Monday, 4 October 2010
“What are these?” Steve asks, examining the dainty petals decorating his plate.
“Crystallised violets,” I say. “They’re edible. They’re ever so easy to make.”
He tentatively puts one into his mouth.
“They’re nice,” he says, and scoops up some more with his spoon.
“Fran, you’re so clever,” says Gail. “I don’t know how you do it. And I just love the colour of this blackcurrant sorbet. It’s so rich; it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing. Everything is from the garden; I have grown the ingredients myself.
They coo about how I am good at making things, and what a wonderful gardener I am. But I don’t tell them that the dark purple petals are monkshood, and I don’t say I have spent years creating these puddings, cultivating resentment. Because these are not just puddings, you see. These are my brother and sister’s just desserts: justice on a plate.