| Author: |
Alan May |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, November 01 2011 @ 06:00 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
99 times |
|
Snowflakes drifted slowly through the leafless branches as the soft light of late afternoon stole away. The old oak chair creaked as Frank Marshal rocked back and forth watching as the blinking Christmas lights grew brighter, painting the snow in reds and greens.
Around him the senior’s home bustled, the staff milled among the visitors. He smiled as a boy not more than five or six raced past, stopping only briefly to scan the various trays and plates before racing off down the hall. With so many people talking at once, single conversations were largely lost, only laughter spilling out into the room interrupted the undulating tone.
Frank’s thoughts drifted, present and past all churning together. He pictured his children on Christmas morning, excited, barely able to sleep the night before. And his wife, hands wrapped tightly around a big mug of coffee, back to the wood stove, giggling along with the kids. Then the year the dog tore open half the gifts, they woke Christmas morning to shredded paper spread over half the house. The last one re-wrapped just as the first door creaked upstairs. A few were covered in fancy Christmas paper, most from an old roll of brown freezer wrap they dug up in the basement.
Growing up on a farm Frank’s family lived a simple life, this out of necessity more than choice. The Marshal family had everything they needed, and wanted for little else. Different times then, no one had or expected much more than the basics, a warm house, enough food, family and friends.
Often Frank’s thoughts of Christmas led him back to a man named Miklas Rosa and a night spent stranded in a drafty little shack on the edge of a shallow lake. Even with nearly eighty years between that strange Christmas past and where he sat now, memories of the big Hungarian farmer continued to flood back in. After that Christmas eve they saw a lot more of Miklas. Those few hours stranded together changed his life and theirs, the story of their night spent at the ice house told and retold over the years.
“Mr. Marshal your chowder’s ready.” Stella’s booming voice shook loose his wandering mind, bringing him back into the present. “It smells great Frank, might have to try some myself.” She’d concocted the thick stew like chowder just as instructed. An odd mix of ingredients requested by Frank Marshal weeks before, and as Christmas Eve approached he’d made numerous trips to the kitchen to confirm this special order was prepared just as directed.
***
“Wake up sleepy head,” Martha Marshal whispered into her six year old's ear. Gently she tickled his chin. The sleeping boy stirred under a mound of patchwork blankets, rubbed his eyes then, blinked at his mother.
“Come down for some breakfast Frankie, hurry, today we’re going to the ice house.”
Little Frank Marshal smiled and rolled out of bed, squealing as his bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. He’d looked forward to this day for some time, the sleigh slipping silently over the snow, their dog trotting along out front, the horses ambling along as if the big animals cared not whether any of them ever got to where they were going.
His mother disappeared down the hall, dry squeaky floorboards marking her swift but deliberate passage back toward the kitchen. The icehouse, how exciting, he couldn’t wait.
It wasn’t really an ice house at all, an eighteen by twenty two foot building tucked away in the trees on the edge of Swamp Lake. The shabby little building served as a bunkhouse many years before, and resided on the land of an ogrish giant named Miklas Rosa. All the older Marshal children recoiled at the sight of Miklas, the rumpled, tattered layers of dirty clothing, long greasy hair and bushy red beard did nothing to dispel this idea, nor did his seemingly nasty demeanor. He spoke in a low snarling growl, a raspy, caustic rendering made so much more terrifying by his thick Hungarian accent. As many times as not he’d appear out of the forest without making a sound, a hulking yet nearly invisible beast whose only purpose for being was to strike fear into the hearts of all but the smallest of the Marshal children.
Their Father seemed taken by this strange man, they’d become good friends in fact, the reason for which completely eluded them all. To add to this mysterious behavior was a puzzling transformation which took place each time he was in the presence of their mother.
Literally a man of two faces, the nasty growl and cutting, icy stare melted away instantly whenever he spoke to Martha Marshal. She smiled at this transformation too, so transparent, and amusing. He showed a respect to their parents that, unless seen, they’d have bet the farm wasn’t possible from such a horrible and ghastly oaf of a man.
The sweet, smoky aroma of homemade bacon drifted up the stairway, a welcome and familiar smell. The muffled clank of the stove door and clattering pots told of a very busy kitchen. Soon all the Marshals converged in this cramped and cluttered space. The mix of voices gaining resonance and volume as one by one each of the mismatched chairs at the long kitchen table slid into place. Although somewhat more sedate at dinner or supper, breakfast was a bit of a free for all. Bowls and plates emptied as if by magic, nearly spinning in place as the food seemingly evaporated.
