Fancy Nancy

Nancy loved chicken salad, which was odd for an eight-year-old. Most people she knew her age did not like chicken, much less salad, but here she was—sitting at her kitchen table eating chicken salad. She had prepared it herself. Well, not entirely by herself. Her mother had roasted the chicken, after plucking and draining it the day before. Her older brother Mick had fed the chicken nearly every day since birth. Her father had gently ushered the chicken into its next phase of life. Nancy could take some credit for it, though. As soon as their hen Petunia had laid the batch of eggs that would eventually become Nancy’s chicken salad, Nancy went to check on them. Every morning, Nancy would saunter out to the chicken coop in her red wellies and blue tufted overcoat—her most favorite color combination. Once she got to the coop, she would crawl on her elbows through the very small door and wrap her scarf around Petunia’s eggs. Her scarf, dotted with a kaleidoscope red and blue pattern, was made of the finest, softest wool you have ever felt. Her mother had knitted it for her from a roll she had bought from the mysterious woman who lived on the edge of town, claiming to be the long-lost sister of Marie Antoinette. In short, the story went that the multicolored, paper-thin whisp of wool was straight from the heart of Paris. Nancy didn’t really know if that was true or not, but honestly, it didn’t matter. She loved magical stories, and the story of this mysterious old woman on the edge of town was no exception.

As Nancy sat at her kitchen table thinking and chewing, she realized she had forgotten one key ingredient in her chicken salad, celery. Luckily, there was still celery in her mother’s garden. Nancy ran outside, plucking one giant stalk from one particularly large bunch. She skipped back into the house, happy as a clam. She brought her painted stool up to the kitchen sink and began to wash, scrubbing hard to get all the dirt off her plucked prize. Then, she chopped it up into half-inch rainbows and sprinkled them into the bowl. After mixing them in, she looked down at her salad and found the color palette to be rather bland, perhaps even, unappetizing.

Perish the thought, she said to herself.

After puzzling for a moment with a hand on her hip and a finger on her lip, her tiny toes tapping on the multicolored stool, an idea came to Nancy.

“I’ve got it!” She exclaimed. “This salad needs more color.”

After writing down all the colors she knew, Nancy circled the ones she thought belonged in a chicken salad.

Brown, white, green, red, blue, purple, and yellow…Well, I guess that is nearly all of them, isn’t it? She puzzled again for a moment. Oh! I’ve forgotten black and orange. Yuck. Nancy gagged. I cannot do orange, but black… She tapped her chin. Black I can do.

Reaching up into the cupboard, she pulled down a shaker of poppy seeds and dumped three shakes into the bowl.

Black. Check!

Taking stock of what she now had in the bowl, she checked brown, white, and green off her list too.

All that’s left then is red, blue, purple, and yellow. Nancy thought to herself.

Just then her brother Mick came into the kitchen.

“Whatcha doing, Fancy Nancy?”

“Just making some chicken salad.” She said distractedly.

“Ooh, can I have some?” Mick asked as he stuck his finger into the bowl, plucking out a nugget of roasted chicken.

“Yes, but only when I’m done.” Nancy replied, snatching the bowl away from her much taller brother so he couldn’t pilfer another piece.

“Looks pretty done to me.” Mick said, reaching over Nancy’s head to steal another bite.

“Not even close!” Nancy shrieked. “I’m still missing red, blue, purple, and yellow.”

“Yellow? What are you talking about yellow, Nance?” Mick grimaced.

“The salad needs yellow.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ok, then. Well will you let me know once you’ve finished adding the rainbow to your chicken salad? I’m hungry.”

“Yes, but you mustn’t rush me.”

Mick put his hands up in defense. “Alright, alright. I’m leaving. I’ll leave Fancy Nancy to her fancy food work.”

Nancy nodded perfunctorily, still clutching the bowl tightly to her chest. “Bye bye now.”

“Bye.”

Nancy huffed.

Ok, Nancy, back to work.

Still standing on her stool by the sink, Nancy began to puzzle again, ticking off the colors on her list and matching them to her favorite ingredients.

Red, dried cranberries. Blue, fresh blueberries. Purple, fresh grapes. Yellow…yellow…

She was stumped by yellow. Not only could she not think of anything else that belonged in a chicken salad—she couldn’t even think of anything yellow at all!

Oh geez, maybe Mick was right.

“Oh dear, of course he wasn’t right. Don’t say that! Come on, give it another go.”

Nancy jumped. “Who said that?”

“Never mind that dear, just think. What is sweet and yellow and delicious?”

Nancy’s hands started to shake. “I mean it! Who is talking to me right now?”

