A matter of taste

There were few things Martha considered worse than a poorly planned dinner party, except perhaps an unsatisfactory final course. Fortunately, she had never been one to leave things to chance. The flowers, for instance, were just as important as the food and Martha would never dream of setting a table without the very best arrangement.

"Good morning, Martha." Mr. Perkins, the old florist, greeted her. "Good morning, George. I'm looking for something rather specific today." He looked up from the intricate bouquet he was putting together, a curious twinkle in his eyes. “Do tell. You know I like a challenge.” Martha paused for a second. She noticed his hands were trembling slightly and he looked rather thinner than she remembered. “It’s peonies,” she said, composing herself. “But blush-to-white, if you have those.” “Let me check.” Martha watched Mr. Perkins shuffle to the back. She heard him coughing profusely and when he reappeared, he seemed somewhat out of breath. In his hands, he held a beautiful arrangement of the lightest pink peonies. “Perfect!” Martha exclaimed. “And what’s the occasion, if I might ask?” “Oh, they’re for Patricia,” Martha said. “They’re the same ones she used to have in her bakery.” Mr. Perkins looked at her with tender eyes. “Oh yes, I remember. I walked by there only yesterday.” Another coughing fit interrupted the sudden silence. Martha glanced at the register and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” she said somewhat hesitantly. “Hang in there,” he managed to say, feebly waving his bony hand. His eyes were tearing slightly and Martha couldn’t help thinking it was he who was doing the hanging in. 

Martha had loved throwing dinner parties ever since she was little. The colours, the aromas. There was something about it that left her feeling utterly satisfied, full of life. A good meal, in her opinion, would often say what forced conversation could not. Connection on a deeper, more tasteful level. So every year, Martha made a point of inviting a handful of people who might otherwise be forgotten. Her phone rang as she was driving to the supermarket, eyeing a piece of stray hair that escaped her immaculately styled curls in her rearview mirror. “Martha speaking,” she said sweetly. Her eyes darted to the caller ID: Unknown number. “Hi, this is Ellie Hops, registered nurse at Jersey General.” Martha smiled and pushed the stray hair back into place. “I’m calling you because you left a request for a callback,” the woman continued.” “Ah yes”, Martha said, making it sound almost like an afterthought. “I am glad you called. It is a bit of an odd question, I must admit, but it concerns my husband Joël.” When Martha pictured herself with a man - a thing she hardly ever did - she pictured a Joël. Like Joël Robuchon, the famous French chef. “Yesterday he visited one of your patients, Miss P. Frazey, in room 204,” she continued. “And really, I told him not to do it, but, you know considering the circumstances, he, well, he ate some of her food. I know, stupid, Martha added quickly before continuing. She left no room for the nurse to respond. Better get it out fast. “And, well, this morning he woke up all covered in hives. The doctor thinks it might be something he ate. But we absolutely have no clue what it could be.” “Oh, so sorry to hear that. Is there something we can do to help?” Ellie replied with audible concern in her voice. What an appropriate response, Martha thought, and she even considered that the woman might just mean it. 

Just when Martha pulled into the supermarket parking lot, her phone pinged. One new email from oncology@jerseygeneral.com. This whole commercialization of healthcare did make them so deliciously accommodating. She opened the email as she entered the shop. It read Pumpkin chicken casserole with sticky toffee pudding, followed by a long list of ingredients. Marvelous. Time for shopping.   

The steaming sweet odor of caramelized onions danced around the kitchen while the sharp blade of the cooking knife clicked with a smooth rhythm on the chopping board as Martha diced the pumpkin. She hummed slightly as she glanced towards her - in her not-so-modest opinion - quite impressive collection of cookbooks. Martha liked to preserve the memory of her dinner parties by writing down the recipes, for future savouring, so to speak. Once the casserole was in the oven, she took out a thick book with the year 2026 embossed in golden letters upon the spine. She flicked to one of the last pages. It had been a busy year this year, lots of dinner parties. Not that Martha was complaining. The more the merrier. After she washed her hands - no grease stains, thank you very much- she started jotting down the recipe under an elegant heading reading Dinner with Patricia. In the corner she glued a picture. It was a nice old fashioned black and white one. It showed Patricia and her husband in front of their bakery, peonies in hand. Martha found it on the internet, in the archive of a local newspaper. It came with an article on a two-day bakemarathon for a good cause, cancer research even, Martha recalled. Well, life has a way of twisting the knife, she thought. But they looked happy enough back then. He did the baking and she would run the shop. Martha used to go to the bakery from time to time. The freshly baked sourdough was to die for, honestly. That man knew his way around an oven. Martha had him over for a dinner party once, around 2018, June, if she was not mistaken. It had been a while too now since she had last seen Patricia. After she got ill, she stopped working in the bakery altogether. Martha had seen her a couple of times after that, walking her dog in the town square. The walks, however, grew rapidly shorter and shorter and eventually stopped, as Martha knew they would. Ding. The eager sound of the oven pulled her back out of her memories. Cheese bubbled slowly, revealing slight glimpses of the golden-brown goodness underneath. Just a couple more minutes and then it would be perfect. Martha did not need to resort to crude measures such as poking or prodding to see when something was nearly done. After years of experience, she just knew. Martha grabbed the bookmark scribbled with names, placed it between the pages and started to close the book, when a sudden idea popped into her head. She took a pen and wrote down the name George Perkins on top of the list. She needed to invite him to dinner sooner rather than later, she thought. Now was not the time however, to dwell on what was to come. Tonight was all about Patricia. And since food only tastes half as good on an ugly plate, she bustled to the dining room and pulled out the formal porcelain and her grandmother's finest silverware. After all, her grandmother had been the reason she threw her very first party and using it felt like keeping her memory alive.

Martha put on some light jazz, nothing too overwhelming and placed the casserole next to peonies on the beautifully set dinner table. Dinnertime. She pulled back the empty chair opposite her and exclaimed heartily, “Oh, hello dear, so sorry to keep you waiting. You know how these things go. I wanted it to be cooked perfectly. You can’t rush these things.” The jazzy notes filled the air, hugging her words and keeping them company. Martha grabbed the bottle of wine and showed it to the chair. “It’s a Shiraz, great vintage, it will go great with the sweet undertones of the pumpkin.” She filled her glass and hovered temporarily over the other one, but then decided not to. She was not one to waste a good glass of wine. “I hope you liked it, Patricia.” She raised her glass in a toast. Death, Martha thought, was no excuse for bad table manners. The casserole, on the whole, tasted a bit bland, but then again, that was not entirely surprising. The recipe did have an appalling lack of seasoning. Martha quickly added a pinch of salt to her plate. After all these years, she was entitled to some culinary liberties. She grabbed her cookbook and wrote an overall score of 7/10 next to the recipe. For her own final meal, she would prefer something more elevated, maybe something French, Martha concluded. But, well, I guess it’s really all a matter of taste.