The Weaving Widow

A widow dressed in black attire
Silently upon a wooden stool
Sat weaving by the light of the fire.
Diligently, daintily she worked the spool.

Throughout the night the silky skein she spun,
Into an intricately, delicate design.
I, in the corner, stared as the clock stroke one;
She wove her yarn the hue of deep ermine.


She wore eight pairs of glasses upon her head
The better to see the work she had begun;
An aura of mystery hung o’er head
As night turned into day her work was done.

I gazed at this masterpiece in awe
Gleaming like virgin snow upon my door.

 Written Aug 30 © Mary Aris, All rights reserved

Welcome to the Maison Aris

      There was a mile-long queue waiting to be seated at the Maison Aris, my new restaurant. Only a week old, the Maison Aris buzzed with life, good food and a pleasant, friendly ambiance. The Maison Aris caters to hungry diners who want a taste of international cuisine.

    The Maison Aris was a life-long dream and ambition of mine to open up a quaint little restaurant in the middle of town where I, as a head chef, could flex my culinary muscles (excuse the pun) and feed hungry people in a nice, romantic atmosphere....and keep them coming for more.

    I chose a lovely building for my restaurant in the middle of this busy town. The building was sandwiched between a Waitrose Supermarket and Borders, over-looking a large field. The building’s exterior was made of white stones with large bay windows and a thatched roof.

   On opening day, we held a formal ceremony. My husband stood with a tray of butter cookies in the shape of our restaurant decorated with royal icing. The cookies bore the name of our restaurant on the front and our logo: "A Cozy little place to eat" on the other side. My husband handed the cookies to our first customers.

    Pierre, our Maitre D, escorted our first customers to their tables. I remember with clarity what my first order was—Toad-in-the-hole with mashed potatoes and a side order of peas. For dessert that evening I served Spotted dick with homemade custard, golden sponge pudding with crème anglaise, vanilla ice-cream served with butter cookies and plenty of Jelly with mounds of whip cream to make the children happy.


   A top-notch food critic from The Oxford Times, sat by himself near the window in one corner of our restaurant, sipping a cup of coffee, scribbling in a notebook; occasionally looking around the room with two enormous emerald eyes, scrutinizing everyone and everything about the place. I nervously stood behind the kitchen door.

“What if he doesn’t like the food,” I whispered to my husband.
“Relax, Love,” my husband, who was peeling spuds by the sink said,
” I’m sure he will.
“But what if he doesn’t and he writes a nasty review in the Oxford Times?”
I whispered. “We’ll be ruined, then!”
“Oh, stop worrying, woman! We’ll be fine. You are a great cook!”

   On my last nerve I sent Gladys, my Spanish waitress over to his table. Gladys, a sweet lady from Mallorca, spoke in broken English but was a good worker. She was a friend of my husband’s friend who recommended her to us. Gladys was here on a student and work Visa. She was learning English at the University.
“Gladys, go wait on that man, please. Make sure that he is well-attended.”
“Que?” asked Gladys.
“Gladys, atiende a ese hombre y atiéndelo bien.” I instructed in perfect Spanish.
“Está bien, Señora, lo atenderé muy bien.” Gladys went to the food critique’s table, pad and pencil on hand.
“What would you like?” asked Gladys in broken English.
“An interpreter.” the man replied.
“No entiendo, Señor. Un momento, por favor.” Gladys whisked her Franklin electronic translator from her apron pocket. She typed E-N-T-E-R-P-R-E-T-A-T-O-R. The thing bleeped that there was no such word.
The man smirked, throwing his hands in the air. “Wonderful! No hablas ingles?”
“Yes, I learn in university, Si!” replied Gladys.
“Let me speak to your manager. Quiero hablar con tu jefe, por favor.” The man looked into Gladys’s inquisitive brown eyes.
Gladys waved towards me and summoned me with a well-manicured finger. I nervously went over to table number nine. The man, wearing a black Oscar de la Renta suit, looked up at me, greeting me with his green, hypnotic eyes.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Madam, is this restaurant full of foreign waitresses?”
“No, Sir, Gladys is our International waitress. She’s new...she’s from Mallorca.
“Gladys, traillé al Señor otra taza de café, por favor—ahora!”
“Enseguida, Señora, Aris”
I turned towards the gentleman who looked down at his notebook. "She's a very good worker, by the way, Sir. She studies English at Brooks University."
"Well, how is she going to take my order, by subtitles?"