“Oh dear,” the voice replied. “I’m not a who. I’m a what.”

Nancy was sure she was going crazy, but she replied anyway to the mysterious voice, “What do you mean you’re what?”

“What I mean is that I am a what, not a who.”

“What?! Who are you?”

Nancy’s head was beginning to spin. She set the bowl down on the counter and stepped down off her footstool.

“Ok, what are you then?”

“I, my dear, am your scarf.”

A soft breeze picked up in the kitchen then, and Nancy’s red and blue, light-as-a-feather wool scarf slipped off her neck and swirled through the air. She stood in the center of the kitchen with her mouth agape and her mind aghast at what she was seeing. Her scarf was flying. No, not exactly flying, more like dancing.

Yes, that’s it! Dancing, Nancy thought to herself. Why is my scarf dancing?

“Because I’m happy, my dear.” The scarf replied.

“Hey, why did you say that? I didn’t say that out loud.”

The scarf cooed, “Oh my sweet girl. You don’t have to say anything out loud for me to hear. I can read your thoughts.”

Nancy was spinning in a circle trying to keep eye contact with her scarf, “What do you mean you can read my thoughts? How can you do that?”

The scarf danced back over to Nancy and gently wrapped itself around her neck. “Because I’m magic,” it whispered in her ear.

Nancy whispered back. “You’re magic?”

The scarf nodded.

“But why? How?”

Still whispering, the scarf said, “Well why or how is anything magic, my dear? Why do eggs turn into chickens, or stormy skies into rainbows?”

Nancy silently listened to the scarf’s whispers.

“How do bees turn pollen into honey? How do snowflakes fall in such intricate patterns from the sparkling, frozen sky?”

Nancy suddenly felt like she was being lulled into a sweet fantasy, a daydream that felt like cotton candy and summer sun. She let herself sink into it for a moment, the scarf snuggling in closer around her neck.

Ever the pragmatist, after a few moments Nancy shook her head and grabbed ahold of both ends of her scarf.

“Wait just a minute,” she said, still whispering, but in a much firmer tone. “I can believe that you are magic. I see magic every day, everywhere, but why are you coming to me now, when I’m just making chicken salad?”

“Ah,” the scarf responded. “Excellent question, my astute friend.”

Nancy nodded, satisfied with herself. She liked being called astute.

“I’m only here now to help you find your yellow.”

“Ok…but why. Helping me find my yellow for this chicken salad doesn’t really seem like the best opportunity for you to use your magic.”

The scarf chuckled softly. “Oh, my dear, but it is. That, in fact, is the whole point of magic. It comes when you least expect it, and perhaps too when you least think of it. Magic isn’t something you can summon when you need it most. It happens on its own, like a rainbow. They are always a surprise, and they don’t happen after every time it rains.”

Nancy nodded.

“Magic is as magic does. It has a life and mind of its own.”

Nancy continued nodding, only now she was gently stroking the ends of her scarf, inhaling the sweet scent of vanilla baked into its fibers, rubbing the soft wool on her cheek, reveling in the comfort this scarf gave her. Her thoughts began to float away to everything she had already seen and done that day—picking the celery, talking to her brother, enjoying the crisp air, feeling the sun warm the chill in her cheeks. Slowly, a smile deep and warm began to spread across her face. It was as if an apple pie was baking inside of her—cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg sparkling in her belly, tart apples stuck between her cheeks. She began to giggle.

“Now, you’ve got it.” The scarf whispered sweetly to Nancy.

“Pineapple! Pineapple is the yellow!” Nancy yelled, as golden with excitement as the pineapple in her chicken salad would be.

“Did you hear that?” The scarf said, breaking the spell.

Nancy blinked her eyes open to see the mysterious old woman who lived on the edge of town waiting at the back door.

“Oh hello,” Nancy said. As she walked to the door to welcome the woman inside, she noticed she carried a basket that looked to be laden with something—something rather large and prickly. “Please, come in.”

“Oh, thank you dear.” The old woman replied. “Was that you who was yelling pineapple?”

Nancy blushed. “Yes, it was me. I’m making chicken salad.”

“Oh, how delightful!” The old woman said, clapping her hands together. “I do love chicken salad.”

“Well, I would offer you some, but I’m still missing my last ingredient.”

Hearing that, the old woman wriggled her nose, gesturing down at her basket. Nancy reached out to take it from her. Lifting the red and blue checkered flannel that protected its contents, Nancy saw that the basket held exactly what she was looking for.

“A pineapple! How did you know?”

The old woman winked at Nancy, though her eyes were on Nancy’s neck, “Anything for you, my dear. Anything for Fancy Nancy.”