Mathilda, SuperWitch (30 page)

“You want to know why they hide your Prophesies? Because they foretell our misfortunes. Because they tell stories of you, Mathilda, The Chosen One, as our Apocalypse. Because they know that you are Disaster. And that, you silly, little fool, is with a capital ‘D’.”

Holy shit.

She kept going.

“You don’t even attempt to read your own feelings, your thoughts. You push away the important and worry about what color to varnish your toenails. Under your roof, you harbor a traitor. A traitor who you ache to touch you, your desire for him blinds you, corrupts you.”

Er, what? Was she talking about Ash?

She didn’t elaborate but she kept talking.

“Witches fear you, man is terrified of you, the supernatural and magical worlds wait in horror as you… bake… cookies.”

Oh dear Mother Earth and all her fluffy friends.

She kept right on going.

“It might be funny if it wasn’t the End of Days.”

Oh. My. Goddess.

“Luckily, I’ll be dead before it happens. So… cheers!”

And she lifted up her glass and downed the whole thing. Took my glass and downed that too. Then burped. Again.

I left her with that and, of my own volition, went inside and made myself a mojito.

I never much liked mint juleps.

I pulled out my trusty, old recipe box that Mom bought me before I started Home Ec in seventh grade. It was beaten up and ragged around the edges. I sat at the kitchen table and I sorted through it, card by raggedy-assed card until I found what I was looking for.

Then I walked back out to the garden where Althea looked like she was asleep under the sun.

“Wake up, you old bat,” I ordered.

She opened one eye and I shoved the recipe card in her face.

“Catarina’s Homemade Bleu Cheese Dressing!” I said, triumphantly, waving the card in her face. “No goat’s cheese and dried cranberries. None of that frou frou stuff. Just romaine hearts, homemade croutons and fresh bleu cheese dressing! Maybe some real bacon bits. Voila! A salad to-die-for.”

Althea sat up straight and opened her mouth but I interrupted her.

“If you think being mean to me is going to make me scamper off home, then you… and Agatha… have another think coming.”

She harrumphed.

“And, just so you know, I can wear high heels, be boy crazy, take your abuse and bake cookies and still kick Agatha’s sorry ass all across England and back again. All without the aid of manmade appliances. Or… maybe not entirely without them but only using them in a recreational, stress-relieving capacity.”

She had both her eyes open and she was now paying lots of attention.

I kept at her.

“Until I know that no one is going to shoot at you, or me, or until I figure out why I think you should be here, you’re stuck. I can promise you, those boys didn’t seem to care who they hit with their bullets. And it’s highly likely Agatha sent them. So don’t be thinking she’s loyal to you or anyone who’s caught in the crossfire, because she’s not. And I won’t have the life of a two hundred and three year old woman on my hands.”

Then I took a big breath and finished.

“
And if you say anything mean about Ash again, no more mint juleps and we’ll magically lock the liquor cabinet and put a spell on you so that any beverage you touch turns to Kool-Aid. And you can call me a stupid girl as many times as you like, I still look
hot
in these shoes.”

And then I walked back into the house to make a batch of homemade bleu cheese dressing.

The Month of July

5 July

Yesterday at T
he Witches Dozen we had a big, ole, down and dirty, cheeseburgers, homemade macaroni salad, real baked beans, ooey, gooey cream cheesy-chocolaty Better than Robert Redford pudding Fourth of July party.

We even had fireworks.

Granted, they were amateur and fell off the back of one of Mavis’s “I know someone’s” truck but they were still great!

It was kickass!

Everyone had a good time.

English folk have gotten over the War of Independence (as they call it) so no hard feelings.

Best part, when Lucy arrived she was waving a copy of the
Bristol Evening Post
. She slapped the paper on the counter right next to the vat of Robert Redford and pointed at an article.

“
Check
that
out! We’re famous!” she cried.

And there it was, our first review:

Bewitched, Bothered but not Bewildered

The Witches Dozen

By Nathan Montgomery

Food Critic

Rumor has been flying about The Witches Dozen, a small “American” Coffee House right on the seafront in a town not half an hour away from Bristol’s city centre.

Some say The Witches Dozen is run by a bevy of true-life, wand-wielding witches.

They say that the goodies are good because they’re stuffed with magic.

They also say you can buy yourself a love potion there, if you ask the right witch.

I don’t care if it’s white magic, black magic or voodoo, just give me more of it.

The Witches Dozen is worth whatever risk you take when you enter through their broomstick-laden door.

As you walk in, running the length of the left side is a carved, polished-to-a-shine wooden bar connected to a variety of sparkling clean, curved glass display cases filled with mouth-watering selections of sweets and savories. Behind the bar is a big, shiny, red espresso machine flanked by teetering stacks of a vibrant and eclectic collection of coffee mugs, tea cups and saucers, glasses and ice cream dishes. Behind that is a huge mirror etched with a scraggly cat, its back arched and its tail straight up. And above the mirror is a blackboard with stars and moons drawn on in brightly-colored chalk and the flowery, cursive words, “Sit long… talk much… eat hearty” written across it.

Your invitation.

The Witches Dozen has hipper-than-hip décor that mixes rock ‘n’ roll with witchy chic and comes out somehow cool and cozy. You can have a latte and an enormous sugar cookie, iced with a thick layer of soft, melt-in-your-mouth lavender-colored icing that is so beautiful and delicious; you want to spend hours savoring every bite.

