We've been getting Meals on Wheels for a couple of weeks now and, in general, they are excellent. We only ordered main courses and a soup which I got into the habit of eating at lunch time. The soups were pretty good but I realised they were not as good as the one I used to make, based on Mum's method.
There was a time when I used to make a pot of soup almost every week, but habits change and I would lately only make it on rare occasions. However, the knowledge is still there so I decided we would forego the MoW soups and I would make a big pot of my special every weekend and dole them out during the week. It started today.
In fact, it started last night when I put some pearl barley and soup mix in bowls to soak overnight. This morning I put four chicken legs, in the crockpot with grated carrot and chopped turnip, some coriander, parsley and 2 litres of stock (a chicken and a vegetable, because that's what was in the pantry). I added the soaked barley and soup mix and put on the lid. It will take a few hours.
I'll check it later for seasoning and chop up the meat from the bones. I reckon it should last me the week if I'm careful. Happily, Marilyn's not a fan so it's all mine.
I don't know where the motivation came for today's story; probably a book I was reading at the time.
REACHER AUGUST 11, 2023
It was my usual Monday afternoon routine: opening my Writing folder to see what prompts had been given for the story I was expected to produce for the Friday Writing class. I had made sure that all my chores had been finished so that I wouldn’t be interrupted while I let my brain mull over the ideas. I had been to the gym, the bed was made, the socks had been pegged on the line, and I had checked that there was nothing else pending for me to do. There is nothing worse than starting to get down the bones of a story only to have your concentration shattered by an unwelcome interruption.
I looked at the prompts we had been given: ‘Prompt 1: A character with chronic sleepwalking problems’ ….. no, I don’t think so. Prompt 3: ‘Think of three conflicts’ … Three? I can’t even think of one. So, I turn to Option 2. ‘You are sitting reading a list’ …. And my concentration is interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Oh, I think, maybe it’s the parcel I’m expecting from Amazon, so I hurry to the door.
There’s a very large man standing a couple of metres back from the door. He’s not in uniform and there’s no delivery van parked behind him. He’s carrying a small bag over his shoulder and I can see what looks like a folding toothbrush poking out of his top pocket.
“Are you John?” he asks in a soft American accent.
“Yes,” I admit.
The big man smiles. “My name’s Reacher,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I can’t help myself. “Jack Reacher?”
“Just Reacher,” is the reply.
I’m astounded. “Come in. I’m sure you’d like a coffee. What are you doing here?”
I know I’m stammering but I’m so surprised that I think I must be asleep and dreaming.
Reacher waits until I’ve brought his coffee and says, “I got a lift with a truckdriver up from Hobart and he told me that you’d be a good person to contact to help me with a little project that I have on at the moment.”
‘I’ll do whatever I can,” I replied.
“Well, it’s like this. I’ve been travelling around the States for years now and I decided that it was time that I looked further afield so I hitched a ride on a yacht leaving San Diego and it brought me to Hobart. I expected that things would be the same here as they are in the States. I thought that every time I came to a new town there would be some crime being committed and some crook to deal with. But everywhere I’ve been in this state, all the people have been nice and nobody has needed my help. The truckie told me that, if anyone in Tasmania knew where crooks hung out, it would be you.”
I can’t imagine where he got that idea, I wondered, while I racked my brains. I thought we might live in the least criminal place in Australia but I did remember reading about a police raid on a property in Pateena Road a while back. Apparently, they found drugs there. And, if all else fails, there is always the bikie hang-out in Invermay. I’m sure that mob are up to no good.
Reacher was anxious to get on his way so I drove him to Pateena Road and waited in the car while he got about his business. There was a bit of noise and one or two young men ran up into the scrub nearby but it didn’t take Reacher long and, before I knew it, we were on our way to Invermay. I was aware the bikies hung out somewhere near MacDonald’s and we were able to identify the place by the number of Harleys parked outside. I had a hamburger while I waited and Reacher soon re-appeared dragging a leather-jacket-clad fellow by his ear.
“This nice young man has agreed to drive me to Devonport where he says he will show me where there is another bikie hangout. Thank you for your help, John; I really appreciate it.”
I was a little bemused by this whole incident and wondered whether it was just a manifestation of an over-active imagination. However, next day’s newspapers confirmed what had happened. The articles finished by saying that police wished to interview a large gentleman with an American accent who had been seen leaving the area. Thankfully, there was no mention of the elderly, white-haired Australian who had driven him there.
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