 "We have customers here from Spain or who speak the Spanish language and she can speak in their native tongue.  We also have a French-speaking waitress here at Maison Aris.  We like to make our diners feel at home. We accomodate every one and make every one's dining experience a pleasant one.  Please, enjoy a free complimentary coffee, Sir."

   Gladys excused herself and went behind the counter. She poured a cup of fresh brewed coffee and brought it to table number nine.
“I’ll get Steve to wait on you, Sir.” I said as I motioned to Steve who was waiting on a Scottish woman. He took the order and headed towards table nine.
“Yes, Mrs Aris?” Steve asked.
“Steve, can you take this gentleman’s order, please?” I instructed.
“With pleasure, Madame.” Steve replied.

    The gentleman ordered a serving of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and a side order of fresh green beans and carrots. I watched from behind the kitchen door as the gentleman ate bite after bite, writing in his notebook. After a few bites, he nodded, turned around and scribbled in his notebook. For pudding he ordered the spotted dick.

   Working laboriously, I filled a serving dish with a bite-sized portion of the spotted dick, taking care to place the serving attractively on the serving dish. I carefully poured the hot crème anglaise over the pudding. Carefully I wiped the perimeters of the plate with the corner of a clean tea towel and handed it to Steve to serve the diner at table nine.

   When he finished, the food critic from The Oxford Times stood up and stumbled to the cashier’s counter to pay his cheque. Analyse, our cashier greeted him kindly and asked him if everything was to his liking. The tall gentleman smiled at Analyse and whispered, “It was a very fine dining experience.”

    A week later, as I sat in the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee, pouring through the Oxford Mail, my husband poked me on the back with a copy of The Oxford Times. He told me to turn to page thirty-one. There was an article about the Maison Aris by Daniel Arthur Johnson.

Maison Aris...

A lovely little Place to eat

Yesterday I dined at the Maison Aris, a new restaurant in town.  I was greeted with a friendly waitress who spoke Spanish.  I thought I needed an interpreter and was about to walk away unsatisfied, when the owner, Mrs Marylyn Aris, came over and apologized.  She explained that Gladys was a new waitress from Mallorca and offered me a free cup of coffee.  This told me two things:  1, that the Maison Aris is an equal opportunity employer and 2, that the owners will bend over backwards to make sure the diners are well attended and walk away happy.

I ordered the roast beef with Yorkshire pudding which was served to me by Steve, a fine waiter with impeccable manners.  The beef was cooked to perfection.  It was swimming in a sea of a jus.  Every morsel was exquisite, making my mouth water for more.  The Yorkshire puddings were light as air but were two huge mountains of golden perfection.  The roasted potatoes were crisp on the outside and soft in the middle....just as any roasted potatoes should be.

But the piece of resistance was the Spotted Dick.  It was heavenly.  I was presented with a moist and tender bite-sized serving of sponge with loads of sultanas and raisins soaked in brandy.  The dish was served with homemade crème analgise which, in my opinion, was the best crème anglaise I’ve ever tasted.  The atmosphere was very friendly.    Every diner seemed to be enjoying themselves.  On a scale of one to ten I’d give Maison Aris a nine.

                         ~Daniel Arthur Johnson

The BSH

                                                                   The BHS
                                                                     by The Golden Pen

An Excerpt

                        One

   Rachel Bowers walked past Gregg the Baker on her way to work.  The aroma of freshly baked croissants made her stomach growl with hunger.  Down the road, the smell of Arabica beans being brewed at Cafe Bonjour Bistro et Patisserie, made Rachel sorry she didn’t have any breakfast that morning.  She didn’t even have time to brew herself a mug of coffee.  Rachel was running late.  Temptation won her over.  Rachel walked into Gregg the Baker and bought herself two ham and cheese croissants and a mug of coffee.  The attendant filled her order and soon Rachel was on her way.

