The Jewelled Colours of Mirepoix in a Glass Bowl
The drinks had hit a little harder than any of us
anticipated, which is not to say that we were quickly drunk but that as soon as
my father took his first sip, he added—‘This goes down easy.’ He was sat in my
armchair by the window, I on one end of the sofa and my mother on the other,
and the cat, caught off-guard by their arrival, tiny meows and wide-eyed, had
cautiously come down from atop the refrigerator.
She held her drink up—three parts prosecco, two limoncello, one soda water—for the sprig of mint to move against the smoothing icecubes, marbled, clinked off her rings, as she took a photograph on her phone. He was tired, slow to respond but not in a poor mood, just on account of worry that woke him up all night, and from his slouch he seized everything his fidgeting arms could reach: his phone and the air conditioner, its innards and filter, a bowl of nuts, a jar of skittles, and then he tried to coax the cat to his lap.
‘Did you see her latest post on Instagram?’
‘Nah, I unfollowed her.’
‘O, you did? I liked the post. The first one was just her, doing that thing with her mouth, and the next she’s with this fella. She’s with someone. He took her to Dublin for her thirtieth…’
‘What the fuck you still following her for?’
‘This photo taken side-on, profile, he looks justlike E—… But, yeah, on holiday with him already! Two months. She don’t hang about.’
‘Not surprised. She’s the type to move on quick, from one relationship to another. She can’t be alone. Thought that when she was with E—.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah, her other fella, the one before E—, she was with him years and then she got with E— straight away. You ever see photos of the ex on her Instagram?’
‘No, she deleted them all, just like she’s done with E—.’
‘Exactly. Erase and move on. Don’t be alone.’ I said, feeling pity deep in the gut for my brother. ‘You see too much good in people—you make it up when it’s not there.’
My father had taken the back off the air conditioning unit, exposing a tube pinned onto the coil—‘What’s this for?’
‘Temperature sensor,’ I said, guessing.
He disagreed—‘I think it’s for running water over the coil, make it more efficient.’
‘If that were the case, I reckon there’d be watermarks in that tray… I’m guessing E— hasn’t seen the photos.’
She held her drink up—three parts prosecco, two limoncello, one soda water—for the sprig of mint to move against the smoothing icecubes, marbled, clinked off her rings, as she took a photograph on her phone. He was tired, slow to respond but not in a poor mood, just on account of worry that woke him up all night, and from his slouch he seized everything his fidgeting arms could reach: his phone and the air conditioner, its innards and filter, a bowl of nuts, a jar of skittles, and then he tried to coax the cat to his lap.
‘Did you see her latest post on Instagram?’
‘Nah, I unfollowed her.’
‘O, you did? I liked the post. The first one was just her, doing that thing with her mouth, and the next she’s with this fella. She’s with someone. He took her to Dublin for her thirtieth…’
‘What the fuck you still following her for?’
‘This photo taken side-on, profile, he looks justlike E—… But, yeah, on holiday with him already! Two months. She don’t hang about.’
‘Not surprised. She’s the type to move on quick, from one relationship to another. She can’t be alone. Thought that when she was with E—.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah, her other fella, the one before E—, she was with him years and then she got with E— straight away. You ever see photos of the ex on her Instagram?’
‘No, she deleted them all, just like she’s done with E—.’
‘Exactly. Erase and move on. Don’t be alone.’ I said, feeling pity deep in the gut for my brother. ‘You see too much good in people—you make it up when it’s not there.’
My father had taken the back off the air conditioning unit, exposing a tube pinned onto the coil—‘What’s this for?’
‘Temperature sensor,’ I said, guessing.
He disagreed—‘I think it’s for running water over the coil, make it more efficient.’
‘If that were the case, I reckon there’d be watermarks in that tray… I’m guessing E— hasn’t seen the photos.’
My mother—‘No, she blocked him. He was harassing her on
there.’
Me—‘Fucking prat.’
My father—‘You got a comb for these coil fins? They’re bent, look.’