Little Frank with his squeaky voice and mild demeanor was largely lost in this poorly choreographed one act play. He usually arrived at the table earlier, something surely arranged by his mother, and was the only one allowed to steal from the pots on the stove. Once his brother and sisters sat down however, all bets were off. The bowls and plates swept past Frankie in a blur as they were hurriedly passed around the table.
“Why on earth do we have to go and get our ice on Christmas Eve?” Phillip asked as he shoveled fried potatoes onto an already overflowing plate.
“Now’s as good a time as any. It’s a half day Phillip, then we’re done for the winter. Besides, after the cold stretch a couple weeks ago, the ice will be more than thick enough.”
He wasn’t alone in his distaste for their father's timing. Why not after New Year? At the very least wait until Christmas passed them by. He did this every year, never on Christmas Eve though. This was something new. Sawing and stacking ice for their ice house was indeed an annual event, they all knew it had to be done.
This was how the little shack on the edge of the lake had earned its name in the first place, the only time they bothered to go there was to collect the ice blocks so needed come spring. Their actual ice house was smaller, about ten by ten. The freshly sawn ice piled high in the little shelter, and packed with sawdust then, closed up until the outside temperatures warmed enough that their stores of food wouldn’t keep any longer. Right through until early fall this ice reserve was brought in, a piece at a time, to the big icebox in the kitchen.
Piled with hay bundles and blankets the big flat deck sleigh stood nearby ready for the hour and a half ride to the lake. Little Frankie all but disappeared in a hollow between the forward most row. A long knitted wool scarf trailed out from under the heavy horse blanket that served as his little cocoon. With lunch at last stored away and most settled in for the long ride the team became restless. Finally with a flip of the reins the sleigh jerked free and the heavy horses pulled off up the hill.
Not a breath of wind, and only the sound of the bells on the harnesses, the crunching snow under the horses' hooves, and the long metal clad sleigh runners as they skidded effortlessly along the narrow trail marked their passing. Vincent Marshal barely held the reins as they slipped along through the last of the trees. Just a gentle touch now and then or a little flip when the ambling team began to slow.
The old bunkhouse with little insulation and built from rough sawn planks provided three season accommodation at best. A small single pane window offered a broken view of the lake through the tree trunks and branches. A small rectangular table and a couple chairs remained as did one of the bunks, although to sleep in it would likely spell disaster.
Frankie scrambled over the bundles of hay and ran for the door. He loved their time at the ice house, the pot-belly stove popping and spitting. Its meager warmth barely broke the chill at the outer most corners of the poorly insulated building. Not old enough yet to saw or pile ice blocks, he spent his day scurrying between the warmth of the fire and the sleigh and horses, maybe hauling a little wood in the process. Frankie took it upon himself to tend the team. Such patient beasts, he poked and prodded at them throughout the day, dropped a bit of hay now and then or offering up an apple or a bit of sugar.
Martha dusted off the table and spread a small sheet to act as a table cloth. Not so much a tablecloth, rather a barrier against whatever had found its way onto the rough wooden surface throughout the year. This thought made her shudder. Oh how she’d love to scrub the thing down. It was not to be, however. They’d be there but a few hours, hardly long enough to warm up anymore than the stove itself.
As the long saw began tearing through the thick ice a gust of wind whipped the fine snow up and around the group of Marshals working unprotected out on the lake. The Eldest looked to the west; a heavy cloud bank loomed up, barely visible through a lingering haze on the horizon. He barely took notice of this change in the weather, being far too intent on the work at hand. The temperature crawled up almost imperceptibly through the morning, now at only –10 the gathering wind began a steady push to the southeast.
On the far shore a smallish black horse pulling a caboose came into view around a point of trees, its progress slow but steady. At a pressure ridge out near the middle it stopped. Now the lone occupant searched the ridge back and forth before leading the apprehensive animal through the jumble of jagged ice.
“Looks like Miklas has come to pay us a visit,” Vincent told no one in particular.
“Lovely, Miklas Rosa is just what we need,” was the moaning reply.
“That will be quite enough, besides you might hurt his feelings if you keep talking like that,” Vincent told his daughter with a smirk. “Wonder what he’s doing here?”
In all the years they’d been coming to Swamp Lake to cut ice Miklas had never once shown up. Being a little lazy may have contributed to this absence. It was also a long trip from his farmyard. Strange he’d bother to make the trip now; it was literally hours until Christmas.
