Borscht- The very word reminded Godfrey “of the sloppy sound of rubber boot clad hordes, of bullies bearing beets chasing after me.” “I knew every alley, every loo and place to hide, the years I was a child who disliked beets, back home in Batley.
Worzel writes- “It was a Sunday morning, he’d gone out to fetch a paper, came home much later, with no paper, soaking wet.”I walked the wrong way, explained Godfrey, wrong way through the crowded Sunday market . “Borscht was on the lunch board menu, at the bakery cafe, where I usually buy pastries on a Sunday”. “Borscht” on the next cafe sign outside in chalk, after quite an uphill walk”. “Borscht”, in canning jars glinting crimson on the first market table, fresh beets piled high on the second and the third one”….
“The only time they say, as a baby I cried, is when beets were served by my dear loving Ma, boiled or fried”. “Sister Alice told me beets came from rendered Slibber Sauce, made from old trolls when they die. “Back then I never knew Borscht, or why.’ Many years passed…
“There was a thick rime of fat round the rim of the ancient jar, beets seepage had formed rust…twas Worzel’s Grandma and Grandpa invited us for lunch, not long after we met”. “it was a long drive cross the prairie to Neepawa, with her stepmother Mrs Gibberflat in the car”. Godfrey recalls- “It was a sad house, a worn out yard of scorched brown grass, never really a lawn, smelling foul of tom-cat, old tractor parts strewn about” . “I sat alone on the steps as inside the family quarreled, over the jar of Borscht for lunch,( they had nothing else), or going out’. “The Hotel Neepawa had a buffet we never saw, Worzel ate the Borscht to be polite”. “She spent the journey home with her feet on me, head in the only paper bag that we had, was not a pleasant drive home that night”.
“I disliked beets, thus had no lunch or food, we bought a load of groceries for the Grandparents, before we left and the entire family spewed” “So, you ask where is the paper I went out to get, and the pastries, the coffee cream, the lemon you requested, and why am I late back, and soaking wet?”. “I walked the wrong way through the market square, paused by the table of a woman selling old books and used “tat”, panting beneath it a pompous poodle sat, the samosa seller gave me water for free, when I gave it to the dog’s owner, noted how much they looked alike, she dumped the cold bowl over me..”Twas all because of Borscht, I walked the wrong way through the market, that Sunday, wrote Godfrey”