Dabby's family always make me laugh.

Whoa, calm down! Let me explain first! Christ, people really can take this blog hyper sensitively. Just relax, start breathing, and wait for the inevitable justification that will soothe your distress like some sort of verbal Calimine Lotion.

If you'd let me finish, I'd have said "Dabby's family always make laugh because of their fantastically endearing quirks." Dabby's grandmother is so luringly naive you can't fail to smile at her beautifully innocent outlook on young people. Clearly besotted with the changed attitudes around her, she continues to believe in the goodness of youngsters as if it were still the early nineteen hundreds. Her gift of a book on Mammoths to her grandson, who to her is still the wide-eyed nine year old who would read in awe about the hairy giants from ages past, shows how far out of touch she is with today's youth. Of all the people who would unappreciate a book, especially one on the natural world, it is surely her nineteen year old grandson. And why shouldn't he? Such a 'present' is monumentally crap in anyone's eyes, but bless her for her good intentions.

Last sunday, while at Dabby's partaking in a drinking game, we went downstairs to replenish the stores in anticipation of further muckling. At the kitchen both his mother and his grandmother were enthusing about a home made gin made primarily from raspberries and london gin (so, not exactly home made after all). This rather logically thought out concotion resulted in a beautifully reddened liquor; one that smelt of raspberries, and tasted like gin. While not wanting to offend my humble hosts, I played along and joined in the rapturous acclaim for the beverage. Noticing we'd entered the room, Dabby's mother- half way through a sentence beginning with "just look at how"- cut her story mid way and offered us the mildest of tastes. Grandmother, ever worried of tempting her grandson down the wrong path, played the role of mediator. As the liquor trickled down the glass, Grandmother Fearon intervened with a panicked "I... I think that's enough!" The sum volume: one shot.

Running over to the glass cabinet, she quickly retrieved another identical glass and Dabby's ma diced the miniscule taster in half into the adjacent glass. As I put my hand forward to sample this once in a lifetime opportunity, the ever conscious grandmother swiftly put the glass to her nasal region. Like a seasoned wine taster, she let her olfactory senses indulge in the sweet aroma, before concluding "it has a wonderful smell! Smell that young Alan!"

"Mmm, that's amazing! Can you smell that Daniel?" I forwarded, prodding Dabby in the ribs. Just before I was about to sample the delicacy, Grandmother interposed. "This stuff is real strong! Real strong!" she said maniacally, her words spoken with the wisdom of age. It was assumed that we are both unspoiled youths, not yet familiar with adult matters like alcohol. Growing up in the country, it's easy to assume Dabby the quiet untainted child who speaks when spoken to and to whom the mention of Amy down the road brings shied blushes and to whom intercourse is a very confusing word, never spoken of or inclined to in public and kept strictly to the privacy of the marital bed. In fact, her vision of Dabby involves a baggy pair of dungarees with tears and mud marks at the knee; a mischievous boy at the void between childhood and adolescence, who chews straw and plays on the neighbours bails until mother cries "dinner!" and he runs as fast as his portly legs will carry him, yelling "boy oh boy, spinach!"

Dabby, clearly eager not to offend or condescend Granny, played his role like a masterful theatre actor. "Oh, wow, this smells rootin' good!" his Grandmother likely interpreted of his "it's nice." Leaning over to give him a big sloppy kiss and pinch his cheek, before sending him to bed with a hot cocoa and pat on the bum, I interjected this Little House horror show to get to the tasting so we could continue our manly drinking game. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed before charging off to the fridge, my lengthy sigh coupled with a rude head shaking clearly not escaping the attention of Ma Fearon. Before I knew it, Grandmother had transformed the demi-shot of blood red liquor into a tall glass of crystal clear lemonade with trace (0.001%) alcohol swimming about somewhere. The solicitous elder tasted her new concoction, then further continued to pour this lemonade avec alcohol-morsel mixture into an even taller glass, again filled with lemonade. Taking a sip, she deemed this lemonade to be of a low enough alcohol content for our consumption and thus allowed us to retreat upstairs with our lemonade, patting Dabby on the bum and exclaiming "there's my boy! If it's still too strong you tell Granny!"

Within minutes of returning upstairs, I was back down to pilfer the gin that had so far eluded us while Granny attended to pictures of Dabby as a baby with his mother. We finished the whole bottle in the end, and while I felt guilty for letting poor Grandma down Dabby's dogged determination to topple my resilience ended fruitlessly. In fact, after nailing half a bottle of Sherry Dabby- the shrewd deceptor- filled the rest with water. Donning my cape and pipe, I pointed out to the elementary sycophant that even if Ma Fearon missed the popped cork, surely the grossly diluted Sherry would get her Bat Senses tingling. But such an evaluation of her little boy seemed improbable, especially given his sickeningly adorable photo of himself at age three with puppy dog eyes and characteristic ear-to-ear beamer (see photo a few blogs down, bet you didn't know this grin has been honed to perfection since childhood) that adorns the prime location at the dinner table. No, it seemed that deviant bad influence from Ellon would be taking the rap. Again.

The dinner table, for those who don't know, is the set piece for the most ancient and hallowed mother-son moment in the entire Fearon house hold. It is one that has remained unchanged since Toddlerhood, and is always guaranteed to put a smile on little Daniel's face.