   The sun was shining brightly over a blue sky that Friday June morning over Headington.  Already the avenue was crowded with busy folks walking to work and mothers on the school run, dragging their reluctant children to school.  Shopkeepers with smiling faces greeted passersby as they opened their shops bright and early for another business day. Rows upon rows of little tables dotted London Road as pensioners and tourists sat eating their croissants, crumpets, muffins, full English breakfasts, sipping tea and coffee quietly as they watched the parade of busy people stride by and the city bussing with life.

    “Good morning, Harry.” Rachel said to the postman as she was about to cross the road.

“Morning, Rachel,” replied the Postman, “Are you off to work again?”

“Yes,” replied Rachel, “I’m late enough as it is.”  Harry tipped his hat towards Rachel.

“Have a good day, Rachel.” he bade.

“You too, Harry! Say hello to Margaret.”

And with that, she crossed London Road and walked down Old High Street towards the library.  Several cobbled stoned houses lined the street.  Rachel smiled at some of the local residents as she passed along.  Mrs Henderson, who was sweeping her driveway, paused as Rachel went past. 

“Morning, Mrs Henderson,” Rachel greeted her neighbour, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is, Ms Bowers.” Mrs Henderson replied. 

     Rachel fetched the skeleton key from the bottom of her Louis Vuitton handbag. She almost spilled the coffee she was holding in her right hand.  She sighed as she opened the front door of the library.  Turning on the lobby lights, Rachel walked inside and placed the cardboard drinks tray she was holding on top of the adult circulation desk and put down the brown paper bag containing her breakfast. 

Rachel had a very busy day ahead of her.  She had a meeting with Annie Anderson, one of the Senior Library Assistants at 9:30 A.M. to discuss her latest project.  She had to make a few phone calls, a staff meeting at 11 and meet her mother for lunch.

A few people, mainly pensioners waiting to read the morning papers, mothers with overdue books, and people waiting to sign up to use the internet were queuing up outside the library.  Rachel had locked the door from inside, of course, for it was still way too early to open the Library.  Headington library didn’t open until nine A.M., and it was only quarter to nine.  Annie Anderson pushed herself amongst the crowd, walked up the stairs and opened the door with her key.  The throng of people tried to push themselves through the door, but Annie reminded them that the library would be opening at precisely nine A.M. on the dot.

“Good morning, Rachel.” Annie greeted Rachel, who was busy opening windows.

    “Good morning, Annie,” replied Rachel, “Don’t forget our meeting is at 9:30.”

“Yes, Mamme, I won’t be late.”  Annie switched on to the main computer.  The computer came alive, bussing and beeping as it logged on.  One by one, Annie turned on the six computer terminals then walked back to the circulation desk to set everything up for the day ahead.  There was a stack of books waiting for her in the book depository box.  Annie unlocked the book depository and retrieved the books. She began scanning each book when Naomi and Raj, two of the junior library assistants, waltzed in.

Naomi hadn’t finished removing her coat, when Annie barked, “Naomi, be a dear and let the crowd in, will ya?”

Naomi made a face when Annie wasn’t looking, grabbed her skeleton key and opened the front door.  The crowd of people stampeded inside, nearly crushing Naomi to death.  The pensioners all waltzed into the reference area where the local newspapers were kept.  Mrs Patel grabbed the Oxford Mail as Mrs Jenkins was about to pull it off the stick. 

“I was here first, Madame!” growled Mrs Patel.

“No, I grabbed it first!” barked Mrs Jenkins.

“Let go of it!” Mrs Patel ordered.

“Well, the nerve of you!” yelled Mrs Jenkins.

“I’m calling the Librarian to settle this!” yelled Mrs Patel.  Rachel raced over to the reference section.

“Shhhhh!  Will you ladies keep it down, Please?”

“Madame, will you kindly tell this lady to let go of my paper.” Mrs Patel said. 

“She practically yanked it out of my hands!” protested Mrs Jenkins.

“Grab hold of yourselves, ladies...you’re in a library...if you ladies won’t behave like civilized adults, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Rachel warned.

