Cooking from the Heart.

The lavender infused, chocolate mud-cake slid easily out of the heart shaped tin. She heaved a big sigh of relief, then inhaled deeply to enjoy the hot spicy air escaping from the cake. A slight perspiration wet her forehead, she lifted her linen apron up and used it to pat her face, leaving smudges of flour on her eyebrows. She gathered cups, plates and spoons. She warmed the teapot and poured the creamy milk into a pretty jug. It was a very special day, their anniversary. She intended morning ‘smoko‘ to be memorable. A repose wafted over her. She looked out the window.

There he was .......at the wood-heap striking accurately with the axe. Shards of iron bark and pine splintered the air. His singlet was already hinting at a sweat. His face shone. He looked supremely happy and contented........

They had met seven years ago to the day. He wasn’t well, his life ebbing away. His desperate gasping for air and the gurgling sound of phlegm still haunted her. He pursued her, exuding a sad, lost boy charm she found appealing & despite all the reasons why she shouldn’t, she fell in love with him. They longed for a place in the country and despite his ailing health or because of it, they ignored any doubts and left their lives in the high rise unit far behind.

They married and bought a little piece of paradise high above the cacophony of the city. The mountain air was crisp and the water as pure as a vial from Lourdes or something equally heavenly. She felt hopeful and optimistic, love does this. She believed nothing was insurmountable, not even his prognosis. They planted an oak tree to celebrate their new life together. She made heart shaped ginger biscuits with sprinkles of cinnamon & nutmeg. Despite it being summer they rugged up against the cold, clinging together as they devoured the biscuits and drank billy tea. The wind and fog swirled around their little oak tree.

She made it her mission to get him well - she delved into her Celtic ancestry, the belief of the supernatural forces of the natural world and the worship of the earth, rivers and mountains. She read widely about herbs and their power to heal. She planted according to the moon‘s phases. The vegetable garden, once loaded with potatoes, started sprouting greens, beetroot, garlic, old world tomatoes and a myriad of herbs all thoughtfully selected for their health giving and restorative properties - fenugreek, horseradish, figwort, plantain, coltsfoot, nettles, sage, parsley, mint & dandelion all intended to rejuvenate his immune system and cleanse his lungs of the gunk and looming shadows. Each morning she lit a candle & gave thanks to nature’s gifts - the mountains, the river, the trees, and most importantly, the earth beneath her, rich with the lives of all creatures & plants that had come before her.

Her life followed the seasons. Her days were filled with what she could get done to make him well. In the Spring she turned over the deep rich soil and planted an abundance of herbs and vegetables. Each morning she selected bounty from the garden to make him a juice that exploded with vitality.

The summer was a flurry of activities- under the piercing mountain sun she toiled relentlessly. She watered, she mulched, she carted big loads of manure to enrich and nourish the soil . She planted successive crops to ensure he had a constant supply of what he needed. She felt strong and invincible and was determined to the point of obsession to make him strong and invincible too.

Surplus produce was dried under the clear crisp autumn skies, she inhaled the intoxicating oils of the herbs warmed by the sun above her. She preserved the stone fruits from the orchard, she made relishes, she pickled onions & froze corn, beans & peas.

She scurried around ’squirrel like’ preparing for the winter, the long, cold, foggy winter of their mountain home. She devoted the evenings to concocting healing herbal elixirs inspired by the lore of Celtic medicine women. The wood stove crackled, warming the house. She warmed his heart with the love she invested in the food she prepared for him.... Meals crammed with goodness from the garden - lavender scones, baked yams, vegetable frittatas. Her ‘superman’ soups were full of herbs, flowers and foraged mushrooms. Each spoonful he ingested was a potent hit of life force blended with her love, willing him to get better.....

Indeed, in time, his breathing became quiet and even. The oxygen tank was returned to the city. The maze of tests revealed lungs that were pink and clear - no lurid, cancerous shadows to be seen. The doctors were stunned and disbelieving. They reordered all of the tests only to find the same results- pink, healthy, working lungs.

He felt invincible, re-born, he had been given a reprieve and he wasn’t going to waste it. He wanted to tell the world about her herbal cures, he wanted to expand the garden of miracles ...... to make a worthy income for their future together while doing something they loved & believed in .

In a short time, business was booming. Her market stalls became legendary, laden with organic produce, the freshest free-range eggs and of course, her little bottles of magic. People would travel for hours to purchase her herbal elixirs, credited with miracles big & small. They worked endlessly to keep up to the demand of their devoted customers. They decided they needed an extra set of hands to assist with all that needed doing and to keep their work joyful. They advertised for a farm hand and after much deliberation they made their selection.

A month later, she drove to the train station, an hour away, to pick him up. The train pulled in to the little railway station, its engine ebbing and brakes screeching. He was the only passenger to alight, but he filled the platform with his presence. Six feet plus of chiselled magnificence. He stood high & proud. His arms were tanned, sinewy & defined, his shoulders wide as a bear’s. She was taken aback. He was breathtaking, worthy of a place on a pedestal in a museum. She walked over to him and introduced herself, her voice choking in her throat. He lifted his hat, an endearing old fashioned gesture. His hair was dark, his eyes darker. She was struck by the sincerity in his eyes & his total lack of awareness of his charisma and beauty. She regained her composure, refocused and showed him to the farm truck.

He was a hard worker, putting in long days. She was freed up to concentrate on her elixirs and the markets and the farmhand worked alongside her husband toiling away with all that needed doing. The seasons came & went and the beautiful cycle of life continued at the magic mountain home.

After selling out of everything on her stall by lunchtime, she was pleased to be travelling home earlier than usual. She felt at one with the road she drove on so often now. She pondered her richly, rewarding life and felt a wave of amazement & contentment engulf her very being. She turned into the tree lined driveway relieved to be home. The men would no doubt be in the orchard this time of day. She thought she would surprise them with a well deserved afternoon smoko. She made a big thermos of billy tea and wrapped slices of orange cake, packing them carefully into her backpack. She headed to the orchard along her favourite bush track. The blue wrens darted about her & she could hear the magpies‘ familiar melancholy song coming from the stands of eucalypts.

She could see the men‘s vague outlines in the valley below her, as she edged closer she could see them more clearly....... too clearly. She stopped, stunned. There was her husband in a passionate embrace with the farm hand. She watched tremulous, unable to comprehend the passion play unfolding before her. She fell to the ground, it was cold, hard and unforgiving. She saw the blood oozing from the gash on her knee but she felt no physical pain, just the searing pain burning up her heart..........

The lavender & hemlock infused chocolate mud-cake slid easily out of the heart shaped tin. She heaved a big sigh of relief & then inhaled deeply to ensure the hemlock couldn’t be detected in the air. A slight perspiration wet her forehead, she lifted her linen apron up and used it to pat her face, leaving smudges of flour on her eyebrows. She gathered cups, plates and spoons. She warmed the teapot and poured the creamy milk into a pretty jug. It was a very special day, their anniversary. She intended morning smoko to be memorable. A repose wafted over her. She looked out the window.

There he was........ at the wood-heap striking accurately with the axe. Shards of iron bark and pine splintered the air. His singlet was already hinting at a sweat. His face shone. He looked supremely happy and contented as the farm hand walked toward him to stack the cut wood into the wood shed.

She cut the cake into large pieces, placing them on the tray with the teapot and milk.

She opened the window and called out “Smoko!”......................