It is a tradition that has been past down the lineage from generation to generation; one that is past down like a priceless brooch, or a family custom. However, this is uniquely a Fearon family tradition- for reasons that will become all too apparent. All Fearon daughters are exquisite cooks; the skill is inherited in their genes, which began at a time when the men would hunt animals and the women would forage and prepare the meals in anticipation of their arrival. As the generations evolved, the Fearons became respected chefs and food delicatessens up until Trisha Fearon IV who has become the first recorded Fearon-family Home Economics teacher. However, even though the vocations may change there has been a recipe in the family that has been kept a secret even to this very day, and is jealously guarded from the prying eyes of outsiders. No Fearon has ever broken the tradition, even when Lords and Kingsmen hampered for a meal of this quality, and even when children who would love to make it their Home Economics project clamoured for the recipe, they have only ever served it for their own kind far away from untrustworthy non-Fearons who would otherwise commercialise the secret recipe. So when the revered idea was leaked unintentionally by Dabby's ma, it sparked a shrouded and fierce denial from all contingents.

An emergency Fearon family meeting was called, where relatives as far afield as New Zealand attended the crisis talks. After long debates and heated arguments it was finally resolved to simply deny any existence or knowledge of the fabled "cheesy tea." Showing tattoos of a Dairylea Dunker Fun Pack being opened with the bread stick dolloped in the cheese portion, the brethren left Udny, never to meet or contact one another again. To put this mythical dish into perspective, I will now describe what it is like to sample its delicious taste.

After a long train journey, Daniel Fearon arrives fatigued and exhausted in his home town of Udny Station. Craving a beer, he avoids the temptation to quickly stop by the Udny Hotel for fear of being noticed or lynched because, as everyone knows, anyone who moves even temporarily from rural Udny is brandished a Judas and an Outbreeder, and is forever condemned a man of the devils kin. Leaving the Hotel to the shadows, he rewraps his scarf around his hands to form makeshift mittens to ward off the intolerable cold. Slicing the driving rain his house slowly emerges from the darkness, looking exactly as he'd left it. Pausing, he stops with saddened emotions to view the house that has, to him, somehow been trapped in time.

"Is this it?" he thinks to himself. His Edinburgh travels have been varied and marvellous, how he would love to share them! Yet, for all his travels, this is still his home. And while the world moves around him at a frightening pace in the metropolis of Scotland's capital, he feels somewhat like Frodo Baggins, returning to the quiet Shire where nothing of note truly ever happens and everyone knows him by first name. Only the one window to the lower left of the house is alight, and he can make out the feint silhouette of an ageing figure stalking in the back of the room. A sudden depression clouds his sadness, as he realises the profound event his homecoming is to one special lady. While other bonds are temporary, the memories this one place on the entire Earth's surface almost causes him to shed a tear; "I'm home", he whispers to himself, striding towards the porch.

Ringing the door bell, he waits patiently for the figure to approach. The outside light illuminates, followed by the actual doorway as the figure edges ever closer. The rattle of the keys is heard, and the clanging in the key hole makes the apprehension almost unbearable. As the door swings slowly open, his composure leaves him.

"Mum!" he cries, wrapping his arms round his beloved mother. They share a unique moment of togetherness, before prising themselves and indulging in social niceties. As Dabby removes his shoes, an angelic smell overpowers him, causing him to stutter and divert his attention. Smiling, his mother adds: "I've made your favourite."

Entering the dining area, an assortment of cheesy snacks is lain on a silver dish with fine china surrounding the gleaming snack holder. The smell is simply sumptuous, far too good to resist. Dabby dives onto the chair and quickly stuffs a napkin under his T-shirt, snatching the fine silverwear and stabbing a chunk of finest Wendsleydale with the sharpened knife. Completely forgetting his mothers omnipresence in the corner of the room, her face marked with pride, Dabby continues to pick and gorge the carefully selected and nutritionally balanced treat. Always the same: a ring of various cheesy's (circumference 15cm), an inner circle of bread or cracker based fillers and an outer square of cheese derivatives and creative cheese alterations (melted cheese, dippers etc). Frantically chowing down the motley menage, he grabs bread sticks and slaps on layer after layer of cheeses to create his very own cheesy tea sandwich. Gnawing on the sides, he creates a perfect mathematical cube of cheese inaugurated food, acknowledging its splendour only momentarily before wolfing the lot in one go. His ravenous eyes leaves no spot untouched, as he elevates the expensive platter and licks the entire area onto which any scrap of food has been placed. The voracity of his eating manner may seem savage at first, but this lust for cheesy perfection has been imbedded in his being from birth.

Nearing completion of the eagerly awaited meal, he rounds up the remaining crumbs and nibbles at them slowly, savouring every moment he can from the experience. He feels worn out by his Herculean effort, and brushes away the beads of sweat from his brow. In many ways he feels he has climaxed, and the feeling of satisfaction overcomes every fibre of his body.

Still with the motherly sheen of pride, Ma Fearon- the provider- ruffles his hair a little and removes the now empty platter and cutlery to dispose of in the washing machine. Dabby sits at the table contented, the thoughts of the feast still running through his mind as he replays the best parts and still tastes the various cheese derivatives. For a fleeting moment himself and his mother are bonded and feel closer together than they could possibly imagine; she kneels down and plants a big kiss on his forehead, the childlike Dabby smirking throughout, full of happiness with a rejuvinated outlook on life. At this most tender of moments, he suddenly feels five years old again, and submits his inhibitions to hug his mother in return. It will not be a while before a cheesy tea is bestowed upon him, but he knows as with christmas, this special occassion only comes round very infrequently. Retiring to his room, his belly filled with cheesy goodnesses, he tucks himself up for bed, still tasting the wonderful cheesy ensemble that makes him feel so at home.

Posted by Star at 12/30/2004 08:36:00 PM | Post a Comment(0) | View Comments