The small caboose slid to a stop, steamy grey smoke poured out its battered little stovepipe. Miklas spilled from inside spewing a stream of tobacco juice as he greeted them. “Quite a day to cut ice isn’t it, storm brewing and all!”
“Good a day as any, we’ll be finished long before the weather hits. What brings you out this way?”
Miklas looked toward the growing cloud bank, then spit a dark brown wad of tobacco into the snow. Becky Marshal visibly shuddered. Miklas only smiled, he’d gotten exactly the reaction he was looking for. “Always come this way around Christmas, it’s a bit lonely in my big old farm house. I spend a couple days around here, do a little fishing, relax a little. And you know what they say, a change is as good as a rest.”
Phillip smiled, this man was likely the laziest person he knew. Relax a little, now that was rich. If Miklas got any more relaxed, he’d stop moving altogether. Last October Miklas rolled into the Marshal’s yard while he’d been patching a hole in the roof of the chicken coup. Miklas pulled up a pail and aggravated him while he worked, not once getting up to help. At least three times he’d climbed down to get a few nails, or cut a board. Miklas never stopped jabbering, nor did he bother to lend a hand. Finally he’d given up some very classic Miklas Rosa advice. “If you spent a bit more time planning your job before you get started you’d need not come down off the roof so much.” Phillip seethed at this comment.
His father nearly busted a gut laughing when told that night at supper. Although the rest of the family enjoyed a good laugh at his expense, they were also thankful, at least this once they hadn’t been the target of the now famous Rosa assault.
Miklas unhooked his horse near the grass edge then, lumbered up the hill toward the shack. Smoke billowed up out of the trees, the promise of fresh coffee and some of Martha’s baking too much for the old hermit to resist.
Frankie burst from inside, “Mr. Rosa, you come to cut ice?”
“No, No Frankie, I cut my ice in the spring. I’ve come to fish. Fresh fish for Christmas, there’s nothing like it.”
“Can I fish too? I’ve never caught a fish before.” Frankie said as he raced for the horse now tethered to a tree.
“Need to talk to your mother about that Frankie, you’ll likely be pulling out soon,” Miklas told him.
“We could go right now. Please Mr. Rosa.”
“Tell you what, you go ask how long they’ll be, and if there’s enough time I’ll take you out fishing for a bit.”
Only half of what Miklas said Frankie actually heard as he raced off down the hill and out onto the lake. The big man watched the little fellow go and shook his head, then turned and went inside.
Miklas chipped away at the foot thick layer of ice, chips flew out in all directions. Finally the lake water sealed away beneath began soaking through.Frankie stood by impatiently watching, the baited hook twirling slowly in the wind. Miklas marveled at the excitement and enthusiasm he saw in the small boy. Little Frankie inched in closer with every swing of the heavy chipping bar. Twice Miklas stopped to shoe him back out of the way.
A small hole appeared and Miklas stopped his swing. The bait was already dropping out of sight in the black water of the lake. “Frankie, the hole's not big enough yet.”
“I don’t care.”
“It needs to be bigger or we won’t be able to get the fish out.”
Frankie reluctantly pulled his line out of the hole and stood dancing around the big farmer while he finished chipping.
Fresh fallen flakes joined the drifting snow about the time the Marshal clan converged on the shack for lunch. The wind grew steadily stronger in the short time they spent inside.
“Dad, when’s Frankie coming back? I can hardly see past the trees.”
Vincent peeked out the window. The trees swayed, snow swirled off the low eve. The change in weather was remarkable. In the twenty minutes they’d been inside it became impossible to see much of anything.
“Might as well bring in the horses and drop the harnesses. Looks like we’ll be staying a while.”
“What about Frankie?” Phillip asked. "You can’t see fifty feet out there."
Martha looked over her glasses, “He’ll be fine. Miklas navigates better in a storm than any horse can.”
Miklas walked out front, slowly, carefully picking his way across the uneven surface. The holes cut by the Marshals appeared one after the other. At last he could see the shoreline with its scrub brush and long grasses. Frankie was unaffected by the wind and drifting snow, oblivious to the storm that swept down on them. He’d stared at that little hole in the ice as if gold were about to bubble forth. Now, tucked away inside the caboose, he was snug and warm.
