Chameleon

As he approached the cafe door Chris paused, hand outstretched towards the handle. This was it, the thought welled up within him as he stood there. He was adopted, these were his real parents inside. But what did he feel . . . . nothing. No that can't be right, try again, his face wrinkled as he thought harder . . . but still . . . nothing.
Looking to the side Chris saw a woman watching him, she had blonde streaks in her hair. She leaned towards to her friend at the table just inside the door, behind the glass, and spoke. Her friend glanced round then spoke and they both smiled knowingly, and looked away again dismissively. Suddenly realising where he was Chris pulled open the door. The man on the other side looked rather annoyed, " sorry " said Chris, but there was no reply as the man pushed past with a loud sigh from under raised eyebrows, shaking his head.
God, it was tough being fifteen.

Beef Goulash

Sunday 5.50pm

Originally a Hungarian beef stew cooked by cowherds in the hills using an iron pot over a fire, goulash always seems a real student dish to me - with lots of gravy a small amount of meat will go a long way, and it holds a special place in my heart. My first job after college was in Hastings on the south coast of England. Susan (my sister) was at Art college in Birmingham, up in the centre of the country. I lived alone at the time in a bedsit, Susan shared a condemned house with two other girls and Harrods the cat, (who would only eat the best catfood). Occasionally I would drive or take the train up for the weekend, going there on Friday and returning home Sunday. There were usually a few other people around when I arrived on Friday, boyfriends, friends, and Jacky always seemed to cook a goulash for tea (her mum was from somewhere in Europe). The atmosphere was always relaxed and friendly, all the more so in contrast to my usual solitary existence at the weekends and the two hours or so I had spent alone, travelling to get there. So here is my version, totally unauthentic, but in the right spirit and perfect for a relaxed family dinner all together on a Sunday. Gently fry a chopped onion and a garlic clove in some oil. Meanwhile dice up the beef and coat in seasoned flour, I do this in a plastic bag. Fish the onions etc out of the pan once clear but not brown, turn up the heat and put in the beef to brown. Peel, chop and add two or three carrots, (some celery or dark green cabbage would probably be good too) and then pour in a can of tomatoes, a tablespoon of tomato puree, a tablespoon or so of paprika, a bayleaf or two, and enough water to cover. Thats it, it just needs to simmer slowly now for at least a couple of hours. This never works for me in the pan, it always sticks and burns so I put it in a casserole dish, pop it in the oven and sit down with a book and a glass of wine. Once cooked and checked for seasoning I like to swirl some cream in and sprinkle coriander leaves on top. Boiled rice is a good accompaniment or left over boiled potatoes fried till crispy are even better.

Fear

Sunday 8.40am

Fear is a paralysis. It grips and envelops you tightly, tautly. You cannot move, you cannot think. Your brain has stopped, pinned by indecision. Run, yes run, thats what you want to do but you cannot, things will only get worse if you do. But still you do not want to be here, to do this. Paralysis, indecision, fear. Strangely enough it is all about the future, what might happen, and the past, what did happen, but not about now, nothing is happening now. Paralysis in time. Somehow, despite your whole body screaming " RUN " you force yourself onwards, shaking now so that you have to clasp your hands together to stop it showing. Worried that your voice will also betray your fear you do not speak unless asked and then only tersely. And still nothing has happened. Your very being is now stretched to breaking point, your imagination latches onto every sound, every movement and tells you that the worst is about to happen, is just about to happen. I am a dentist. I see fear like this numerous times every day. And every time a little bit rubs off onto me. I may not be sitting where you are, and I may not be you, but believe me I know how it feels.