215. Stepping into the past (2)

 The Great Summer Staircase Project is going well.

The dust cloud has settled. The sander has been turned off and the floor boards have stopped vibrating. The paint brushes have been washed, the paint and stain fumes have evaporated. 

I peel the masking tape off and I step back the way I would in front of a painting. Nothing. I tilt my head one way. Still nothing. I tilt it the other way. Nothing. I stare and I stare and still no 'wow effect'. 

Something is missing. I try to involve the family members around me. Be it in honesty - or be it in fear of the whole messy process starting again - all they do is praise.

‘It looks really good!’

‘I like it!’

‘Well done!’

'Really nice!'

Etc. Not a single critical comment. Confirmation that something is amiss.

I take the praise while it is on offer and I carry on with my day. This is my favourite day of the week. Saturday. Market day in our town. I am forever keeping in mind that all is part of the GP (Great Plan) and I should not be neglecting any aspect of it especially not the pursuit of culinary inventiveness. I walk to the market under a very pale sun and a wind too fresh for the season. I go through the main square and head straight to my favourite part: the part of town where they ban cars at the weekend and where local producers come and sell whatever their land has yielded. Their stalls are small and rickety and even if they do bear the official labels you can tell they don't need to. I stop in from of one of those small stands and pause to look at the very small range of goods on offer and this is when I see a vegetable/herb reminiscent of a dish I had some time ago in a local restaurant. I remember it very well because the waiter could not give me the name of the herb in question and had to go and ask the chef and still came back back with a totally inadequate answer: a local salad herb. I remember thinking the chef must have gone to the loo or was out back having a cigarette ... 

'What is this?' I ask pointing at the green shoots lying at the bottom of a wooden crate on a bed of newsprint.

'Summer purslane.' He answered without missing a beat.

To me these words sounded like words straight out of a Shakespeare sonnet. The man went on.

'Most restaurants around here use it as you would a sprig of fresh coriander ... but you know this is so much more than that ... it has a peppery tang to it and you can make soup from it ... it is part of the watercress family, it can replace spinach in summer, or use it in a salad or use the twigs raw as you would celery sticks ... for apéritif ... ' 

He gives me a sprig and I cut off a tiny leaf and try it. I decide that today we will have poached eggs and summer purslane for our Saturday brunch.

I continue my walk up the long narrow town square and reach the main stall where they sell everything from sweet potatoes to blueberries. Just then dark heavy clouds move across the sky and a thick blanket is pulled over the faint summer sun, a sudden gush of wind lifts all the umbrellas and people lift their heads up to look at the threatening heavens: is it about to rain? Should they retreat to the nearest café? Or continue their stroll ... And that's when it hits me. Light! Radiance! Shine! That is my answer. My stairs are too dull. They lack lustre. All I need is a gentle sheen. But how can I achieve this? So I do what I always do in times of crisis: I call my husband. Unbelievably he is in the DIY shop and agrees to go and check the traditional woodwork products aisle.

'The traditional products, ok?'

I buy a huge bunch of flowers and walk home. The sun is back out and stronger now so I set a table for two outside. I am impatient to try the summer purslane and wonder if my husband is a good person to try my culinary experiments on. At least I hope I will get a better response from him than from the kids.

‘Look! I just got the small tin because I am not sure it’s what you want.’ He says as he walks in and heads straight to the fridge to pour me a glass of perfectly chilled rosé (and grab himself a beer). We sit down to poached eggs with summer purslane and a touch of spicy oil. I decide it is a very interesting mix of flavours and a successful culinary experiment, my husband seems to think it goes well with beer.  

So it is with renewed energy that I tackle the GSS Project and realise that my husband has picked up the right stuff. The tin looks like something of bygone days. 

'What now? What's that smell?' My son asks.

'Beeswax. All natural. All ecological.' 

Everyone ignores me and barricades themselves into their rooms. I hear the door bang shut one after the other. 

'Stairs are banned for two hours!' I shout as I have just read the instructions on the tin.

This time round I step further back in time as I rub the wax into the wooden steps of the stairs. I feel like a servant in Downton Abbey. My only worries in the world being that the stairs shine. When I get to the bottom I start again at the top and buff and polish. There we are: a soft sheen, a faint glimmer, an authentic old times smell: it is all there. I sit in the armchair to admire the result.

'Can we come down now?'

I have not even replied that I hear a shout and a bang.

'Hey! What's with the stairs?'

Followed by an other seconds later:

'Wow! What's happened?'

'Take care!’ I say. ‘You’re going to damage my stairs!’

'Hey! It's really slippery with socks on!'

An other bang as the fourth child is checking for herself. Then it is my husband who slips and catches the banister just in time (not waxed so he gets a good grip).

'You might have overdone the polishing just a touch ...' He says, looking at me half admiringly half reproachfully.

I declare  The Great Summer Staircase Project completed.