The Scrivener: Whiskers And Cream
…What better way of satisfying the hunger pangs of late elevenses, or early lunch, than an old-fashioned cream bun?…
Brian Barratt paints a vivid portrait of tasty moments by the waterside – so vivid that you may well find yourself racing to the nearest bakery after you have read this column.
For more of Brian’s luscious words please click on The Scrivener in the menu on this page. Visit also his Web site The Brain Rummager which will persuade your mental faculties to wake up and take exercise www.alphalink.com.au/~umbidas/
The small bakery, on the corner of the street where it meets the road that follows the shore of the lake, smells promising. Loaves of bread that look like loaves of bread — tight and square at the base, bulbous and round at the top. Lamingtons, vanilla slices, eclairs and, would you believe it, cream buns. Old-fashioned lumpy buns, with a sultana peeping out of the side, a great blob of cream, and an ooze of bright red jam!
What better way of satisfying the hunger pangs of late elevenses, or early lunch, than an old-fashioned cream bun?
Not bad, not bad at all. Sitting on a bench, eating a cream bun, and looking out over the water, watching a mullet skip its silvery way out of the water and down again. The cream isn’t real cream, but seems to bear some resemblance to the real thing. The jam, although just a little too brightly coloured, has real bits of strawberry. And the whole concoction leaves sticky traces on moustache and beard.
In the distance, two lolloping lumps of hairy dog, taking a man for a walk. It’s difficult to see from here what breed they might be. As they approach, one appears to be a wolf-hound.
A cheery ‘Morning!’
The young, ginger-bearded man sits down on the bench.
‘Nice day. What sort of dogs are they, then?’
‘That one, the black one, is a Scottish deer-hound, McKay. And the other’s an Irish wolf-hound’.
McKay and his friend sniff around cautiously. He sits down at a safe unsocial distance. His friend accepts a scratch under the chin and behind the ears, but isn’t really worried whether you scratch him or not.
‘I’m looking after them while the family’s away. They’re still pups. Need plenty of exercise’.
And off they go, the three of them, along the jetty. Into a small boat, and away over the water. The two dogs sit at the prow, faces into the wind, a grand sight as they speed away.
And there are still bits of cream bun stuck to my whiskers, to enjoy later in the day. Whiskers have their uses.
© Copyright 2003 Brian Barratt
