Family Secret

Jessie's parents have four words inscribed inside their wedding rings. Few people will ever see them. Those who do will be forced to endure a lengthy process, including Jessie's mother preparing the kitchen sink for the big reveal.

Any dirty dishes are relocated to the counter, stacked in diminishing size. First plates, then bowls, topped with cutlery. There's no danger of unwieldy pots and pans causing chaos to the ritual.

Why? Because every meal consumed in their home is carefully selected to eliminate the need to use either stovetop or oven. Meals not delivered hot from a nearby takeaway outlet arrive frozen in the grocery store's refrigerated delivery truck.

Jessie has never seen food enter her home in anything other than a disposable bag or a cardboard box. She's never witnessed her parents heat anything edible any way other than in a microwave oven … placed in a bowl or on a plate, of course.

Having served their purpose at meal times, all cutlery and crockery rests undisturbed in the kitchen sink until the very end of each day when they are methodically washed, dried, then left to wait until morning in a rack behind a cupboard door.

In the unlikely event that Jessie's mother feels the need to display the inscription within her wedding ring, out come the dirty dishes and in goes the plug.

Liquid soap poured generously over her ring finger lubricates the jerky push-pull action repeatedly required to eventually pass the gold band over her chubby finger.

Invariably the process is accompanied by the story of how her wedding ring disappeared down a drain within the first few months of her marriage … and how Jessie's father valiantly rescued it from a precarious position within the plumbing in their rented home on the fourth floor of an archaic stone building in the suburbs of a city they'd since abandoned and avoided for near on two decades.

I've heard the story a few times now. Listening intently the first time, all the details were new so I paused while eating my slice of chocolate cake to demonstrate appropriate respect and interest as she struggled with both the ring and the tale.

Why? Because I really like Jessie and I try my hardest to impress her parents and encourage them to like me.

Jessie sat opposite me that first time, coyly toying with her cake fork, scraping little more than the edges of the slice. Her reluctance surprised me because her grandmother suggested I visit with chocolate cake and she promised Jessie would love me for it.

I first met Jessie when I was shovelling snow from the crooked path that led to her grandmother's door. Our grandmothers are neighbours and I like them both.

“My son was engaged to another girl before he married,” Jessie's granny reflected one day. “She baked a terrific chocolate cake.”

Resting her fingers on my arm she insisted, “If ever you want to woo my granddaughter, visit with chocolate cake.”

Even before I decided to woo her, I went to visit. Entering Jessie's home was uncomfortable for someone like me, not used to the constant attention of a mother who insisted on always being close enough to witness every facial expression, hear every whisper and search for every innuendo.

But Jessie was fun and clever and interesting so I kept going back.

Now I'm a regular, thanks to Jessie's grandmother. As soon as I began missing Jessie's smile and found myself eagerly awaiting our next encounter, I thought I'd announce my intentions.

How? With a slice of chocolate cake, of course. In my mind I would arrive bearing my gift and Jessie would somehow melt, acknowledging my gesture as sweet and romantic.

That's not how it played out because Jessie at that time was also oblivious to the full implications of chocolate cake in her family home. It was a discovery we made together.

As a child she'd repeatedly been refused when requesting a chocolate birthday cake and knew her parents shunned any similar treat at the homes of others, but she never knew why. It remained a mystery she pondered as the family savoured other delicacies without hesitation.

My initial gesture was met with alarm merged with unspoken intrigue, Jessie later confessed. As I tore open the crisp paper bag revealing a small cardboard tray protecting a chocolate cake slice large enough to create three portions, she'd glanced at her mother.

While proudly cutting the cake ready to serve it onto three clean plates, I noticed Jessie paid me no attention at all. Instead, she merely gripped a cake fork tightly and watched her mother dash to the kitchen sink.

“You go ahead,” her mother mumbled as she dumped dirty dishes onto the counter. “I have something to show you.”

The story she told was long and rambling, peppered with glimpses into her life before Jessie. It was a love story of sorts that never quite made sense until she finally freed the ring from her finger and plonked it on the table between us, instructing us to look closely.

Oddly, she left the room. Odd because a married woman walked away from her wedding ring leaving it unguarded with two teenagers she'd previously indicated were irresponsible and not to be trusted, but even more odd because she never left us alone.

The way she told the story was a little different to the insight offered by Jessie's granny later when we burst into granny's kitchen to discuss the family secret together.

“We saw the ring!” I gloated.

“Thanks, Granny!” Jessie enthused with a kiss planted firmly on the old lady's cheek.

Four words changed our lives dramatically. Suddenly we held the key to having time alone. The sight of a crisp white paper bag folded into a pyramid to safely avoid spoiling chocolate frosting sent Jessie's mother into a rapid retreat.

Inside her wedding band were the words, 'NO CHOCOLATE CAKE EVER' in capitals, as though shouting it so it would never be ignored.

Of course texting hadn't been invented when Jessie's parents exchanged their wedding vows so capitals had no relevance to the message, but it thrilled me and tickled Jessie.

Jessie's mother packaged her tale without reference to her husband's former lover. Instead their shared commitment was seemingly born of the belief that nothing was sweeter than their decision to marry.

Granny, however, had deep conversations with her son before he took the big step of tying himself to a woman who had strange ways of tackling perceived problems and an apparent determination to structure her life to meet her own needs.

He loved her, no doubt, according to everyone. Yet for some reason, every time her betrothed bit into a piece of chocolate cake, there was an almighty eruption of tears and accusations that the willing young man who had promised to marry her was fantasising about his former lover.

“That kind of drama had to end,” Granny announced, “and end, it did. Your clever father inscribed the words he hoped would protect their lives together.”

“Worked well for them,” Jessie agreed.

“And working well for us, too,” I pointed out.

I don't bring chocolate cake every time I visit Jessie; just often enough to make sure we have special 'us' time.

Yes, we will marry. I'm sure of it.

When that day comes, we'll decide on four words of our own. Four good words with a story we'll enjoy telling to our future children.

No more family secrets.