Once I had fulfilled the drinks order, I began cooking and my mother merrier so that when I started humming Sir Duke, she cried out how much she loved that album and how, when she worked in Soho Square, she went one lunchtime and bought it along Oxford Street. ‘You got it? Put it on, yeah, put it on. It brings back so many memories. It… evokes so many memories. Yes, that’s the word—evoke.’
‘It’s a good word.’ Lingering next to the hob, wooden spoon in hand and our mirepoix on a low heat. Mirepoix is a fine word, a better word, I thought, than evoke but I was not about to say so. Even the sight of mirepoix filled me with satisfaction, the time I had spent that morning chopping them all—onion, carrot, celery—the same size. The jewelled colours of mirepoix in a glass bowl.
The evening sun was on the other side of the building, only a pale light from the underside of the fair clouds. My father had fallen asleep, his head rolled backwards and mouth open. My mother was stroking the cat perched next to her, looking out of the window, singing along to Stevie Wonder. The cat stood up, disturbing her hand from where it had been stroking behind the ears, top of the neck, jarring my mother out of her daydream and she took the unentertained hand to the leaves of the umbrella plant next to her. ‘You know, my old boss gave me a cutting of an umbrella plant.’ The old boss in question took his place on an eighties carpet behind the dusty glass of Soho Square and was remembered fondly by my mother. All other colleagues had been lost to time but he stood tall amongst them on an eighties carpet behind the dusty glass of Soho Square.
‘How long is a cutting?’ I asked.
She held her hands two feet apart. ‘And I potted it and it grew but it didn’t grow out like yours has, it grew up. Just one stalk. Got too tall for the room. You know what I did with it? Do you remember? I gave it to the school—what was the name of the receptionist?’
‘Barbara, I think. Wasn’t it? Barbara? Feels like it was Barbara. Short dark permed hair. Used to do the rounds every morning gathering the registers.’
‘Sounds right. She asked for it. I gave it to her, gave the umbrella plant to Barbara.’
Me—‘Fucking prat.’
My father—‘You got a comb for these coil fins? They’re bent, look.’
Once I had fulfilled the drinks order, I began cooking and my mother merrier so that when I started humming Sir Duke, she cried out how much she loved that album and how, when she worked in Soho Square, she went one lunchtime and bought it along Oxford Street. ‘You got it? Put it on, yeah, put it on. It brings back so many memories. It… evokes so many memories. Yes, that’s the word—evoke.’
‘It’s a good word.’ Lingering next to the hob, wooden spoon in hand and our mirepoix on a low heat. Mirepoix is a fine word, a better word, I thought, than evoke but I was not about to say so. Even the sight of mirepoix filled me with satisfaction, the time I had spent that morning chopping them all—onion, carrot, celery—the same size. The jewelled colours of mirepoix in a glass bowl.
The evening sun was on the other side of the building, only a pale light from the underside of the fair clouds. My father had fallen asleep, his head rolled backwards and mouth open. My mother was stroking the cat perched next to her, looking out of the window, singing along to Stevie Wonder. The cat stood up, disturbing her hand from where it had been stroking behind the ears, top of the neck, jarring my mother out of her daydream and she took the unentertained hand to the leaves of the umbrella plant next to her. ‘You know, my old boss gave me a cutting of an umbrella plant.’ The old boss in question took his place on an eighties carpet behind the dusty glass of Soho Square and was remembered fondly by my mother. All other colleagues had been lost to time but he stood tall amongst them on an eighties carpet behind the dusty glass of Soho Square.
‘How long is a cutting?’ I asked.
She held her hands two feet apart. ‘And I potted it and it grew but it didn’t grow out like yours has, it grew up. Just one stalk. Got too tall for the room. You know what I did with it? Do you remember? I gave it to the school—what was the name of the receptionist?’
‘Barbara, I think. Wasn’t it? Barbara? Feels like it was Barbara. Short dark permed hair. Used to do the rounds every morning gathering the registers.’
‘Sounds right. She asked for it. I gave it to her, gave the umbrella plant to Barbara.’
