Sago Pudding
Sago Pudding
He had never liked sago pudding, ever; he didn’t like its look or its taste, and should have politely declined it, but did not, knowing that she would have been secretly offended had he done so. It was his first time as a guest at one of her renowned dinner parties, and her reputation as a well-read and well-travelled “foodie” with strong opinions about every dish that she served, had made him a bit more accommodating than he perhaps should have been.
Looking down at the bowl of pudding and thinking, frog’s eggs, he proceeded to eat it, gingerly placing the slippery mess into his mouth, a few tiny spheres at a time, letting the foul things slide down his throat to land un-chewed in his astonished stomach.
He knew from past experience that the astonishment exhibited by his stomach would very soon become indignation, followed by resolute and vengeful retaliation, the consequences of which were always exceedingly uncomfortable and highly embarrassing.
Swallowing stoically he kept his gaze firmly fixed upon the silver serviette ring resting at the elbow of the guest seated opposite him, not daring to look down at the results of his cowardice that were steadily building above his belt.
At the head of the table, as proud of the pudding as if it were her favourite nephew bagging the blue ribbon, the carefully coiffured hostess smiled brightly and proclaimed to the guests seated around her dinner table, “There is nothing quite as satisfying as a bowl of good sago pudding to round off a hearty meal”
Inviting her guests to concur she looked around the table with the sternness of a general addressing his troops, raised her hand above her head, sago-encrusted spoon her flashing sabre, and commanded, “All those in agreement say aye!” setting the example with her own resounding “Aye!” followed by a bray of joyous laughter. The “Ayes” that echoed around the table were peppered with comments such as “Divine!” “Marvelous” “What is that taste?” all bobbing happily in a sea of contended dinner murmur.
She went on to announce, with the gravity of a prime-time news reader delivering the evening news, that “The success of my sago pudding lies in the recipe handed down by my great-grandmother, in which she includes a pinch of this and a snatch of that, secret ingredients one would not expect to find in a good sago pudding”
It was directly after the beaming hostess had delivered this culinary tidbit, that his astonished and indignant stomach delivered its perfectly timed and devastating retaliatory riposte. It delivered his humiliation with uncanny accuracy into one of those inexplicable lulls, one of those brief moments of perfect silence that randomly occur within the undulating hubbub of friendly and free-flowing dinner conversation.
It began modestly, offering him hope that this unavoidable gastric upheaval would be a private affair; that this internal battle between him and his stomach would be waged with no outward reveal, and, unnoticed by his fellow diners, quietly resolved.
It advanced however with astonishing speed from acceptably decorous to grandly uncouth, denying him the options of hoping that it hadn’t been heard, or of bobbing up and down on his “squeaky” chair with a knowing nod and a smile of grateful discovery.
His stomach raised its objection to the sacrilegious delivery of sago pudding with gusto and single-minded purpose. The objection, although quietly begun, rose in melodic perfection to the peaked finale of a resounding trumpet blast, then bled off in a series of ever quieter blatts, ending in a silence so profound that it could be touched.
Heads spun, chewing stopped and conversation ceased. Forks froze mid-passage between plate and mouth, whilst glasses hovered in mid-air denying that refreshing sip that eager lips were primed to receive.
The hostess, acclaimed champion of the fine dinner party, spooned her last mouthful of sago pudding into a tightly pursed mouth, and merrily announced to the table at large “In honour of my late great-grandmother I am going to have seconds, there is oodles more if anyone would care to join me”
Conversation slowly resumed, at first hesitant but slowly gaining its previous momentum. The discomfort of the diners was gradually eased by the renewed scraping of silver cutlery against fine china, and by the polite clearing of throats into loosely curled fists.
Normality was gratefully restored by an apple-cheeked diner who enthusiastically delivered an overzealous and plummy toast, “In honour of your dear great-grandmother, I simply must have another bowl of your delightful sago pudding”
The embarrassing few moments of this otherwise splendid dinner party were quickly forgotten, unanimously banished to the appropriately decorous realm of “Never to be spoken of”
Eyes once again made easy contact, conversation ebbed and flowed, and laughter bounced warmly around the table. The hostess, lips no longer pursed, was firmly back in command, steering her dinner party to a satisfying and successful conclusion, unfortunate incident aside.
Head down he removed his gaze from the silver serviette ring, dragged it across the vast expanse of starched white linen and locked it onto his gloating stomach. Cheeks flaming and ears burning, he wanted to slide off his chair and curl up under the table.
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