Cabbage Soup

“What’s this on the table, Barb?”

“Colin, we’re turning Pescatarian.”

“We’re what?”

“We’re now Pescatarian.”

“I didn’t realise we were religious, babe.”

“We’re not.”

“Are you sending me back to my Scottish roots?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, Presbyterians have ties to the Church of Scotland. Or are we turning Catholic with birth control?”

“That’s Episcopalian, and no, we’re not turning religious.”

“Then, what’s a Pescatarian when he’s at home?”

“It’s someone who doesn’t eat red meat or poultry, but eats other things like fish, dairy products, eggs, etc.”

“That’s a Vegetarian, Barb.”

“No, Colin. Vegetarians don’t eat the flesh of any animal or insects.”

“I’m not going pescatarian, if I have to eat insects.”

“We’re not going to be eating any insects, Colin.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of people in Asia cooking up grasshoppers, and in Australia they dig up something called a Witchetty Grub to eat.”

“What’s a Witchetty Grub?”

“It’s the larvae of some huge wood moth. It’s plump and chubby. The Aboriginal People eat them raw or cooked. I read that the grubs have a nutty taste when raw and taste like scrambled eggs when cooked.”

“Ugh! Sounds disgusting. Gagging material. Rest assured that we won’t be eating insects.”

“What about fish eggs?”

“You mean, Caviar?”

“Caviar is from fish, yes?”

“Yes, Colin. You like caviar on blinis with cream cheese, don’t you. Did you know that like champagne, only caviar originating from the Caspian Sea could be called, caviar.”

“Champagne is French, Barb.”

“Yes, so?”

“The Caspian Sea is not in France.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Colin. The Champagne region of France can only lay claim to the name of the wine. Whereas caviar is now farmed and produced around the world in places like China, Italy, Greece, and Israel, and no longer extracted just from sturgeon fish.”

“What do we eat?”

“The best, my love.”

“Russian?”

“Tesco’s.”

“Are yous two done?”

“What’s that, Mater?”

“What’s wrong with the wee food I brought you up on?”

“Helen, I want to introduce your son to a healthier lifestyle.”

“Healthier than haggis?”

“Colin hates haggis.”

“Since when, ya sassenach lover?”

“Since you first made me eat it, Mater. And you forget that I too was born south of Hadrian’s Wall.”

“Aye, you were. On a trip to sunny Skegness. Smuggled you back, though, we did… Anyways, nuthin’ wrong with a bit of haggis in yer belly. Times were tough in the old days.”

“I hate haggis, Mater.”

“He’s thirty-one, Helen. It’s a modern world. When did Colin ever have tough times?”

“Och, tis just a wee saying.”

“It’s dated. You may have had tough times when you were young, but Colin has a good job and a roof over his head and someone to cook his dinners – even though I work too.”

“Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!”

“What was that, Helen?”

“Robbie Burns wrote that in his poem, Address to a Haggis.”

“It’s a dish for the poor, Helen. Made out of leftover parts of a sheep and boiled in the sheep’s stomach lining.”

“Och, how I’d love a wee bit of sheep heart, noo. Remember when I used to cook you up a bit of sheep heart, son?”

“Don’t remind me. I can still see that grey lump still pumping on my plate after you boiled it. You and Da would be sucking on cut slivers of heart, like it was a delicacy. The smell used to make me want to vomit.”

“Ye ate it all the same, did ye no’ dae that?”

“No, I fed it to the dog when you weren’t looking.”

“That would explain those big runny poos all over the front porch.”

“That was Da, rushing for the outhouse. The dog just threw up the sheep’s heart.”

“Aye, his stomach was a delicate wee flower.”

“He was a deer hound, Mater. Bred for hunting. He should have been able to eat anything.”

“I was talking about your father, but that wee hound lived the life of luxury with us, and he didnae have to hunt for his supper. He’d just lay in front of the fireplace until he got hungry. He’d eat, then trot outside fer a bark, and join yer father for a crap, and a long piss on the neighbour’s wall, before returning and plonking himself back doon in front of the fireplace again. That’s all the two of them seemed to do in their later years.”

“Well, I for one welcome the change of diet.”