“Well............I never have been so insulted in my life!” Mrs Jenkins remarked.

“Ladies, please.......it’s just a paper.  Can’t you too share it?”asked Rachel. She was already beginning to lose her patience.

“Here....I’ll let you read it, Mrs Patel, since you are most eager to read the Want ads. I’ll look at the Times now.” said Mrs Jenkins.  She settled down at one of the tables to read her newspaper.  Mrs Patel fumed as she grabbed the oxford Mail and stormed to the other side of the reference section huffing and puffing and rolling her eyes.

     Ten people were queuing up to use the internet.  Naomi signed each one for a thirty-minute session.  When their time was up, one of the users complained when he was told that his time was up.  He said he was in the middle of downloading a very important piece of information he needed for college.  Naomi tried pleading with him, but he wouldn’t have it.  He remained stubborn and sat down at his terminal continuing his download.

“I’m afraid this user has signed up for the computer, Sir,” Naomi said, “Your session has come to an end now.”

“Bugger off, Sister!” the man said. He took another quarter out of his pocket and shoved it into the library assistant’s hand. 

“Sign me up again for another thirty minutes, Bitch!” he said as he turned around to face the monitor.  To his horror, he was timed out.

“What the......ARRGH.....I’ve just lost my download!  I’m calling the council about this!”  He swivelled out of the chair and walked out the library, swearing under his breath.

     At 9:30, Annie waltzed into Rachel’s office, pad and pen in hand.  Rachel’s office faced Bury Knowles Park South.  Her desk, a pine finished executive desk, was laden with brochures, folders, letterhead stationery, overdue notices, and an overcrowded Rolodex.  The window was open and a refreshing breeze flowed in.

“Ah, Annie—do come in!” Rachel said.  “Please take a seat. I wish to discuss a project with you.”

Annie sat down on the chair facing Rachel, her pad resting on her knee.  She clicked her pen ready to take notes. 

    “Annie, I want to talk to you about an idea I have had brewing inside my head for a long time now.” said Rachel.  “I have just spoken to Mr Johnson over at Brookes University.   We have reserved a room at Headington Hall once a month on Wednesday evenings to host the BSH.”

“The BSH—what’s the BSH?” Annie asked, scratching her head.

“The Bookworm Society of Headington—it’s a monthly woman’s book club aimed at women who are avid readers to discuss the latest fiction and chick-Lit.” Rachel explained.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Ms Bowers.” Annie smiled.

“Annie, I’d like you to write down the details and call the printers right away.  I’d like 500 flyers up by next Tuesday.” Rachel went on.  Annie began taking notes.  After lunch, she rang the printers and had Mr Roy Sanderson print the flyers. 

The  B.S.H.

Bookworms Society of Headington

A local book club for women by women

7PM Wednesday Evenings of each month

          

          Headington Hall

          Headington Road

          Barton, Oxford OX3 OBL

 Refreshments will be provided

All female residents ages 18—53 of Headington welcome

  For more information please contact

            Rachel Bowers, head librarian

            Headington Library

            North Place

            Headington OX3 9HY

            O1865 775533

            R.bowers@library.com

           

A Poet's Heart

My hand glides across an empty canvass
Dripping in scarlet hues, my pen smoothly gildes
Filling the empty spaces and crevices
With words from where inspiration abides.

My heart, like a somnambulist lies
In dreams, trapped within the muse's lair
In lucid revaries, its spirit flies
Like a bird gliding through the air.

I hear the steady rhythm of my heart
Dancing to the tune of a forgotten nymph
Entranced by the beat I take part
In the dance of creativity and triumph.


I write as  inspiration takes the lead.....
My masterpiece I hope young and old will read.


© Mary Aris, All rights reserved.

Let Love be the Mantra of Your Soul

 Let love be the mantra of your soul,
Gentle prayer that like a soothing balm
Soothes us when stress takes its toll
If stress threatens to pierce your inner  calm;
Let Love be the mantra of your soul.

Let's dance to the rhythm deep within,
And sway to love's staccato drum beat
As your soul swoons to the violin,
Let Love's rhythm sweep you off your feet;
Let love be the mantra of your soul.



