The table falls roughly six inches lower than Henry's hips, the counter is taller, he'll lean against it happily in the afternoon, or when he is cleaning the dishes at the sink, he lays his belly against the stained orange wood of the cupboards, the small brass handle petrueding into his thigh. But not now, no. He uses the low kitchen table with a round chopping board and awkwardly small, unsharp knife. Stooping over at an angle he carves the leeks and onions with a just off precision. He is making soup for tomorrow, he'll have some for his own dinner and he will take some to his mother in the afternoon. Its therapeutic for a lot of people to cook. Its creative as well, and can be incredibly pleasing, a delicious end product that is never quite the same.
Soup you see, fantastic stuff! Most folk like soup, many don't like vegetables. Problem - Solution! A good soup can disguise almost anything you don't like. I would of course not suggest you make a pot from politician's agenda, but with vegetables - its a winner. Prime example, my brother hates onion and spinach. But he doesn't have a clue he is eating it in these, as he used to state "delicious" soups. Enough said? This was how Henry took his vegetables, it was just slightly easier than having to accept a dish of roast garden veg. It was just non-conformist enough to make him feel naughty - a maverick - but the health benefits remained.
There was no real point in cooking for one. More often that not, if he cooked, he made several portions. Would allow it to cool as he ate that evening, and then divide the rest into freezer containers for another night. The freezer was full of single serving meals. Bread divided into what he would use in one go. He felt it was important to take the soups to his mother thought. She had always been careful with her diet, always good food, responsibly sourced. She had been a healthy woman most of her days, she had raised her three boys and only daughter very well. She hadn't one child fly the nest unable to prepare themselves a decent meal, and that gave her peace of mind. Especially when they began to tweet home about eggs of their own hatching. Henry being the second eldest, the sanest and the tallest, now was in a reversed role doing his best to look after his mother. She had been in hospital for some time and they then decided that considering serious altercations needing to happen to her home, her deteriorating condition and care needs, she should be taken to a facility.
A facility that henry is under to illusion she will die in.
He allows the tap to run just past a dribble in the background, this is supposed to stop your eyes from watering. His sister swears by it, but his eyes glaze over regardless. He holds this tradition of still turning the tap on - honouring her sweet belief in its truth. It was hard for him to not dote on his only sister. She was a gentle creature anyway, but the boys were the rough, they were all protective; even the one younger than herself. Henry is only looking after the house for now. When she dies, the government will repossess it, or it will be sold to pay for her care. That's is fine. But there are a lot of things happening, various work nobody seems to be able to speak about, more damage occurring from the damage that's there. Holes in roofs, water damage here there and everywhere. Kind of like the house couldn't go on with out her. And maybe it couldn't. It was an old house, they'd had it perhaps twenty years, It had seen too many wake parties, too many a black suit and drunk face. It still smelt like the old man's cigars, and he was missed dearly. The house still had a strong memory of him too, but it had coped just enough when he left, because she was still there. And with his absence brought a new buzz of visitors, of people that would check in, people that cared.
The problem of course as it always was, was money. The repairs were going to cost an awful lot of money that Henry simply could not produce. Perhaps someone else could have, but they certainly weren't dropping any hints that they might actually do it. There had to be some sensibility here. Money must be saved. You must do what you must to survive, so we aren't talking starvation etcetera. The lights shouldn't be used anyway, its not very safe with the water in the walls, and I for one don't feel like getting fried just yet. so I see his reasoning, but using lamps is cheaper than overhead lighting. Especially in that house, the electrics are old and they sook up a lot of power.
But there he was; all six foot something stupid of him, at 2AM over the onions, making the soup, the lamp light illumination half of his face, his hair receding his smile gone. Just. Chopping. The. Onions.
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