We tell Stig about a Christmas that feels long ago and at the same time doesn’t – it’s the weather right now that calls up the memory: the early dark, not too cold, grey as December often is, the air filled with the jollity of approaching merriment. “We’re old enough to realise that the approach of merriment is sometimes jollier than the actual merriment itself. This is December… we don’t know, exactly, December 21, December 22. The time is not memorable for any reason other than approaching merriment and its promise of good food. Holiday food has abundance as well as festivity. Ruth was not jaded in regards to all things Christmas, not yet – she planned to make and to buy, with us – are you ready? - homemade cheesecake with nutmeg, Marks and Spencer black cherry cheesecake, eggnog, a Baker’s Oven plum pudding, brandy for flaming the plum pudding, tins of butter cookies, fancy Neuhaus chocolates, an abundance of ice cream, mince tarts, squares of tipsy cake, date squares from Simpsons, date turnovers from Dominion.
“Come and meet me at the office,” she said. “We’ll do a big shop before Christmas Day.”
We dressed in a festive outfit that featured every colour of the rainbow: bright green and black plaid trousers, a pink shirt, a red sweater, a tartan scarf. We jumped on the Ellesmere bus as dusk began to settle. There was nothing dismal about the dark and the cold. When we think of this, it is with great cosiness and a sense that all is well. Can we recreate the impending jollity if we keep the memory alive and well?
Ruth was finishing work when we arrived. She had boxes of Laura Secord and Black Magic chocolates on her desk, little gifts from clients and her boss. We picked up Danish pastries at the Scandinavian bakery in the strip mall below her legal office. We stopped in at Franklin’s groceteria, buying pineapple-orange ice cream, Granny’s butter tarts and frozen vegetables. We went to Darrigo’s Italian market for big black winter grapes, salad fixings, potatoes, fresh ribs and a turkey. We bought a box of Paxo stuffing.
When we returned home, we carried at least six great big bags of groceries. Food is the biggest part of this memory, Stig. If we really press our memory, we can draw up more and more of it, though we’re not exactly sure if the memory is truly attached to this holiday shopping, or of the festivity of food per se. We think of the big Coffee Crisps and KitKats she bought at Bi-Way along with Kjeldsen’s butter cookies – modest but splendid to a bourgeoise foodie with the sweet tooth of a child! Sure, we’ll pile up all the festive food memories we have and attribute them to Christmas week. Always a quart of Laura Secord ice cream. Dutchies, bear claws. Were we obsessed? Don’t answer that.”
“You were. Too late not to answer – I had no intention of hesitating. You were the most quietly obsessed foodie we’ve ever met. You’ve told me about gargantuan sundaes you virtually inhaled as a youth. You saved menus. You dated blokes who turned to you at an ice cream parlour and asked you, in deference, what they should order. And you replied! You responded! Have a banana split– one scoop peanut butter and chocolate, one scoop German chocolate cake, one scoop fudge brownie, hot caramel sauce, hot fudge sauce, marshmallow sauce, nuts, cherries, whipped cream. That’s f***ing insane, there, Badapple – first that someone should ask you something like that, and second that you should reply without batting an eye.”
“Well, now – that may be something that goes in the oubliette. It’s not something of which one should be inordinately proud, is it? And yet, yes, here we are, Stig, we’re getting misty-eyed at the recollection of it all. We felt if not revered in the world of ice-cream combinations, then certainly respected. Tell me what’s best. What do you recommend, o seer of knowledge? We suppose most would see it as ineffectual behaviour on the part of the bloke. But we knew our stuff. There was a restaurant downtown, in the Eaton Centre, that had a solid menu of typical 80s diner food, but the gargantuan sundaes you were mentioning earlier – never to be forgotten: (and here we close our eyes to think back, back, back.)
The Strawberry Blonde
Gobs of strawberry ice cream, smothered with honey and crunchy sponge toffee. Topped with whipped cream and some more of that super crunch. Have more fun.
