Mincemeat and Ribbon...a short story

 "I want you to write in my album, something both bright and true, so that in the misty future my thoughts will come back to you..."
               --Nessie McConachie, (1936 wedding album)

 My mother loved Christmas. Loved baking for it. Loved having people sit by the fire. Even long after my father died in 1967. She still did it.As she got older it got harder for her. But she made everyone feel welcome and wanted. 

 They were married on Nov 21, 1936. On a rainy windy day. She sewed her own dress out of cream satin,made her own veil, and picked up a bouquet of mums and roses ..........

 She told me , years later, everything cost about  $6.72 . A great cost then.  The net ribbon for the flowers was special. Wide, gauzy fabric remnant.  My father  was handsome.  Desi Arnaz handsome. For years to come when I watched "I Love Lucy" I would imagine Desi Arnaz to be my dad.....

Davey and Nessie Nov 21, 1936

In 1988 , when I was going through things in the house, I found an old chest in the basement. My Mother's hope chest. It was kind of damp.  I found her autograph books,  remnants of once was a  wedding dress, now stained with mould and rust. Part of a crumbling veil. A few pressed roses. Paper thin. Dust unto dust. A muffin tin. Also rusted.  My mother never made muffins. She used them for  Mincemeat Tarts at Christmas. 

 And  that Net Ribbon. In a ball.Ripped, rusted, mostly ruined. Some of it  survived. I threw the ribbon into a shoe box. Twenty years later I finally made a quilt . That was about six years ago. Gold pearl collars from the 1950's,part of a lace  tablecloth we made together. And the Net ribbon. Draped like angel wings. 

That old muffin tin  got me thinking about mincemeat tarts. My mother used to create tarts with thick pastry shells.So thick you needed a knife and fork. Three times the size of regular ones....

 Filled with homemade mincemeat. Hers was rather dry and chewy. Lots of suet sticking out, like so many meal worms. Not a pretty sight. Eventually she used mincemeat from the store. She'd slog in a good glop of whiskey into the mincemeat, before ladling it into shells.

They could walk on water, she often said as she covered them with pastry "hats" and bake them to scalding .

 She served them to everyone who came calling. Whether they wanted one or not. She always kept a few, without pastry tops,  for my dad, I remember.A gentle man. He thought she was the living end. Many years later,when he was gone,  I saw her light a candle for him every Christmas, and put it in the window,  while she sat by it.Silent. Quiet.

 One Christmas, when I was a teenager,  we had a night with  company . My mother made  those mincemeat tarts. The kitchen smelled like a pub. Sherry soaked fruitcake and whiskey sodden tarts. She'd seal  them in Christmas tins, outside on the porch , in the cold. Mincemeat tarts were usually served hot with thick hot cream ladled over. Whether you wanted one or not......you got one.

  That night, warm mincemeat tarts had been taken out of the oven, and set  on the counter. Ready for later. Roast chicken sat beside the tarts. It was set to be carved. My Mother went back in to the living room to  visit a tad more.It was a jolly night. Everyone in good spirits.

 She  returned to the kitchen to start filling up plates. There was  our tabby cat, Mincemeat, sitting on the tray of warm tarts. Squishing them. Cat paw prints here and there. Shoved into the tarts. Pastry flicked off his tail.Mincemeat ( the cat) looked pleased.

 My mother was not.  She saw the golden brown roast chicken. A hunk taken out. And Mincemeat, the cat,  smiling. Happy. He licked the chicken. My mother  froze. Took a deep breath.......

 And came sailing back into the living room, Christmas tree glittering away. Friends laughing and happy. More Sherry? She filled glasses. That night they had had eggs, scones and fruitcake for dinner. It was as if they'd had a ten course meal in a fancy restaurant.Mincemeat, ( the cat) had chicken.

It took a few days before my mother remembered there were untouched mincemeat tarts in a tin,  on the porch, in the cold. 

 I think I understand my mother better now.  My dad I always understood. That net ribbon almost symbolic, the two of them being one. ...........and yes, the cat really did sit in the tarts and eat roast chicken 
( true story). He did it again a few years later, only then it was apple pie and turkey.......

 "The moon shines east. the moon shines West. But count on me. He makes the home brew best...."
-Davey McConachie (Sept 30 1930. S.S. Princess Norah)