It's all in the Game

It’s all in the game.

I married Alice, and a year later, my brother married Trudy. Trudy and Alice were of a similar age, and both were competitive. The two women developed an intense underlying rivalry.

We grieved when my mother passed away. Among other things, we all loved my mother’s mince fruit pies. Mother’s pastry was so soft and delicate, almost fluffy, not hard and crunchy like shop fruit pies. My wife Alice was resolved to emulate Mum’s pastry.

When shopping for the best ingredients, she wouldn’t speak to anyone; her jaw was set, she was on a mission – flour, lard, sugar. A specific order of adding these ingredients had to be obeyed. Measuring the quantities, she would bend close to the scales, her neck forward, eyes squinting. She regarded mixing the ingredients as an art form, a ballet of the fingers, light, rhythmic, entrancing, a dance in her cherished glass bowl.  All the ingredients, especially the lard, must be at the exact temperature.  As she mixed, her face contorted with concentration. Sometimes she closed her eyes, face up to the ceiling as though lost in a Brahms Violin Concerto.

Her head held on an angle like a nervous chicken, she worried  if the pastry was sufficiently blended, tapping at it with the tips of her fingers as though expecting it to answer,

To prepare for the rolling out, she shrugged her shoulders, shook herself off, and furrowed her brow. She studied the dough on the marble board, eyeing it suspiciously, as if she were a nurse and it was a frail casualty of war. With one eyebrow raised high and her lips pursed, she caressed the rolling pin. How to roll the pastry without squashing it? The rolling must be light, yet firm.

With a look of trepidation, she took action, one foot lifted on tiptoe; the rolling began, and her whole body swayed as though she were surfing the troughs of the dough. She even demanded quiet in the room, convinced this would help produce a lighter pastry. The rolling completed, she bent down deep to inspect the rolled pastry. Had she attained the correct thickness? Then, with a little metal ring, she created little circles. Performed with magnificent artistry, her hand pressed, then flicked out. Her lips puckered with delight at each formed circle. She meticulously placed these circles of pastry in the greased ramekin. Then, with her finger and a spoon, she would pop in the minced fruit and cap the pie. A little dance ensued as she carefully dotted the outer edge of the pie with her finger to create the perfect undulated rim.

We took the pies around to my brother’s house. My brother took one and munched on it. A look of euphoria passed over his face.

‘It’s delicious,’ he moaned. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

Trudy stood behind him, fuming. She grunted with disgust and stalked off into the bedroom. She hated her husband swooning over anything that Alice did.

As we left their house, Alice was in a great mood, holding her head high, a wicked look on her face. I told her she had upset Trudy and asked her why she went to so much trouble.

She smiled triumphantly. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s all in the game.’