The Dutch Girl
Vanilla, chocolate and butter pecan or coffee ice creams, layered with chocolate sauce and hot fudge sauce. Topped with whipped cream and walnuts.
The Monte Cristo
Butter pecan ice cream, taffy syrup. And oodles of salted cashews topped with whipped cream.
Here Comes the Fudge
Mounds of chocolate ice cream and hunks of fudge nut brownie smothered in hot chocolate fudge sauce and chopped walnuts. Topped with whipped cream and one more brownie. (Hot!)
“Oh, Mr. Greenjeans. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Which one did you order? Did you try all of them?”
“If we had been as gastronomically independent as we are today, Stig, we’d have blasted through everything on that menu that sounded overwhelming and a bit unusual. Strawberry and sponge toffee. Here and now? We’d be all over that – and we’d mix it up with that cashew thing as well. We don’t know which of these we ordered, but we would have been likely to share with the bloke who could not make up his own mind, and we would have ordered something he liked for the pair of us. Yes, we know. Stop rolling your eyes like that. We learned our lesson. We made up some glorious concoctions on our own in years to follow, without any interference, maybe with a bit of that weak-will, which we saw as wistful admiration.”
“Was the admiration wistful, or you?”
“Eh, we were. We wouldn’t have known at the time that choosing someone’s ice cream sundae was going to be the last time anyone gave us something that had even a whiff of admiration to it. We’ve discussed opportunists to death, and the weak-willed bloke eventually envied our career success but did not feel we deserved or earned it. The ice cream sundae decision was the pinnacle of our success. And then there’s Banksy, who has resented, resents, and will resent. It’s tiring to stay one step ahead of insults, but it would be exhausting to run away and face punishment. Banksy is forever toeing a moral line, and it is this line upon which he wrests with the dilemma of controlling another’s destiny. One keeps one’s friends close, but one should keep one’s enemies closer. It is neither invigorating nor saddening to understand that he is an enemy. So many enemies in a lifetime thus far, Stig, though Banksy is the most dangerous one of the lot. It is no coincidence that the group of opportunists – and how many of these have we to date? – look at Banksy and consider him to be one of them, though less deserving, less clever – a lucky stiff who controlled his way into striking pay dirt.”
“That’s an expression you don’t hear every day, Badapple.”
“It’s a good one, though, like ‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it.’”
“After all this talk of ice cream sundaes, and of allowing another to choose one’s masterpiece, I believe – I am certain - I could enjoy something like one of yours. I could easily conceive of it and design it in all its extravagance. I, however, do not have the means or the physiognomy to get up and make one – let alone buy one.”
So, this is the way Stig winds up having an ice cream sundae for his second birthday. He does not believe that he is acquiescing into a state of weak-will, the same way the other fellow did: “What should I have?” but, ultimately, that’s what he does. When he is resting, or at play, or finishing up a meal, he is dreaming up lily-gilding confections. We have a couple of months before the big day, plenty of time to google DOG ICE CREAM HOMEMADE HEALTHY and see what pops up. Or – we could take him to Baskin-Robbins and put something together that is both tasty and unlikely to hurt his delicate constitution. We have talked long enough about the gustatory pleasures of which we’ve obsessed. It is time that Stig enjoys a touch of obsession himself. We like the notion that he recognises obsession; we’re sure he’s long considered tail-chasing and the scent of dead animals as his. He knows about Banksy’s hiding bags of cookies in the trunk of the car (“And he didn’t even share?”), though this he sees as selfishness and not obsession. For our part, we smile gently but don’t discuss it. “Banksy like to play his cards close to his chest,” is the flying nun of responses. Well, almost. Stig is our confidante, our mentor and our mentee all in one. “If we dared to analyse the fellow, it would have been in our best interest to do so long ago, when there was more to gain by it. We know nothing about him, never did know anything about him, was discouraged and thwarted from knowing anything about him. This leads us to believe that Banksy’s core is like an onion, layers upon layers, with only more onion in the heart of it. “How would you know?” he might say, and he’d be right. It would not be bothersome. We would reply, “We knew this all along... that we know nothing.”