© Mary Aris, All rights reserved.

Riot at Mike's Diner

I created this story as part of a writing exercise.
The Exercise:  
Describe a food, using all your senses. Observe it visually, of course, but also include texture, smell and taste. Describe it again, but in a way that makes it disgusting: how a big juice steak, for example, must appear to a vegetarian.

                                                Riot at Mike’s Diner

I love a good burger!   There’s something about a juicy, tender, succulent, grade- A patty stuck between a soft sesame seed bun to get your taste buds flowing.  Everything about a burger is sexy.  Come on, what’s not to love about burgers?    I’m about to have one now.  I’m sitting on a booth now at Mike’s Diner, a 50’s-style restaurant in lower Manhattan.    The Jukebox is playing an old Elvis Presley song.  I think it’s Love me Tender.   But I’m not really an Elvis fan, so I can’t be sure of the track.  There’s a soda fountain machine over at the bar.  Bill, the Bartender is busy mixing ingredients for shakes.  I can hear the whirring of the blender in the background.  Customers are lined up at the bar, perched on chromed stools as they wait for their shakes to arrive.

Ah, there’s my burger.  I can hear it sizzling on Tina’s tray.  The juices from the burger are flowing down unto the plate.  A thick, chocolate milkshake accompanies my order and I can almost taste the milky chocolate concoction, its creaminess leaves a milk moustache on my upper lip. Tina sets the tray on a nearby mobile cart and puts the quarter pound bacon cheese burger right in front of me.

The aroma hits my nostrils, sending me to high heaven.  I can smell the smokiness of the bacon melting the cheddar cheese.  The plumpness of the quarter pound burger looks quite appetizing.  The special sauce smells divine and it not only drenches the burger with its tanginess, but makes my mouth water and my stomach rumble.  As I am about to plunge my teeth into this divinity,  I stop and turn around.  I could feel the icy stare of some stranger eyeing me in contempt from across the room.  He turns his nose up.  I can see him grimace with disgust.

“There’s nothing that revolts me more,” he says to his wife who is devouring a piece of vegan cake, “than the offensive smell of grease and the sight of bloody slaughtered beef.  It completely puts me off my vegemite sandwich. “ 

 His wife looks up at her husband.  She puts down her fork and stares at him.  “Now, Art, please don’t cause a scene.  I know we’re vegetarians, but we have to respect non-vegans, too.” says his wife.

“Sheila, please, I’m not causing a scene.  But surely you can agree with me that the smell of that beef, dripping in blood makes you want to hurl.”  Art turns his head and looks my way.  “I mean.....consider the poor cow they slaughtered to satisfy that woman’s whim?  What sin did that defenceless cow commit to make someone slaughter him just to satisfy a carnivorous craving?”

Sheila rolled her eyes at her husband.  “Art, we must all respect our neighbour’s preferences.  Just because we are vegans doesn’t mean we have to disrespect other people’s preferences.   Just finish your vegemite sandwich and let’s get out of here, for God’s sakes.”

Art kept staring at me.  He turned to his wife.  “You know, Sheila, I think they ought to divide restaurants into two sections...you know, like they do with smoking and non-smoking sections.  They ought to have a carnivorre section and a vegan section........but they should put the carnivore section in the basement.”

“Oh, Art.......you can be so childish and idiotic sometimes.  Now shut up and eat.”  They sat in silence for a few minutes.  Art kept boring his eyes at me.  I couldn’t stand it any longer.  I stood up and approached their table.

“Hey, Mr.......Did you lose something?  You keep staring at me.  It’s impolite.” I said.  Art stopped eating and looked up at me.  His face morphed into an undignified grimace. 

“Lady, you are the one who is impolite..........YOU and your carnivorous cravings!” Art yelled.

“What?”  I asked.  “What are you going on about, Sir?”  I put my hands on my hips.  I wasn’t going to be insulted by a grumpy diner.

“You heard me, lady.  Why must you chomp on a poor defenceless slaughtered cow?  You people make me sick!  It’s people like you that are killing our world.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that!  How dare you stare at me so rudely and insult me like this! I’m calling the manager!” I yelled.   The man’s wife sunk down on her side of the booth feeling ten inches tall.  She looked at me as if to say,  “Don’t look at me............I don’t know this man.”

