more Five Things Sherlock Ate: Rice Pudding
Expansion 3: Rice Pudding
When Sherlock was 17, his father fell off Hvannadalshnúkur into a crevasse and never came out. Dead, said the telegram. Were telegrams used for any other kind of news?
Mrs. Holmes took the shock surprisingly well. Mycroft...as far as anyone could tell, Mycroft experienced only two stages of grief. After Distaste, he stalled at Polite Disbelief. There would have been little point in progressing to Exacting Revenge, not against nature herself, though circumstances were still under investigation. Mycroft was closer to one side of his father, Sherlock to another. Mummy had no sides.
“Must have been hard on your parents,” said John, rummaging for a clean spoon. “Bringing up a human lie-detector.” His ears were pink; he was annoyed.
“Not that I noticed.”
I want you to apologize to Mycroft, said Mummy. She swept the back of a butter knife across the top of the teacup she used for measuring rice. She was precise in her unorthodoxy; unlike most non-cooks (as Sherlock would not know until later in life, when he made it a point of inquiry), when driven to perform, she did not rely anxiously on the proper tools and tightly worded instructions. She understood proportions innately. She could have learned to cook, had she had the slightest interest in it. Or in food. She left the catering arrangements to her husband and the cooks who drifted in and out. “He was fond of that girl and you were horrid to her.” Sherlock’s legs were too long now for his favorite chair. He set his heels on the cross-bar and rested his forearms on his upward-jutting knees. “She’s a grasping little climber with breast implants,” said Sherlock. “She lied about...”
“Yes, dear, so you informed us. Over luncheon.” She poured milk to an invisible line inside the jug.
“Over luncheon at our table. In our house. Father wouldn’t have let her through the door.”
“Your father was also fond of grasping little climbers.” Grains of rice crunched under her shoes as she carried the saucepan to the range. “And breasts.” Sherlock snorted. His mother was not using her secretly amused voice. “You were rude to your brother, to his guest, and to me.” She adjusted the flame under the pot. “You were rude to assume you knew more than anyone else at that table. You were foolish to think that neither Mycroft nor I saw that--saw her--oh, really, Sherlock!”
“Saw her ill-considered interest in the much more attractive, younger brother? The one alas without the breast fixation.” The one who had, nevertheless, been curious to gather tactile data. “The one who said what no one else would. The one who is being rewarded with pudding.” The one who was rolling a raisin between his fingers and comparing it to the nipple that had been thrust at his cheek.
“Apologize,” said Mummy. The spoon spattered white drops that sizzled on the hob. “Pudding in the pot is not pudding in the dish.” That was true. Sherlock watched her stir and wondered how she managed never to scorch the rice. Mycroft wasn’t expecting an apology. He was upstairs right now, plotting some unspeakable retribution; tit for tat, or should it be the reverse? But Mummy always wanted the unattainable from them.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” he said softly. In the voice she liked. He looked up at her, between his lashes. He didn’t like what he saw. “I’m sorry I came home,” he said, without art.
“Where else would you go?” She took the bowl of raisins away from him. “Where in the wide, wicked world would this terrible son of mine lay his head?”
“On a cold, cold slab in the mortuary.” He peeked again. No better. Redirect. “When you said Father liked...”
“Do you miss him?” she asked across his question. Back to him, pouring the mix into the baking dish.
“Dead is dead.” He liked the flat finality of the phrase. When he’d spoken it to a girl in chem lab who was grizzling about her cat, she’d slapped his face. A gesture, he noticed, that was appreciated by the bench. He’d wanted to try it on Mummy. She shut the oven door. She crunched back across the floor to the table, carrying the dripping long spoon; she stepped around to his side and kissed his cheek. He flinched.
“He would have missed you dreadfully.” She handed him the spoon and sat in her chair. The oven made a faint burring noise. “Now, tell me why you’re home mid-term.” His mouth quirked. He licked the sweet sticky spoon.
