The Essence of Stephanie's Treat

Stephanie was a dear old girl. She was the kind of dear old girl you would want over at your house often.

She would gladly come and visit you if it was not for the fact she loved being in her own house so much, for her house was her castle, her idea of heaven – therefore, she rarely left it.

It was indeed a special place, filled with dear old decorations and always kept neat and tidy, just so. She loved her house with all her being as she was at the helm of its upkeep.

Upkeep was not a series of chores at it was to most because she made it an art form – her house was her sculpture and she the sculptor.

Each room was unique and dear to her though her favourite spots were her kitchen and her garden; between which she could not decide on the more special.

Lucky for her, the kitchen looked out into the garden so as she prepared meals she could gaze upon her glorious array of flowers and fly-catchers and wheat.

Now, to you and me, wheat appears at first glance not to be all that attractive a plant, but to Stephanie it was a necessity as its by product served a great purpose - Stephanie loved to bake treats.

Rather than traipse along to the shops every day, hanging off a shopping trolley and filling it with this and that, Stephanie grew all she needed in her garden.

Years before she had set her mind to becoming self-sufficient and after a few months of careful planting and arranging and digging and nurturing, her garden produced all manner of fine goods for her to fashion into delicious tidbits.

Stephanie was ultimately a joyous soul who found a solution to each and every issue.

She had many years behind her and much management of situations, believing that problems and solutions walked side by side with each other and sometimes all it took was a gentle nudge to bring them together.

She was the life of the parties she threw and the life of the times when it was simply day-to-day living, for she made it her business to enjoy every moment of every day; she had seen her fair share of troubling times and this engendered her wonderful outlook.

As you can imagine, she loved doing many things but most of all she loved to prepare, mix and bake a treat.

She would take great care preparing all the ingredients in separate bowls: neat like that, just so. This is how she liked it.

She made it her business to do things just how she liked, much to the chagrin of her husband who often grew impatient with her fussing about the making of baked treats.

It was far from fussing about for Stephanie, as each step of the baking process was sacred to her, even the cleaning of the dirty dishes! My, what a special lady this was!

When she ate her daily baked treat she would close her eyes so as not to be distracted from the splendour of the myriad of flavours. An idiosyncrasy of hers was always to leave a crumb hanging from the corner of her lip to leave for later.

The daily treat was made of flour and eggs and milk and sugar, all put together in a large ceramic bowl and mixed very, very well.

The art of mixing and blending was extremely important – just as important as the temperature of the oven and the exact amounts of ingredients measured out like that, just so.

When she baked, Stephanie saw her ingredients as precious entities each with its own special duties to perform. Alone, an egg from the chicken, flour from the wheat, milk from the cow and sugar from the cane were all well and good but when combined they became something more – a delicious treat, made with the utmost love and care, to be baked and shared.

Even though her husband did not appreciate this in any way, shape or form, Stephanie carried on with her daily ritual because she found reason and purpose in doing so.

Stephanie believed everything from the garden worked in harmony with the others to create any number of wondrous possibilities. Everything had its reason to exist and its purpose.

The one thing in her life that did not seem to make sense in this way was her husband Haroldino. Though she tried to please him with her daily baked treat, Haroldino ignored the art of all that went into the making of the treat.

He was always busy being gruff, drinking one beer after another, reading the newspaper inside and out and flapping it around in a most coarse and ungentlemanly fashion.

He often blamed his surliness on losing his business – which was entirely his fault as he was a problem gambler. Once it came very close to the pair losing their house and all that was in it – the kitchen, the garden, the bowls, the cow, the chicken, the fly-catchers, the wheat and all else that made it possible to make the baked treats.

Day in, day out, Haroldino would scoff down the daily treat and not close his eyes – he would swill from his beer mug, demanding more and more until the entire treat and the beer were gone.

Stephanie was used to Haroldino’s greediness so would be sure to cut herself a slice of the treat first. She would always eat it in the garden, far from Haroldino and his disagreeable ways.

The garden was well tended and full of Stephanie’s favourite flowers. Spending time there was her second favourite thing to do after preparing a baked treat - so you can imagine how happy she was, savouring her delicious goody right there in the garden amongst all her colourful handiwork.

Although the wheat had not much colour to it, it was her favourite plant of the lot. The past summer had been surprisingly hot - hotter than usual - and the wheat was suffering, wilting, and not looking very well at all.

This was a problem that needed a solution, Stephanie pondered. She did not fret as a woman of her constitution did not fret. She would find a solution one way or another, as this was her way.

One day, much like any other day, Haroldino was gruff and surly and came into the kitchen all a-bluster, demanding a baked treat right there and then.

It was in these moments dear Stephanie would not smile wholeheartedly but rather halfheartedly, for she did not want to further upset Haroldino.

She pretended to be merry and would serve him up the treat politely, though Haroldino would not notice her kindness.

She strained to remember a fine time with Haroldino – either they had all occurred so long ago they had melted into obscurity or there was simply none to recall.

There must have been an essence of love between them at some stage, she thought as she put the dishes in the sink. Everyone has a glimmer of goodness inside, even Haroldino – though his must be very deep within, locked away, almost lost.

Stephanie wished she and Haroldino could be closer than they were, as she believed couples were at their best when they are close to one another in spirit, connected on the inside.

Harold was downing his beer and spluttering about some nonsense as Stephanie made a cup of tea and surveyed her dying wheat.

As a soft breeze passed through the wheat, through the kitchen window across Stephanie’s face, all the way over to Haroldino’s newspaper, Stephanie was struck with an idea – a solution to all her problems.

Haroldino’s beer-soaked body took well to the seeds of wheat and they sprouted up through the layer of wet newspaper underneath him - out of his barrelled chest. Guided by the sun’s rays, the wheat grew tall and strong, rich with Haroldino’s yeasty mulch.

It was not long before Stephanie could reap the wheat from Haroldino’s body and ground it into flour. As she ate the dense baked treat she noticed slight hints of ale and a subtle flavour of something long since forgotten.

She sensed a lingering taste of Haroldino’s essence as it connected with hers. She smiled and closed her eyes, her mind’s eye awash with memories of better times and left the crumb on her lip for later.