Read or Die | Biography | Writing |
Breakfast with the Hoggs
Saturday morning in the Hogg household.
Morning now, if only just.
The daylight arrives, the water is boiled for tea, and it’s Saturday.
“Harry, I can’t believe you’d ask me this before seven in the morning. It’s a bit like asking if Romeo would ever forget Juliet.”
I asked Jenny if she thought I would forget her when I died. Jenny was spreading jam on my toasted crumpets. I save crumpets for Saturday, a celebration of the weekend beginning.
“But he has, Jenny. Romeo has forgotten Juliet and is wandering around the Cosmos. He doesn’t remember a damn thing about that woman or that he was Earth’s most magical love story.”
“I don’t believe you, Harry. You’re obviously thinking about a story for Medium. Your friends there expect you to be funny and you are, dear.”
Jenny pours my tea and pushes the toasted crumpets and jam in front of me.
“Romeo has forgotten Juliet, Jenny, and I’ll tell you something else. Pope John Paul is working as a lunar-scape gardener and hasn’t the slightest idea of who or what he meant to millions of Catholics. He doesn’t remember one thing, not one, not even how he knelt to kiss the ground when he entered another country to bless its people.”
“Well, I won’t forget about you, Harry, not ever; God knows I never will.”
“That’s true, Jenny. I checked with him yesterday as he was checking out Pluto,” I said, licking the jam off my fingertips.
“And did you tell him that you will never forget me?”
“I forgot.”
“Harry…! You forgot?” And Jenny grabbed the crumpets away.
We were laughing, and our friendship and love felt vast and magnificent in the early morning warmth of the kitchen.
Our son, boggle-eyed and bed-hair, enters the kitchen like a zombie.
“What’s so funny this early,” he says, having forgotten everything but his boxer shorts.
“I was asking your mom if she thinks Romeo has forgotten Juliet?” I said, pulling my crumpets back.
“Really? Shakespeare at the breakfast table? The two of you need therapy. Any tea in the pot Mom?”
Jenny leaves the table to bring our son a mug.
“I could eat one of those muffins, Dad.”
“You could, son,” I said, picking up my knife and hovering it over my crumpets.
“Harry, give the boy a muffin,” she says arriving back at the table.
My son is now looking at a muffin and wondering what kind of mood I’m in. Jenny reaches over and steals a muffin off my plate.
“Hey!”
“You’re too heavy, darling. It will do you good,” Jenny says.
There’s a smirk on my son’s face that is just begging to get wiped off!
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Fuck off,” I said.
“Harry, you’ve only been up half an hour. Please don’t say that at the table,” Jenny said.
“Thanks, Dad,” my son says, raising his crumpet in my face before he leaves with his tea and my crumpet.
“You’re too soft on the boy, he’s in his forties, you know,” I say.
“We’re lucky to have him stay for one night. I gave him one of your crumpets. I didn’t choose to buy a car for his birthday, or a set of tools, or send him and his family on holiday,” Jenny says.
“Crumpets are fucking sacred, Jenny,” I say.
My last crumpet disappeared into the waste bin.
“What the fuck, Jenny.”
“Not at the table.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Because I forgot to ask God if I’ll remember you?”
“Honestly, Harry. Shakespeare couldn’t have created someone like you.”
“He did, Jenny. Romeo!”
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