The mood in the little shack changed the instant the door swung open, a mixture of revulsion and relief moved through the little shelter. Little Frankie waddled in holding a huge Pike, its evil looking tooth filled mouth level with his chin, the broad green tail bounced with each step between his snow covered boots. He smiled widely, so proud of this long slimy, spotted green monster.
Both were white with snow, Frankie only slightly, Miklas however, after leading his horse through first the pressure ridge then past all the square holes, was covered in a thick clinging layer. His beard and moustache caked and frozen, his hat and shoulders almost mounded. Miklas said little, likely as not holding his tongue so Frankie could enjoy a moment of glorious uninterrupted story telling.
“Like my jackfish, mom? Mr. Rosa says he’ll make me his famous fish chowder” Frankie said excitedly.
“Well it’s certainly big enough. Funny the thing didn’t pull you right down through the hole.”
“Nearly did, Mr. Rosa had to help a little.”
Miklas spoke up now. “Fishes like a pro, think he’s landed the biggest fish in the lake.”
Little Frankie beamed at this and attempted to hoist his half frozen prize onto the table.
“Not so fast Frankie. I think it needs a bit more work before it’s ready for the pot,” Martha said.
While the older Marshals helped Frankie ready his catch for the table Miklas sat drinking coffee and talking to Vincent. “Storm's a two day blow for sure.”
“Maybe, could be over in a few hours too.” Vincent replied, not really believing it himself.
“I’m not so sure, likely last at least until morning Vincent.”
“Well then Miklas, I certainly hope you’ve brought some grub with you. There’s going to be a lot of growling bellies around here in a few hours,” Martha said without turning from the stove.
“Martha, you keep the coffee coming. I’ll worry about filling those gurgling bellies.” Miklas told her with a wide grin.
The Marshal children stared back in horror. The thought of Miklas Rosa cooking, well it really was preposterous. Miklas was already digging around in his pack. Onions, potatoes, and turnips rolled from within the rumpled canvas bag. From his belt he withdrew a large bone handled knife. Wiping it on his pant leg he was about to begin chopping the numerous vegetables when Martha raised her hand.
“Miklas, why don’t you tend to your horse? I’ll look after preparing all this.”
“Why that would be just splendid, let me know when it is time to drop it all into the pot,” Miklas replied.
Everyone hoped when their mother opted to chop up the vegetables she’d be cooking it as well. They all eagerly awaited her response.
“Certainly Miklas, I’m not one to be a pest in someone else’s kitchen.”
She must be kidding. Not even Vincent really believed his wife would step aside and allow this overgrown smelly fur ball to cook for them.
At last the long white fillets from Frankie’s big fish lay on the table. Martha watched as Miklas shook off a couple of layers of clothing. Only when he was about to begin preparing the fish for his chowder did she pipe in. “Miklas I’ve warmed some water to wash your hands.”
Speechless for only a moment Miklas slowly turned to the pot of water on the stove. Hesitating before the big pot he started to speak, stopped himself then dipped his hands into the warm water. Martha smirked a little, and glanced at her husband who rolled his eyes slightly, nodding a silent thank you. If anyone else tried suggesting he wash up before cooking supper he’d have laughed it off. Martha knew he’d oblige her politely, even though the old bachelor likely gritted his teeth the entire time.
“Frankie come over and help me, we’ve got to cut the y bone out before chopping it up for the pot.”
The littlest Marshal bounced over to the table. Frankie beamed as he poked and prodded at the thick slab of fish. Miklas played up the entire operation, becoming almost theatrical, waving his knife, humming away as he worked. He had a captive audience, and was enjoying every minute of it.
Such a strange concoction it was, and so much garlic. Clove after clove dropped into the pot, then turnips, carrots and corn, onions and peas, all tipped in generous amounts into the bubbling brew. At last two quart sealers of cream, nearly frozen after the long journey from the farm. Funny I never imagined I’d be cooking my famous chowder for the Marshal clan this Christmas. I do this every year, well usually on Christmas Day. This year for some reason I brought enough for a week, lucky thing or we’d all be rather hungry.”
“Yeah, lucky thing,” Phillip whispered from over on the top bunk.
Miklas sauntered over and gave the rickety bed a little shove. It swayed wildly before resting against the wall. Everyone laughed, Phillip came off the top as if it were on fire.
“Phillip why don’t you find some rope and wrap the corners, someone’s going to be sleeping up there tonight,” Vincent told his son.