*
“Liar,” grumbled John.
*
When Sherlock was 17, his father fell off Hvannadalshnúkur into a crevasse and never came out. Dead, said the telegram. Were telegrams used for any other kind of news?
Mrs. Holmes took the shock surprisingly well. Mycroft...as far as anyone could tell, Mycroft experienced only two stages of grief. After Distaste, he stalled at Polite Disbelief. There would have been little point in progressing to Exacting Revenge, not against nature herself, though circumstances were still under investigation. Mycroft was closer to one side of his father, Sherlock to another. Mummy had no sides.
“Must have been hard on your parents,” said John, rummaging for a clean spoon. “Bringing up a human lie-detector.” His ears were pink; he was annoyed.
“Not that I noticed.”
I want you to apologize to Mycroft, said Mummy. She swept the back of a butter knife across the top of the teacup she used for measuring rice. She was precise in her unorthodoxy; unlike most non-cooks (as Sherlock would not know until later in life, when he made it a point of inquiry), when driven to perform, she did not rely anxiously on the proper tools and tightly worded instructions. She understood proportions innately. She could have learned to cook, had she had the slightest interest in it. Or in food. She left the catering arrangements to her husband and the cooks who drifted in and out. “He was fond of that girl and you were horrid to her.” Sherlock’s legs were too long now for his favorite chair. He set his heels on the cross-bar and rested his forearms on his upward-jutting knees. “She’s a grasping little climber with breast implants,” said Sherlock. “She lied about...”
“Yes, dear, so you informed us. Over luncheon.” She poured milk to an invisible line inside the jug.
“Over luncheon at our table. In our house. Father wouldn’t have let her through the door.”
“Your father was also fond of grasping little climbers.” Grains of rice crunched under her shoes as she carried the saucepan to the range. “And breasts.” Sherlock snorted. His mother was not using her secretly amused voice. “You were rude to your brother, to his guest, and to me.” She adjusted the flame under the pot. “You were rude to assume you knew more than anyone else at that table. You were foolish to think that neither Mycroft nor I saw that--saw her--oh, really, Sherlock!”
“Saw her ill-considered interest in the much more attractive, younger brother? The one alas without the breast fixation.” The one who had, nevertheless, been curious to gather tactile data. “The one who said what no one else would. The one who is being rewarded with pudding.” The one who was rolling a raisin between his fingers and comparing it to the nipple that had been thrust at his cheek.
“Apologize,” said Mummy. The spoon spattered white drops that sizzled on the hob. “Pudding in the pot is not pudding in the dish.” That was true. Sherlock watched her stir and wondered how she managed never to scorch the rice. Mycroft wasn’t expecting an apology. He was upstairs right now, plotting some unspeakable retribution; tit for tat, or should it be the reverse? But Mummy always wanted the unattainable from them.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” he said softly. In the voice she liked. He looked up at her, between his lashes. He didn’t like what he saw. “I’m sorry I came home,” he said, without art.
“Where else would you go?” She took the bowl of raisins away from him. “Where in the wide, wicked world would this terrible son of mine lay his head?”
“On a cold, cold slab in the mortuary.” He peeked again. No better. Redirect. “When you said Father liked...”
“Do you miss him?” she asked across his question. Back to him, pouring the mix into the baking dish.
“Dead is dead.” He liked the flat finality of the phrase. When he’d spoken it to a girl in chem lab who was grizzling about her cat, she’d slapped his face. A gesture, he noticed, that was appreciated by the bench. He’d wanted to try it on Mummy. She shut the oven door. She crunched back across the floor to the table, carrying the dripping long spoon; she stepped around to his side and kissed his cheek. He flinched.
“He would have missed you dreadfully.” She handed him the spoon and sat in her chair. The oven made a faint burring noise. “Now, tell me why you’re home mid-term.” His mouth quirked. He licked the sweet sticky spoon.
*
“Liar,” grumbled John.
*