Art rose from his seat.  He towered over me.  He must have been six feet six inches.  He stared down at me.  His breath smelled of rapeseed oil and brewer’s yeast.  “Go ahead, lady, I’d like to speak to the manager as well.  I have a great suggestion for him.”

At this time we were getting inquisitive stares from other diners.  The bartender looked up from the bar.  I glared at this six-foot-and-then-some stranger and called Tina over.  Tina rose her head up from her seat at the bar.  She was calculating someone’s bill at the time.  She slowly rose and approached us.  “What seems to be the problem, folks?” she asked.

“The problem is that this......this Moran......keeps staring at me and has insulted me.  I want to speak to the manager about him!” I said.  Tina tried to defuse the situation and asked us both to calm down. 

“Sorry, toots, but this woman has revolted me with the smell of putrid grease and road kill.  Now she has insulted me and my wife.”  Art said.

“I haven’t said anything about your wife!” I screeched.  At this point I was losing my patience.  “Tina, please get the manager.......NOW!”  Tina turned and headed towards the kitchen.   Art hurled an arsenal of obscenities my way which startled some of the diners.   That was it...the turning point...........the straw that broke the camel’s back.   Reaching towards his table, I grabbed a slice of vegemite sandwich and smeared it all over Art’s face.  Art tumbled back on his heels, stunned at my actions.

“Why, you carnivorous, bitch!  You’ll pay for that!” Art barked.  He grabbed a piece of his wife’s vegan cake and smeared it all over my face.  The cake slithered down my neck and over my dress.   Grabbing hold of someone’s chocolate shake, I threw it at Art, but it drenched some other diner instead.   Art laughed..........a haughty, ugly cackle of a laugh which shook the Diner out of its foundation.   The diner rose in anger and threw a whole burger in mid air, landing at the back of Art’s bald head.   

“Who threw that disgusting piece of meat at me?” Art asked as he turned around.  He picked up a piece of apple pie and threw it at the diner but it hit a woman instead.  The woman threw her steak and kidney pudding at the man, missing and hitting the bartender.    The bar tender grabbed a pitcher full of strawberry milkshake and threw it at the woman, landing on Art’s wife.

“Mama Mia” cried the manager of Mike’s Diner as he walked in from the kitchen with Tina. “What have they done to my Diner?”  Just as he said this he was smacked on the face with a whole lemon meringue pie.   “Tina, who started this fiasco?” he asked his employee.  Tina scratched her head nervously. 

“Marie said that that man over there was rude to her.” Tina answered her boss in a squeeky, mousy voice.  Her boss wiped the meringue off his face and moustache. 

“Ah, I see,” Mike said as he grabbed a Key Lime pie off the shelf from the counter.  He flung it at Art.  Art nearly tumbled over.  “Out.....Out of my Diner, you slime ball!” Mike said.  Art picked up a plate of spaghetti and threw it at Mike but it landed on top of Tina’s head.  The place was all covered in food as diners flung plates of food around the joint and at each other. 

Just then, the doors flung open and a couple of cops stumbled in blowing whistles and waving batons.   The diners took no notice of them and continued their fray.  The cops ran every which way to try to establish order but fell on top of each other as they slipped on banana peels on the greasy floor.   The room stood still at the sound of a whistle followed by a booming voice coming from the entrance door.  A tubby little officer walked in shouting from the top of his lungs.

“HEY! Silence, you lawless bunch of maggots!” he yelled, calling for order.   From across the room someone hurled which started a wave of sick diners like a domino effect, drenching the unsuspected officer.

“Was it something, I said?” said the chief of police in a monotone.  “Officers, rustle them up like cattle and take them all down to the station, please.  They ought to learn not to play with their food!”   One by one the officers rounded the diners up and placed them all under arrest and into a paddy wagon for causing a scene and disturbing the peace.

An Interview with Mary Aris

I have been Interviewed on  We Write Worlds Blog.

You can view my Interview by clicking the link below:

An Interview with Mary Aris.