Phillip grumbled as he opened the door and stepped out into the blowing snow. The wind whipped the fine white powder into the room, a quick blast of cold and the heavy plank door slammed shut.
Seeing the big pot bubbling on the stove top, Miklas settled onto the end of one of the rough wooden benches. He likely weighed in just shy of three hundred pounds, these generous proportions were more than enough to lift the other end of the bench. Frankie teetered only a moment before tumbling to the floor. Miklas shifted slightly,and the bench slowly found its way back to earth.
Frankie giggled and scrambled up onto the seat, “again Mr. Rosa, again.”
Miklas smiled and, as if by magic, the youngster was hoisted skyward. Eve Marshal, barely a teenager, despised the big oaf perched on the bench beside her. So many times humiliated by the man, she now saw an opportunity to give back, an opportunity so rarely seen.
Just as Frankie jumped from the high end of the bench, Eve stood and crossed the room to stand near the stove. Although Miklas had expected little Frankie to depart, the lack of ballast caused by the older Marshal’s departure came as a complete surprise. The rickety bench folded as if made from cardboard. Arms waving in circles, legs pawing at nothing but air, the big man hit the floor hard. The broken bench crashed to the floor missing Frankie by inches. Although Eve intended for Miklas to fall, no amount of planning could have produced anything half this spectacular. The look of surprise was priceless, all the color instantly drained from his face.
Miklas quickly gained his composure, however. Before either of the Marshal parents stepped in he told the now terrified teenager, “good one Eve, never even saw it coming, truly the mark of a first class prankster.”
Unable to reply, Eve stood anchored to the plank floor. The trick played on Miklas was spontaneous, the envy of all the Marshals save for Frankie who likely saw this as nothing more than an unfortunate accident.
“We both went Flying, didn’t we Mr. Rosa,” Frankie told the flustered farmer.
“Yes we did,” he replied, winking at Vincent.
Vincent Marshal, about to speak, fell silent. Miklas was a character, one who could take it as well as dish it out. So seldom he put himself in a position where the jokes were turned on him. Vincent couldn’t remember any time when his children were anything but a target for the big practical joker.
Eve finally worked up enough nerve to talk to Miklas, “so you come to the ice house every year Mr. Rosa?”
“Well most every year. Sometimes I come a little earlier, depends on the weather, and my mood,” he replied with a crooked smile.
Eve was uncomfortable talking to the man. Any interaction between them in the past was usually after Miklas had just dispensed some of his witty advice, or a wise crack perhaps. Eve couldn’t remember ever actually talking to Miklas. His non-threatening response, and the smile now gracing his face set her at ease only a little. “How about when you were little, what was your Christmas like?”
Miklas sauntered over to the bunk and sat down beside Frankie. He said nothing for a moment, and the Marshal children, expecting the worst, fell completely silent.
“In Hungary our Christmas was a bit different. Well some things were the same, it’s a time to spend with your family. This is the same. There are small gifts, and we use stockings of a sort, boots actually.”
Frankie’s squeaky voice sounded so small after listening to Miklas, “why do you use boots, aren’t they kinda smelly?”
He smiled down at Frankie, “well they might be, but I wasn’t about to take a chance Mikulas would pass me by.”
“Who’s Mikulas?”
“Mikulas is the Hungarian version of Santa Claus, and if you are bad he will only leave a switch in your boot. No candy, no surprises. Just a switch for your parents, if you know what I mean.” He looked down at Frankie, enjoying the reaction once the boy realized what the switch was for. “Now most children aren’t all bad, nor are they perfect either so likely as not there’d be both a switch and some candy and toys. I still set my boot in the window. Of course there was never a switch, only candy in my boot Christmas morning,” he said with a sly smile.
Little Frankie piped up as if he’d only now figured out what the Miklas was really talking about, “is that cause you’re so good Mr. Rosa?”
“Of course it is Frankie.”
The eye rolling went in a wave around the room. Even Vincent couldn’t help making a face. Miklas continued. “We often ate fish at Christmas, sometimes turkey, and cabbage of course. Different foods had special meaning in Hungary. Garlic brings health, honey makes life sweet.”
“It looks like your chowder's about finished Miklas.”
“Oh, thank you Martha. Well let’s find a few bowls and a bit of bread, then we can fill up some of those empty bellies.”
In all only four bowls surfaced, so the youngest started first. Miklas made a surprisingly good host, dipping his chowder with a tin coffee cup and carefully pouring the steaming broth into the row of raised bowls. No smart remarks, no tricks, only a genuine concern all received enough to eat. At last when everyone else’s needs were met he scraped the pot and sat down to eat. His bowl was barely half full. Still, he savored each mouthful as if it were his last.
