Lunch - a meal worth dying for
Our house was on Avonwick Gate was located right next door to the primary school I attended. For eight glorious years I slept in as long as humanly possible, enjoyed gourmet breakfasts and still managed to get to school on time. I was also lucky enough to eat most of my lunches at home. It seemed that when I walked in the front door at lunchtime the meal had been planned based on the weather of the day. On warm days there were sandwiches with cold drinks and treats. On cold days, soup. Flora, my mom’s mom, my Nanny Flo, had gotten off the boat from Scotland in the early 1920’s. She was from a large but poor family and had immigrated to Montreal alone at 16. She brought nothing with her but her determination, her wits, her stubbornness and a Scots’ knack for making soup. Soup is the only thing that comes before Scotch Whiskey in heart of a true Scot. So on cold days we had soup and warm drinks and treats. Lunch was as glorious as breakfast but not so frantic. Friends lucky enough to enjoy my mom’s lunches would ask if they could come back even before they had finished. “Of course. You are always welcome” was not only Ruth’s answer, it was one of the mottos she lived by.
However when the “ladies” came to lunch, lunch became a grand affair. As kids we knew when the ladies were coming because the main floor powder room was locked. It was the first room to be cleaned and then it was locked. If you had asked, why lock the door? You would have been given the standard answer, “Because we are having guests.” Our home was always clean but on the days when visitors were due the house was pressed and simonized. If you witnessed the house being prepared it was as awe inspiring as it was terrifying. It was like Ruth could be in two places at once. I swear that she was cutting vegetables in the kitchen while she was vacuuming upstairs. All the time I knew she was at Joseph’s getting her hair done. And then just as guests arrived, Houdini would emerge from the kitchen. She would unlock the bathroom door as she tossed her apron down the basement stairs, being careful to close the basement door behind her as she glided down the hallway to greet her guests. They were welcomed as friends who had been missing for years. Kisses and hugs, coats thrown on the bed, drinks seemingly materializing from thin air and a pungent odor one could only get from the perfume counter at the Bay. Waiting for the ladies arrival would be trays of sandwiches, a chafing dish full of her Creamy Lobster and Shrimp Bisque, another with fluffy rice, cold salads, fresh bread and deserts. Ruth had once again served way too much food but that was her intention. Guest cannot leave hungry. And if you could stand the noise and smell, and if you could put up with bright red lips kissing you, and comments about your size, you were always encouraged to say hello to the ladies and grab a plate. I often walked in that room like I was walking on death row but the thought of the food kept my feet moving. After all, lunch was a meal that was worth dying for.