“Scottish Falafel and English Muffin Tea”
What happens when a case of nerves meets a conflagration of family colors? Servers can become confused, it seems. Imagine what local serfs must have felt at a clan gathering when delivering food to the Laird’s table. And, of course, no one ‘ordered’ anything in those times, except the occasional corporal punishment or more whiskey. Intimidation on the part of the local serving staff is largely understandable given circumstances.
The most hilarious moment, in what was a dinner honoring the late Scottish poet Robert Burns, was when a young server appeared at the head table to take dessert orders. The piper, one David Gillespie, {from another clan} asked what was available. The server promptly replied “Scottish Falafel.” The piper and two diners at that end of the table looked befuddled. I smothered a laugh and asked the young woman if she meant “trifle,” as the menu had suggested. At that point, I was rather hoping the trifle might be taken as a smallish something and contained alcohol.
“Oh! Yes!” she stammered, continuing to offer me the option of a pot of “English Muffin” tea. Bless her heart. She added levity to what was already a hilarious evening. As some might be aware, an “English Muffin” is an American bakery invention, lying somewhere between scone and crumpet, and made famous by a company called Thomas, allegedly due to air pockets found in the risen dough known as “nooks and crannies.” It is a commercial mystery of the “we speak English on this side of the pond too,” variety. I shan’t go there, at least not in this writing.
“I’ll have the English Breakfast tea then,” I replied, knowing that if I asked for lemon with the Earl Grey, the server might have heart failure. I kept wondering about her bloodlines and what this event might be bringing up for her. She was so clearly off her game. Said pot of tea arrived just in time for the head table to be up, off, and away to what was a lovely performance, whose master of ceremonies was none other than my father.
Duly arrayed in full regalia, he did an impressive job of delivering a history of the accomplishments of Robert Burns, and the origins of Scots in general. Toward the end of the programme he sang the Burns poem, “A Red, Red, Rose,” which had been his lifelong poetic declaration of love for my late mother. Hearing my father sing, and this song in particular, broke my heart.
Mum moved on from her body ten years ago. Life has moved on as well, as must we all. Following the greatest flow density, we are carried and supported.
My towering brother saw my face and lifted an eyebrow in question. “That was Mum’s song,” I whispered, as unexpected tears shot from my eyes. Hiding the fact that I was ‘giving moisture to the dead’ {expression borrowed from Frank Herbert’s book, Dune} I tucked my face into my brother’s embrace for a second. It was only a second, mind, the show must go on. He whispered, “He read that at her funeral.” I remembered. I remembered how, at the moment her ‘box’ was carried from the service to the sound of bagpipes, it began to snow. We have shared many magical moments, this clan and I. I remembered her singing voice, and my Dad’s. I recalled, with gratitude, the many gifts of their love, my life included. Was I ‘giving moisture’ to a memory or to the living love that knows no death?
Love is an ever-growing, ever-fluid expression of the sacred in us all. I am grateful for its abundance in my life, even if it does come with “Scottish Trifle and English Muffin tea” for afters.
Big fat flakes of late winter snow fall past my window this morning. So lovely. I am grateful I was able to fly in ahead of the weather. Source has seen to that for me, for this life. I am, and have been, so very blessed.
When the weather of the world hits, may we be stalwart and receive it well. May we rejoice in all that moves, as it moves on.