And you can. You can stay a minute or most of the day – no one will bother you. In fact, they provide books and games you can read and play if you find you need a diversion or an excuse to stick around. Best of all, instead of opening at 9:00 and closing at 3:00, like most cafés, it opens at 7:00 in the morning, so you can pop round for a warm, homemade blueberry muffin with demerara crumble and an espresso for breakfast before work. Then it closes at 9:00 in the evening so after your tea you can go out and have a big bowl of “Dozen’s Mess” (a take on Eton Mess but with blackberries instead of raspberries, meringues made of brown sugar rather than caster and a thin, ribbon of custard throughout) and a “Paris on the Platte Café Fantasia” (a tall glass layered with hot cocoa and espresso separated by a thin wedge of orange and topped with a piped mound of whipped cream and sugared orange sprinkles – one of the owners’ homage to her favorite coffee house in Denver, Colorado).

The staff is a mish mash. There are old white witches who you fear may not be able to lift that stainless steel beaker full of milk to be steamed. There are also trendy, young lasses whose stylish clothes and high-heeled clattering give you the impression that the cast of Sex and the City have relocated to the West Country. They also make you wonder if London’s fashion elite, in order to get fashion inspiration, may not soon be hanging out on the velvet couches or in the smooth, curved and cushioned wooden booths at the back.

But all the staff work under another American tradition, fine customer service. You always get a smile and a heartfelt “have a nice day” or “y’all come back now”. And they mean it. You’re made to feel comfortable, welcome and that there’s no request you might make that’s too taxing.

I’ve been there many times, the first time Macy Gray was blaring out and everyone, patrons included, were singing out loud and the last time Billie Holiday was plaintively speaking to our souls. You’d think one or the other would be annoying but the whole vibe of the place suggests you go with the flow… and you do. It could be you’re bewitched but why worry?

And the food. A chatty old dame named Nerissa told me the two head cooks/pastry chefs (they both do both) are in a war to see who can make the finest concoction. And the customers benefit greatly from what they call The War of the Wooden Spoons.

If you want delicate flavors and textures, do not go to The Witches Dozen. This is about excess – rich, soulful, comfort food that comes in big (but not overly big) sizes with splashy presentations and bright colors. The “witches” at The Dozen (as it is affectionately known by the regular clientele which, I can say, now includes me) are the gorgeous kind of gals that couldn’t care less about the calories and they’re not embarrassed to ask for seconds and have pudding.

Everything from the furnishings to the music to the staff, to, best of all, the food, indeed says “welcome – sit long, talk much, eat hearty”.

Am I bewitched? Maybe.

Bothered, oh yes, but in a good way.

Bewildered about why it’s so good?

Not at all.

Witches Dozen, No. 13, The Beach, Opening Hours 7:00 to 9:00 All Week Long

Woo hoo! How ‘bout them apples? Especially like what he said about my fashion sense as obviously he’s talking about me (high heels, anyone?).

Dig!

It!

One could say that our Summer Solstice celebration kicked in big time! Ask the gods for success and dance (semi) naked in the moonlight and then let it happen!

19 July

I am now laying in my princess fortress.

My princess fortress that I built in Ash’s bed.

My princess fortress that I built in Ash’s bed, in Ash’s flat, in London.

I’m trying not to think about where Ash is.

If he’s dead.

Blown to smithereens.

Shot to bits.

Flayed alive.

Or just being tortured.

And Aidan is also MIA but not his usual MIA.

The last time I saw him, his BMW Roadster was careening out-of-control.

And now he’s probably in intensive care, holding onto the thread his life and waiting for my dulcet tones to awake him from a coma.

And here I am, surrounded by my princess fortress hoping for the best.

* * * * *

I created the all-powerful princess fortress when I was a little girl.

It had been a long day of Mom forcing us to help her make soap while listening to Simon and Garfunkel.

Then, as if a day of lye, essential oils and “Sound of Silence” isn’t bad enough, that evening Gran came over with her little finger cymbals shouting “I’m in the mood to dance!”

That night, the princess fortress was born.

You see, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was really a princess. These weird people who made soap and clanked finger cymbals for fun weren’t my real family. No! They kidnapped me when I was a baby.

(What can I say? I was the kind of little girl who lived in those plastic high-heeled shoes, clacking all over the house, the grocery store, everywhere.)

I figured I needed to practice for when the King and Queen of Wherever came to rescue me.

At night, when I was in my real home, that is to say, safe in the castle, I would undoubtedly sleep in a princess bed. I would be propped up on at least two pillows (covered in pink satin, of course) behind my head and shoulders with one pillow each running either side of my torso on which to rest my precious princess hands and arms.

Then I would lie still, night after night, waiting for the handsome prince to wake me up and carry me to a new, bigger and better castle.

There he would shower me with Fendi handbags and Tiffany charm bracelets (okay, that last bit came later, when I was a not-so-little girl).

Any time I felt scared or upset, I’d build my princess fortress and it would help me to sleep, help me to cope… just help me.

I hadn’t used the fortress in a long, long time.

And now that I was using it, it wasn’t working.

BecBec wasn’t here to keep my company with her whizzing around and freakish chatter.

And I didn’t know where Ash was.

Nor Aidan.

They didn’t answer their phones, I’d called The Gables (fifteen times) – no word. I called The Institute of Psychical Research (seven times) – nothing.