“Thanks Mr. Rosa,” Frankie yawned and stretched under a heavy wool horse blanket spread out near the stove.
“Well you helped with this chowder didn’t you Frankie? It just wouldn’t have been the same without the big green spotted serpent you pulled from beneath the ice.”
Frankie beamed momentarily, but as the heat from the stove seeped through those tired little muscles his eyes lids began to flutter. Soon he slipped into a peaceful sleep. Miklas stared long at the sleeping boy, “they go so hard don’t they, then they just all of a sudden slide to a stop.”
“Yes they do, it’s almost magical,” Martha replied in a whisper.
One by one the rest of the Marshals found their own corner and curled up to rest. Miklas stayed up to tend the stove. He looked around at the sleeping group in wonder. It had been years since he’d been around anyone at Christmas. He’d forgotten how good it felt. Finally the long day caught up to him and he too found a spot and drifted off to sleep.
When Vincent finally awoke, the darkness was nearly complete. The meager glow from the stove had died away over an hour before. A soft light, through the frost on the only window, barely hinted of more favorable weather. He stepped from the shack into bright moonlight. The snow shone as if on fire. What a gorgeous Christmas morning.
Gathering an armful of wood he carefully filled the stove, then went out to harness the horses. Vincent moved quietly and deliberately packing all their gear. Finally, each of his family awakened in turn and walked out to the waiting sleigh.
Just as the sleigh broke free, Phillip waved his hand to stop, “Eve, come give me a hand.”
Both clambered down and began searching in the dark along the leaning covered porch. When Eve finally produced an old boot Vincent began to laugh and tossed them a willow switch. Carefully they crept in past the twitching, snorting Hungarian. On a bench under the window they placed the boot and inserted the switch. Just as they turned to leave Frankie shot past, stopping at the bench only a second before scurrying back out to the waiting sleigh.
The sleigh slid over the snow, the bright moonlight painting the land and put a soft glow on all the happy, contented faces. They talked long about Miklas Rosa and laughed at Eve spilling the big oaf off the old bench. It was nearly sunup when at last the horses were safely in the barn.
Miklas stirred and stretched, tired and sore. He’d slept only a few hours on the hard plank floor. Through the thick frosted window, light streamed into the cold little shack, hinting of a sunny day. Finally he sat up looking around. The place was empty. He smiled at first, thinking of the wonderful evening spent with the Marshals, but after a time a deepening sadness set in. He was alone once again, another Christmas spent all by himself at the ice house. It hadn’t really bothered him much before, but somehow it was different.
He stood to tend the stove and noticed the old boot perched on the bench, the thin willow switch slanting up and out of its top. He chuckled, shook his head and stepped out into the sunlight to gather a bit of wood. Miklas stood a moment on the porch, his eyes following the tracks left by the sleigh runners out across the clearing. He imagined the Marshals around their Christmas tree, and wondered what it was like to have family around. Someone to talk to and laugh with, to share each meal, stories traded and retold.
Sitting near the crackling fire, Miklas lifted the willow branch from inside the boot. So they think he needs a good switching do they. As it cleared the top, the boot tipped over and Frankie’s silver whistle fell to the floor. He stooped over and picked up the tarnished little treasure. Bad and good, well, he could live with that. Miklas looked around the old shack where he’d spent so many Christmas’s by himself. He looked at the boot sitting on the bench and sighed, well maybe he’d not be alone on Christmas anymore.
***
Frank slowly sipped his chowder. It really did taste good, just enough garlic. It had been years since he’d tried to recreate the concoction Miklas served them so many years before. The atmosphere of course was impossible to recreate, likely best not to bother trying at his age.
He settled into a big arm chair just as his great granddaughter rounded the corner. She smiled wide and raced over, wiggling in next to him. “So did you eat up all your chowder Grandpa?”
“Yes I did, it was very good too.”
“Did they put the green serpent in?”
“Well, I’m not so sure they did. I think only Miklas Rosa ever made chowder using a green spotted serpent.”
“Who’s Miklas Rosa, Grandpa?”
“Who was Miklas Rosa? Now that’s a very good question. Maybe I’ll start by telling you all about our time at the ice house, then we might be able to figure out who Miklas Rosa really was.”
|
|
 |
|
