Open Writing

David walked across the cold flagstones in the kitchen of the old farmhouse when he felt the air turn suddenly chill - unseasonably cold for the time of year.

A fine mist seeped slowly from a join in the flooring, coalescing into the shape of a young woman.

She smiled at him and her lips moved. There was sound but he could make no sense of the words.

Her lips moved again. “Is that better?” she asked.

David recoiled, aghast. “Who, what is this?” he stammered.

“Many years ago, before federation, I was an assistant cook here. My father was Spanish and my mother was part Mexican Indian. After I died my spirit stayed on because it couldn’t find the way home across half the world and all that water.”

“Did you always speak English?” David asked.

“Of course not,” the ghost said. “I just spoke to you in my native Indian dialect. When you didn’t reply, I spoke in English. With that nose of yours, I thought you might have been part Indian, a modern kinsman calling to take me home.”

“Lady, I wish I could,” David said. “But your home has changed vastly and I doubt if you’d like it there now.”

“I suspected as much,” she said. “Have you had your tea?”

“I have, in fact, but why do you ask?”

“Well, my specialty here was deep fried mice. The children loved them.”

David gasped. “Fried mice? You can’t me serious.”

“They’re delicious,” she said. “Take a jalapeno chili, stuff it with sour cream and chives, dunk it in a beer and corn flour batter and deep fry it.

“Leave the stem on the chili and the result will perfectly resemble a deep fried mouse.”

“Any good?” David asked.

“Delish,” said the ghost.

Shortly afterwards, David woke up – and burped. There was a strong aftertaste in his mouth of jalapeno pickle and sour cream.

*

For those readers seriously interested in food, the best deep fried mice in the West are at Clancy’s Fish Pub just across the Canning Bridge in Applecross. For chili mussels, on the other hand, try Siena’s in Leederville. They’re usually on special on Tuesdays.