of this young life was cut short by browbeating from her mum — not the usual chat around the possibilities of treatments and their side effects, but mostly their outcomes. I’m a hypocrite, as you well know, and I’ve already made my feelings known about my chemo treatments and how now, I’m more wary about what short-term benefit I’ll get from the next course I’m offered soon. But my cancer is incurable — hers wasn’t.
And that’s the rub.
I sometimes like a conspiracy theory myself — I’m human, I want to join the dots to a problem. But healthcare scaremongering is dangerous, especially to the young. It makes me feel sad that she died on her mother’s whims, beliefs, conspiracy theories — and not from the supposed love she must have had for her daughter.
We are all adults and should be able to choose our path accordingly to our own needs. Choosing not to choose is still a choice.
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I heard movement upstairs, so it was time to sort myself out and await our guest and gift.
“I’m going shopping,” my Darling said as we met and cuddled in the upstairs hallway. “Young M loves custard pies, and I’ll get some nice rolls and salad for him if he’s hungry.”
“Ok,” I replied, already anticipating more food, as I was wondering what I could have for lunch — just the steroids talking.
She was back before our guest arrived, with his wife and youngest. Poor M had suffered a crick in the neck from a chiropractor he’d used to get rid of back pain. He looked poorly. But his lovely wife, P, who had baked my gift — that M was holding wrapped in foil at the front door — wasn’t coming in, nor their youngest, because they’d had bad colds recently and didn’t feel comfortable with the thought of me catching it from them. So they went off to a café we’d recommended, and M came in for a chat, a moan, and a reminisce.
There are some friends you meet along the way who never seem to change their relationship with you. Others change like the wind. Who knows why that happens — but this young lad I’ve not seen much in the last 15 years felt more like talking to my brother. Easy and caring.
He left the hash brownies with me. Ha ha! Yes — the empty tick box. A hippie delight.
He went home with a smile when his OH arrived back, and after air kisses and air hugs we parted happily.
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Our kids don’t pester us with calls or texts much over a normal week, but in came a rare movie text from our eldest. He’d been on a special competition bagpiping course in Glasgow these last two days.
I pressed the little white arrow and there he was — in the office room at home, with his pipes slung under his arm. As he walked away from the camera, he settled, tuned up the drones — “a tribute to Gordon Duncan,” he announced — then played.
I hadn’t heard him play with any heart for a long while. He’s been through a lot over the last couple of years, and the pipes had got dusty. But he’s a very accomplished musician, and to see him with a relaxed posture and a want to play and record it was an amazing and unexpected treat.
Within a few bars of the first tune striking up, I could hear the music, not the notes — the sound, not the errors. My eyes lost contact with the screen all of a sudden, and I couldn’t move. I was emotionally broken.
The moment was just recorded — it wasn’t live, it was totally out of the blue — but it was lovely. My Darling heard the pipes playing out of my mobile and walked in to see what I was listening to, saw the state I was in, and gave me a little hug. All I could do was listen to my lad in his element.
There are some moments when you really know how happy and well someone special to you is — today was one of those. I can hear how my eldest is feeling inside when listening to that tune.
All is well.
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Just to conclude my food journey today, my Darling treated me to a Sunday nut roast with trimmings and horseradish sauce, washed down with a helping of Strictly Come Dancing. Yes, I did have to watch it — but I was more interested in pudding.
Eat well, and keep fit and healthy.
Bye for now.
P.S. I tried the brownies — or a bit of a brownie — but there was no giggling or mood change as such. I certainly felt okay, and maybe I’ll try a bigger slice next time.
Mr U, over and out.
