Вино из одуванчиков

           Allvillainswereinnocentinthismomentoftenderherbs,sweetceleries,lusciousroots.Theeyespedoverasnowfieldwherelayfricassees,salmagundis,gumbos,freshlyinventedsuccotashes,chowders,ragouts.Theonlysoundwasaprimevalbubblingfromthekitchenandtheclocklikechimingoffork-on-plateannouncingthesecondsinsteadofthehours.

           AndthenAuntRosegatheredherindomitablepinknessandhealthandstrengthintoherselfwithonedeepbreathand,forkpoisedonair,lookingatthemysterythereimpaled,spokeinmuchtooloudavoice.

           "Oh,it’sbeautifulfoodallright.Butwhatisthisthingwe’reeating?"

           Thelemonadestoppedtinklinginthefrostyglasses,theforksceasedflashingontheairandcametorestonthetable.

           DouglasgaveAuntRosethatlookwhichashotdeergivesthehunterbeforeitfallsdead.Woundedsurpriseappearedineachfacedowntheline.Thefoodwasself-explanatory,wasn’tit?Itwasitsownphilosophy,itaskedandanswereditsownquestions.Wasn’titenoughthatyourbloodandyourbodyaskednomorethanthismomentofritualandrareincense?

           "Ireallydon’tbelieve,"saidAuntRose,"thatanyoneheardmyquestion."

           AtlastGrandmaletherlipsopenatrifletoallowtheanswerout.

           "IcallthisourThursdaySpecial.Wehaveitregularly."

           Thiswasalie.

           Inalltheyearsnotonesingledishresembledanother.