“I’m no surprised ya wee Humpty. Och, if yer waistline gets any bigger, ye’ll have a job waitin’ fer ya on top of Hadrian’s Wall.”

“Humpty Dumpty was the name of a cannon trying to breach the walls of Gloucester in the English Civil War. It has nothing to do with being overweight.”

“Och, ye’ll get tired of the cabbage soup and boiled grass soon enough. Not even Auschwitz stooped that low to serve cabbage soup.”

“Helen, that’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Sorry, Hen. Those poor people and what they went through. It beggars belief. I imagine if ye had cooked cabbage soup for them, they’d’ve had enough fire power to bloo down the electric fences and escape.”

“Cabbage soup will not be on any of my menus, Helen. And I take offence at the Auschwitz comment.”

“Was that a pun, Hen? Take a fence at my Auschwitz comment? That’s quite good.”

“Lucky you never served it to Da, Mater. It would have aggravated his irritable bowel syndrome. As it was, he almost farted himself tay death.”

“Your father didnae need any help in that department. That man was so full of gas in his old age, he could have farted for the Olympics. And before ye say it, I knoo there’s not a farting competition. I’d worry whenever I got up to put the kettle on. He’d be right in front of the fireplace farting away and I was sure he’d set light to one someday. I half expected to return to see his arse on fire. He farted so much that the even dog would get up and go outside for air.”

“There is in Finland.”

“There’s a what, ye oversized pumpkin?”

“A farting competition.”

“Then, make sure ye update yer passport before ye start on yer missus’s cabbage diet.”

“Helen, there’s no chance in hell of Finland being on our destination of places to visit.”

“I’d like to see it – all the same, Barb.”

“Colin, my love. Look it up on YouTube. There’s no need to go there.”

“That’s how I found it. It’s a bit boring. People just sit on a barrel and have their farts monitored by a decibel reader.”

“Yer father could have hired himself out to lighthouses in thick fog, son. Ships would have heard him fer miles.”

“Okay, Helen. Let’s move on, please. Tonight’s dinner is the first of a significant change in our lifestyle. From here on, there will be no cooking of meat, including beef, poultry, or any other beast. We must respect their right to live and not add to the slaughter.”

“What aboot fish, then?”

“Well, no lobster for starters.”

“The mains, then.”

“No lobster at all.”

“Why not lobster?”

“I feel sorry for them. Same with crabs, shrimp, calamari..”

“..What’s calamari?”

“Squid, Helen.”

“What aboot octopus?”

“That’s out, as well. Along with any fish with big eyes.”

“What’s wrong with big eyes?”

“It denotes intelligence and beauty. I can’t eat that.”

“So, whales are off the menu, then?”

“…I now see where your son gets the obtuse demeanour from.”

“I’m just sayin, hen.”

“No whales.”

“Sea Lion?”

“We’re not Innuits, Helen.”

“We could be. I once had a fling with an Indian some years back.”

“Mater!”

“Keep yer troosers on, son. It was long before yer father, when I was an army nurse in Delhi.”

“Innuits are from Alaska, Helen.”

“I didnae say where I met him, did I?”

“You met an Indian in Alaska, Mater?”

“Nay, in Greenland. He had me at the rub noses stage.”

“Mater!”

“Och, son. Grow up. I too had a life once. How do ye think ye came along?”

“Hang on a minute! I have darkish skin. Da was as pale as a white dove.”

“What can I say, wee man. Yer father was an understanding soul. I dare say if it hadn’t been for the accident on the ice sheet, ye would have been named, Patel. I was only three months gone at the time. Five months later, I met the man you called Da your whole life, and he was very honourable to a husbandless woman expecting her first child.”

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“So, how are ye liking your first day as a vegetarian, wee man?”

“Pescatarian, Helen.”

“Pescatarian-select with that list of fish avoidances.”

“Why have you waited so long to tell me, Mater?”

“Och, I didnae want to spoil your life. But seeing as you’re startin’ a new meatless one with a limited selection of ocean-based food, it inspired me to come clean.”

“I’m speechless, Mater.”

“Could you please pass me that plate of deliciously looking fish fingers without any eyes, Son. And I’ll have a wee bit of that cabbage-based coleslaw too…”