ὄστρακα

Dinner Time

"So, Mrs M, what's for dinner?"

Old Man McGregor strode through the door and into the kitchen. He placed his shotgun in the umbrella stand, before making his way to the range. Mrs McGregor was standing there, stirring the contents of a large, iron pot. Her husband leaned over her shoulder and inhaled the savoury steam that rose up from the bubbling liquid. "That smells good."

"Mind your business," Mrs McGregor said, swatting at Mr McGregor with the flat of her wooden spoon. "You'll find out soon enough. Now - sit!"

"Reckon I will," Mr McGregor replied. He disengaged himself from his wife and went to the kitchen table. There was the scrape of wood on stone flags as Mr McGregor pulled a chair out from under the table, then sat down. "It's been a good day," he said to no-one in particular.

"Aye?" Mrs McGregor looked over her shoulder.

"Aye. The garden is lovely. The lettuces are coming up nicely, and it looks like the carrots have recovered. We should have a good crop in a few weeks."

"Nothing like homegrown vegetables," Mrs McGregor remarked. "And there is nothing like homemade stew."

Old Man McGregor looked up. "Is that what you're making?"

Mrs McGregor smiled. "It is." She started to lay the table, placing plates and cutlery in front of her husband. "You know, I haven't seen you this happy in a long time."

"Well, it's because I've finally sorted out those pests, isn't it."

"Well, you've not quite seen the last of them." Mrs McGregor came back to the table, carrying the iron pot from the stove. She set it down in front of her husband and began to stir through the still-simmering contents. Then, having found a particularly thick helping of the stew, she ladled it onto her husband's plate.

Mr McGregor trawled through his portion, before spearing some pieces of meat and vegetable. He lifted them to his mouth, popped them in and chewed. "Champion, that, Mrs M," he remarked. "Absolutely champion." Then he mopped the gravy from his mouth with a piece of sky-blue fabric.