"We are going to New Hampshire", mutters the French Canadian veterinary research histopathologist to whom I am married. "Do not forget your passport. And leave the cheese at home. It is a weekend break."
I wake early on the morning of our departure, feverishly writing emails to various people about various things. Time passes. The cat stares at the floor. Still I write emails, about the same things, over and over again. As one particular email stream hits the 50 message mark, I smell the smell of poo. Assuming that what I can smell are the natural "morning odours" caught inside the capacious folds of my kimono, I ignore it and resume my feverish typing.
"Dear Everyone
I can confirm that a French Canadian is more likely to use the word "cute" than the word "mignon" when describing a pretty young lady. Parisians: desist.
Pip pip!
NWM"
Still the
odeur de caca swirls about the place. I look at the cat who, too stupid to do anything more than eat, sleep and be startled by tiny noises, stares at the floor. She does not emit natural "morning odours", because the shock created by sound of them being expelled would ignite an immediate feline heart attack; the smell is therefore definitely not coming out of her.
I check the downstairs lavatory for "special memories"; there are none. But what is this? It is clear that the poosmell is rising from the cellar. It is clear that the poosmell is the septic tank. It is also clear that the water pump has stopped working. It is 7am.
6 hours later, following a burst of intense attention from a silent excavator and his round-eyed brother, the pump man and his saucy mate (who informs me, with a great display of winking, that if he were me he would "pass the day swimming up and down naked") and the septic tank man, we are on the road. Behind us is an empty septic tank, a silenced pump, the cat, still staring at the floor, and the promise of a repeat visit from all workmen at 8am on Wednesday morning.
The traffic is not good, and we do not arrive at our destination until 8.15pm. "I hope we are not too late for dinner!", I squeak, licking crumbs from the corner of a packet of illegally imported salted nuts. "And also, I would like a drink of gin and tonic." "We are in rural America", barks the pathologist, his manly form backlit by the fading New Hampshire sun as he slams the door on the 312 eco-shopping bags that fill our boot, "and that means that the kitchen will be closed."
The reception-man is stern, and smells faintly of furniture polish. "Good evening, Mr and Mrs Veterinary-Pathologist, and welcome. Because you are late, we have taken the liberty of preparing you a Cold Plate."
I am not sure what startles me more: being called "Mrs"*, or the idea of the kitchen in a properly vast 'resort hotel' being closed at 8pm. "I bet there is ham on it!!!", I whisper, as we follow the man-giant carrying our cases to our room. "I have never been to England", says the man-giant. "I don't like flying, and I definitely don't like flying over water." "And a sculpted radish", mutters the pathologist, "and some cake".
The man-giant leaves and we look at our room, which is large and pretty and filled with books I do not want to read and old-lady chairs. "And a bread roll", says the pathologist, optimistically (as it turns out) unpacking his walking shoes.
"I KNOW!!!", I shout, lying on my front on the bed doing impersonations of the Pilsbury Doughboy, "let's play Cold Plate Bingo. You write down what you think will be on the Cold Plate. I write down what I think will be on the Cold Plate. If we have the same things, e.g. ham, we cross them off. The person with the most remaining items that match the items on the Cold Plate wins a prize". "What is the prize?", says the French-Canadian veterinary histopathologist. "I do not know", I say, "but it will definitely be good".
Here are our lists.
My list is clearly inspired by British seaside restaurants c. 1973 and Swallows and Amazons.
Ham
Chicken leg
Hard boiled egg
Slice of pie
Green salad
Tomato salad
Weird dessert with cream on
Bread roll
Beetroot
Macedonian salad
Coleslaw
("Weird dessert with cream on" refers to those odd custardy puddings in glasses with greasy cream on, and "coleslaw" is what, in my head, Americans eat in hotels.)
Here is the Pathologist's. As you can see, he is a bit more adventurous, with an eye on the decorative prize.
Sculpted radish
Sculpted carrot
Cold cut (ham, salami)
Artichoke hearts
Potato salad
Piece of cake
Chicken salad
I am convinced the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist is going to win: he is Canadian (and therefore North American), plus he spent 3 years in California and 4 years in Connecticut - allowing him to amass and almost astonishing amount of insight into the potential contents of the North American Cold Plate.
As it turns out, I am right, but only just. As you will see from the photograph below (and NB this is a large dinner plate; we had one each), the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist correctly guessed "salami", giving him a clear one point lead. And yes, you are right: the only plant matter on this plate is the small tower of watermelon in the middle, and there is no bread.
You may also enjoy the cold plate seen from the chair in which I ate mine: an old lady chair with surprisingly handy food (and glass) rest:
Coming soon: 7.30pm Bingo or the Rolling Dog Sled? The people decide.
* You are not allowed to take your husband's name in Quebec, but don't think I would have taken it if we'd got married in England: if you are struggling up the non-existent non-religious aisle 2 days before your 40th birthday, it is probably too late to start thinking about changing your name.
