Not my bag?

Five cherry stones lay at the bottom of the winter white glazed bowl amid the dregs of single cream that had evaded the attentions of my spoon in spite of my best efforts.

When the new chef had arrived full of divine menu ideas a couple of months back, I’d ordered the brownie served as he decided, topped with cooked cherries and cherry sauce. It was everything a woman would want from a dessert: oven fresh warm, hypnotically chocolately, mysteriously firm but simultaneously soft and meltingly moist, and in a slab about the size of a broadsheet newspaper sudoku puzzle. But my tastebuds had refused to score it a perfect ten. Nine and a half, maybe? I knew, like an evolutionary pudding scientist a hair’s breadth from uncovering the secret of the perfect crème brulee, what the missing link was. So I ordered it this time with cream. The miniature white jug of heaven. Hallelujah.

I’d arranged to meet Liz for lunch thanks to the fortuitous happenstance of having to drop off a big box of vegetable seeds to one of our projects nearby. It was the first time I’d seen her since we came back from Egypt two weeks ago and we caught up on our news over ham, egg and chips and a pot of tea at her local pub, The Ship. But puddings demand one’s full sensory attentions in the way that savouries rarely do, and we’d lapsed into companionable reverie at our sunny table by the window.

I looked again at the cherry stones in my bowl. What was that old playground rhyme? Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Five stones. Hmm, that’d mean… Rich man. That’s an intriguing thought, finding a rich man. But rich in what way? Generous in spirit? Rich in life experience? Giving with time and attention? Fluent with emotion? Intellectually accomplished? Open hearted? Kind in disposition? Gregarious by nature? Quietly confident? Rib-hurtingly, floor rollingly, eye streamingly funny? Should I be in the mood to be looking, just a few of those attributes would be wonderful to find. Rich in wealth or material possessions concerns me little, and less and less so as I get older.

At the table next to ours, three men and two women sat making quiet conversation. They were uniformly dressed in smart black outfits and I wondered if they were taking a sup of courage before going to a funeral. As I watched, they stood up, fastening coats and jackets as they made to go. The tallest of the men led the way, picking up a white handbag from the wooden table top as he passed. His four companions laughed as he swung it to and fro between his finger tips, elbow bent at a right angle in a masculine interpretation of how a woman might carry such an exotic item. One of the group caught my eye and smiled, calling out “he’s got the matching frock, you know!” as they processed, laughing and pantomime-like, to the pub door.

I smiled as they left and arranged the five cherry stones inside my bowl with my spoon. Liz finished her treacle sponge and custard and we ordered some more tea.