Friday 20 May 2016

Plee-Doo or Off The Top of My Head A short story by Lorraine Poulter 2015

 Plee-Doo
     Ugrid’s hooked bulbous nose hung over the steaming pot on the stove. He closed his eyes and inhaled with hunger pangs coursing loudly through his stomach. The hot steam was sucked inside his nostrils and a tidal surge occurred in the pot. For a moment he savoured the aroma and then in anticipation he opened his eyes. “Smells good, Ma.” He said gruffly. “What do you call it?”
     His elderly Ma hobbled over from the back of the cave wearing her favourite white apron, with a wooden spoon held in one hand and clutching an unpeeled turnip in the other. “It’s Plee-Doo.” She said, her voice deep with scratchy bits.
     Ugrid looked at Ma. “It’s new? I don’t take with these new foods, Ma.”
     “I’ve made it a hundred times before.” She lied.
     Ugrid’s rock like hand brushed the steam aside and he took another look. “It doesn’t look like Plee-Doo.”
     Ma tossed the turnip into the pot. Water spilled over the side, hissing as it hit the hot surface. “That’s because we’re short of a few of the main ingredients and we’re making do with what’s in the cupboard.”
     Ugrid sighed. He was always hungry and the cupboard was always bare. So bare that the rats had long since deserted them in fear of being next in the pot themselves.
      Ugrid opened the pantry door. “Where did it go?” he asked in wonder. “Have we been burgled?”
     “Ate it, haven’t we?” Ma said, stirring the turnip round the clear soup. A few dark specks floated on top.
     “All of it?”
    “Aye. I found a few small bits to make the Doo. But there’s not enough to feed a gnat.” She said. For a troll she was small and dumpy.
      “I can’t eat vegetables without meat.” Wailed Ugrid. He stamped his foot ill temperedly. The cave shook and somewhere beyond the kitchen could be heard the rumbling of rocks falling.
     “Now look at what you’ve done,” Ma said.
     “Sorry, Ma.” Ugrid said. Being hungry made him moody. He couldn’t help it. It was one of those things. Sprouts gave him wind and too much beetroot turned his wee pink. He hated vegetables. “We could go hunting. I’ve heard fox plees are good.”
     “Yes they are.” Ma conceded. “Only the last fox left when he was stripped bare.”
     Ugrid thought for a moment. “Bear plees are juicy and succulent.”
     “Yes they are,” Ma said tenderly lowering herself into the chair. “There ain’t been a bear round these parts for years. Give the pot a stir, son. Don’t want to waste any goodness.”
     Ugrid lifted the spoon with exaggerated Troll masculinity. He was not going to start getting in the habit of stirring Plee Doo, any other stew come to that. He gave the liquid a stir. His brother would be home soon. They’d go hunting then. Nice juicy meat to put in the stew and some extra flavour with the plee doo.
     “Ma?” he said, the light of illumination flickered in his black eyes. “If the animals are gone, where did the Plees in the soup come from?”
      Ma grinned. “Right off the top of my head!”
©️Lorraine Poulter 2015

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