Stir-up Sunday
By Taz
"What took you so long?" MacLeod said, "I had to start without you."
"You're welcome." Dawson tossed the package he was carrying on the sofa. "It took me forty-five minutes to find a parking spot within walking distance. God, I hate the weekend after Thanksgiving. Black Friday! Bah! Call it Black Weekend. What a mess!"
"Did you get it?"
"I got it. Fine unbleached linen. What do you need it for?"
"Roll up your sleeves, and give me a hand."
"Your wish is my command." Dawson. "I live to served but I'll take a glass of that first." He pointed to the bottle of Courvoisier that sitting nearly empty on the counter. "Seriously—want to tell me what this is all about? And what is that smell? It's like…"
He'd smelled it downstairs as soon as he'd opened the elevator. Essentially, it was a wonderful aroma, compounded of oranges, lemons, toast, cinnamon, mace, allspice, ginger, cloves, nutmeg, pepper, lots of pepper, and—his expert nose had detected that immediately—brandy. A great deal of very fine old brandy. There were hints of other things as well, most of them tangy, sharp and sweet. It was a homey smell. It was a festive smell. But, like your grandmother's Christmas baking raised to a power of ten, it was a little overpowering taken all together. And under all that wonderful sweetness and tang it was more than a little disturbing to detect a whiff of blood.
Whatever, it was complicated. It looked like Mac's entire collection of mixing bowls was lined up on the counter. One was full of fruit and brandy. One had at least a dozen eggs in it. One had a pound of raw chopped beef—that accounted for the blood. There were smaller bowls with almonds, sugar, and raisins. And in the largest was what looked like a pound of bacon fat that Mac was working with his fingers.
"What's that?"
"Suet."
"Are we feeding the birds?"
"Relax. It's traditional." MacLeod pulled out his greasy hands out of the bowl, scraped his fingers on the edge of it, and wiped them with a dish cloth. "I need you to start beating the eggs. No froth."
"You're not answering my question."
"It's traditional."
"So you keep saying." Dawson squinted suspiciously at MacLeod, who was refusing to meet his eyes, a sure sign that the mule wasn't going to trot; he picked up the whisk and set to work on the eggs.
"Beaten. No froth. Got it." As he began to beat the eggs, MacLeod crouched down on the floor and began probing the depths of the depths of the lower cabinet. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for my spoon."
MacLeod's voice seemed to come up through the drain in the sink.
"Wouldn't that be in a drawer with your other spoons?"
"It's a special spoon. When you done with the eggs, start mixing the sugar and bread crumbs and in with them."
Through the steel counter top Dawson could feel MacLeod rearranging what sounded like a farrier's whole stock of tools but was probably the accumulation of stock pots and cast iron frying pans acquired over a lifetime by a man who cooked, and enjoyed feeding his friends. A long life, and many friends.
Dawson mixed the bread crumbs and sugar into the eggs. "Now what?"
"Pour it into the bowl with the fat. Then add the mince and the treacle."
"Mince?"
"Raw meat."
"Treacle?"
"In the measuring cup."
Dawson added the mince and the treacle.
"You know what this looks like, don't you?" He eyed the disgusting mess developing in the bowl. "This is getting way too stiff for a whisk. You know, they have these things called food processors."
"Not traditional. Hang on…I…almost…"
"All right, I surrender!" Dawson threw the whisk down. "What are we making that requires a special spoon?"
"A pud…" There was a crash of falling pans. "Gotcha!"
"A pud-gotcha. Sounds delish." MacLeod emerged backwards and straightened up on his knees, triumphantly displaying a homely object for Dawson's edification. "Yes, it's a spoon. I see."
It was heavy spoon, almost a paddle, about eighteen inches long, made of hand-carved wood, darkened from much use over cooking fires, an ancient survivor of times long gone—much like the one who came padding barefoot and yawning prodigiously from MacLeod's bedroom.
"Lord, you two make a racket," Methos said. "Can't you let a man sleep?"
"You sneaky bastard!" Dawson yelled. "When did you…?"
"This afternoon," Methos said.
Dawson shoved the mixing bowl at MacLeod, who'd gotten to his feet, He went and took the old man by the shoulders and gave him a shake. "I'm pleased—pleased as punch—but you didn't say a word about coming over when I talked to you last week."
"Didn't have any plans to."
"Then why?"
"MacLeod." Methos nodded toward MacLeod, dumping raisins and almonds into the bowl with the meat, treacle and eggs. "He tempted me."
"With what?"
"He promised me a pudding for Christmas. Mmm…" Methos, nostrils flarring, inhaled deeply. "Smells like paradise." He looked pink and drowsy from his nap.
"And now that I've found my spoon," said MacLeod, who was studying the contents of the bowl. More citron? More almonds? "You're just in time to stir the pud."
It was a perfectly innocuous exchange. Yet to a highly trained and naturally cynical watcher who was already on the alert it was highly suspicious; there was something about the smug smile on MacLeod's puss that was contradicted by his downcast eyes. MacLeod wasn't remotely shy, except when it came to…
"Christmas pudding? That's a month away."
"It needs to hang a month or two."
"Doesn't it go bad?"
"Never in this world. Byron sent me one—it was '18, I think—but I had to get out of London before Christmas. Didn't get home for three years. When I did, it was still there in the box room. We opened it and I had the cook steam it for five hours in the wash copper."
"Mmmm… The house smelled like a cross between a laundry and a pastry shop. It was the best pudding I ever ate."
MacLeod waved the spoon, now sticky with stiff pink dough. "Come on this is a three man operation."
"Is that supposed to be a hint?" Methos grinned.
Dawson, seeing the warmth in his eyes, noticed for the first time that the oversized white fisherman's sweater he was wearing looked exactly like…no it was the same one that MacLeod had been wearing yesterday. He found himself growing warm, remembering what the bible had to say about temptation, eating, and knowledge.
"We all get to stir," MacLeod said severely.
"We do?"
"Yes, Joe, we do. You stir clockwise, and make a wish. It's traditional."
###
Flour of England, fruit of Spain,
Met together in a shower of rain;
Put in a bag tied round with a string,
If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a ring.
Finis
12/24/2014