The Pakistani Spectator

“Hey you folks, I’m up here, on the roof!”  We looked up and sure enough, there was Maude.

 

              Maude was one of the most unique people I have ever met and that day when she called to us from the roof was one example of her rare spirit.

                                       

            There she was, her snow white hair escaping from holes in an ancient straw hat that was probably older than she was, a beautiful smile on her face, so many laugh lines she was the epitome of a prune on steroids and with a nail apron around her somewhat corpulent waist. 

 

            She had a hammer in one hand and was in the process of shingling her roof!

                                                                                   

            In today’s society with the gals holding every kind of job imaginable it is not strange to see a member of the fair sex working as a roofer, but this happened to be back in the fifties and Maude was 87 years old at the time! 

 

            Maude, being the Jill of all trades that she happened to be was not only well versed in home repairs but quite capable in the culinary department as well.              

            As a young woman she had been a cook in a Canadian lumber camp.  On the back of the big wood burning cook stove Maude kept a huge pot of savory soup simmering so that any time one of the lumberjacks needed to be fueled up he could help himself.

                                                                                                                 

            Maude added all sorts of things to that soup such as beef stock, vegetables, venison, an occasional rabbit, the odd bird, etc. 

           

            One day she noticed the soup level was getting somewhat low and dipping a large spoon into the kettle she scraped the bottom.  Hooking onto something quite heavy she raised the spoon and was surprised to see a well cooked snake about four feet long. 

 

            She looked at that savory snake for a moment trying to decide whether or not she should remove the reptile,  but thrift won out and she dropped it back into the pot,  added more stock,  built up the fire and the guys ate soup that night.

 

            She told us that she never did find out where the snake came from but she didn’t eat soup for the next few days.

 

            That was our friend Maude!                                                               

 

            Shortly after we met Maude she invited us to have dinner with her. This was before we knew anything about her snake soup, otherwise we might have declined.

 

            On the chosen day Maude served us a most delicious casserole and we were on seconds when I made a slight error in judgment and asked the pedigree of the dish.

 

            Maude never missed a lick, taking another bite, around chews she said, “Toadstools!”

 

            I paused, my loaded fork in mid flight to my mouth.

 

            “Toadstools?”  I exclaimed.

 

            It was about that time that I remembered that she had outlived four husbands and that bit of information was giving me some small amount of unease.  

 

            “Yep, toadstools.”  She exclaimed.  

 

            “You know that old stump out in my backyard?  I Got’ta dig that thing out one of these days! Well, that stump is covered with these here big yellow toadstools.  That’s what’cher eatin’:  Toadstool casserole, pretty good, huh?”

                                    

            We sat there staring at Maude, our mouths hanging open, our forks poised in midair as we wondered when the stomach pains would start.  The casserole sat there, half-eaten, whispering, “poisonous toadstools!” in a sinister, poisonous toadstool voice.

 

            I glanced at our firstborn son who was shoveling in “toadstool” casserole as if it was his last meal, which to my way of thinking at the time, it very well could be.

    

               Maude, being of a somewhat observant mind, noting our apparent unease, threw back her gray head and laughed in delight.

 

                “Oh you young folks, you needn’t worry yourselves none, I fed some to the cat and he ain’t croaked, yet!”   She laughed heartily at her witticism.

 

               The casserole did taste good and it was while eating my second helping that our friend, our sweet grandmotherly Maude, helped us to relax even more by exclaiming, “Come to think of it though, I ain’t seen that cat since he ate that there casserole, here kitty, kitty, kitty!”       

 

               After that we took to referring to Maude respectfully and with great affection as “Mad Maude” and to this day I can’t eat a mushroom without thinking of Mad Maude and her toadstool casserole.

 

               I have her recipe if you are interested!

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