Pasties

Every other Saturday afternoon, after watching Colyton F.C. and
providing the half time oranges and words of encouragement and
consolation, I would go to visit my Aunty Anna, knowing that a delight
would be waiting there, squat and steaming. As I walked through the
back door the smell would fly into my nostrils and wrap itself
seductively around my soul. That rotten tinged odour that mince may
have, mingling with the sweetness of carrots and the vivacity of
onions. It was as though God had farted.

Anna was admired by friends and family alike for her pasties. Perfectly
shaped - in the proper Admirals hat style - and corresponding
unerringly to the Platonic ideal of just what a pasty should be.
Whenever her name cropped up in conversation, words such as mince and
potato were soon to follow, and it was said that as time went by her
shadow was gradually changing shape; half woman, half pasty.

Anna herself obviously took pride in her little meat and pastry
creations. One only had to look at the way in which she capered up and
down the ever expanding rows of the things, pricking little holes, or
brushing some milk over them. Increasingly it appeared that she was
making more than were necessary but the odd gift to the milkman and the
sturdy appetite of Cousin Ian managed to deal with the surfeit.

It was after her retirement that things started to go somewhat AWOL on
the pasty front. Within a few months Aunt Anna's shadow was beginning
to look somewhat fluted around the edges and the kitchen began to groan
under the weight of the multitudinous pasties. Uncle Dennis tried his
hardest to alleviate the situation, getting stuck into the things
morning, noon, and night. But eventually his nerve snapped. 'Anna it's
no good. These darned pasties are getting on my wits. You'll have to
cook something else'.

There is no doubt that she tried, but something deep inside her
wouldn't allow her to break free of the pasty. She would begin to make
a simple omelette but somewhere in the process it transmogrified into
something else, something .... pasty like.

Gradually it took over her life. Every minute of the day she would
beaver away in the kitchen, producing pasty after pasty after pasty. To
start with she tried to hide them, emptying wardrobes to provide
adequate storage facilities and shoving them behind the sofa. But after
a while they began to spew forth, causing obstructions on the staircase
and taking over the mantelpiece.

They were given out as presents for birthdays and Christmas. Anna
dressing one up in a lovely knitted outfit for my sister and my cousin
Ian receiving a box titled 'The Pasty Game' which contained three
pasties and two dice. For years I went to sleep with a pasty mobile
slowly turning above my head.

The incessant toil of the rolling pin and the tons of mince finally
took it's toll and Aunt Anna died. There was some argument within the
family over whether or not to have a pasty shaped gravestone but in the
end she was cremated and Uncle Dennis set about restarting his life,
clearing the pasties from the property and experimenting with new
foods.

Some years later he was looking for an old football programme up in the
loft. As he reached up to the top of a dusty wardrobe, a door swung
upon and he was knocked to the ground by an avalanche of green and
moulding pasties.

He lay there, tears welling up in his eyes and bits of mince in his
grey and thinning hair, smelling for one last time that odour and
memories came flooding back to him in a mad rush. Aaaah! he thought.
That smell. It's like God farting. And then, the weight of his memories
bearing down upon him, he closed his eyes and died.

(For the anthithesis read 'Noodles')