Granny Liza's Peas - humour

Granny Liza lied to us, the way adults often lie to children. She would insist that the burnt crumble was apple, when it was obviously rhubarb and then call us fussy when we didn’t gobble it up with her half-cold lumpy custard. If we pulled out our tongues in disgust, we would be swiftly reminded that if the wind changed our faces would stick like that. My cousins shared my distaste for it, but at least I didn’t hide the uneaten evidence in the dog bowl.

Charlie was a sickly Labrador and grew sicker over time, until Granny Liza sent him away to live on a farm. I later learned that rhubarb is toxic to dogs. I like to think that Gran removed the offending crumble from Charlie’s bowl without ever letting on that she knew exactly what was happening. But I’m pretty sure it’s also toxic to kids and well, rather him than us.

Granny Liza could get garden peas wrong. They were somehow slimy and fibrous at the same time. The predictable argument at the end of every pea-ridden meal was how many we would have to force down our throats before our parents returned from shopping.

“How old are you?” she’d snap.

“Seven,” I’d say, wishing I was five, like Paul.

“Then you must eat seven peas before you leave the table. They’re packed with goodness.”

I’d begrudgingly force them down with the lukewarm tap water provided, and then watch as nine-year-old Lucy wished she was seven.

It seemed that Granny Liza had not always followed her own advice and might be speaking from experience. She often warned about the dangers of sitting too close to the Television – it would, of course, turn our eyes square! Granny Liza’s enormous rectangular bifocals were taken as proof it had already happened to her.

At some point we got old enough to be let loose in Gran’s kitchen to make lunch ourselves. We even cooked some peas we found, but only for her, since she liked them so much. Determined not to create the same rotten mush she forced on us every other Saturday, we only boiled them for ten seconds, then drained and served immediately, while hot.

We weren’t to know they were dried.

Gran munched her way through ham salad, boiled eggs and coleslaw, expressing nothing but pride in us for a job well done. It was suspicious that she didn’t touch her peas.

“Are you not finishing your lunch Gran?” Paul pointed at her plate with his knife.

“Well, you’ve done so perfectly with everything else, I don’t want to spoil it by eating too much,” came the diplomatic response.

“But peas are your favourite! We made them especially for you.” Lucy frowned.

Gran dutifully lifted a single pea to her lips, pretended to chew it and then swallowed it whole with a sip of water.

“Beautiful!” she exclaimed, but I’m really rather full.”

“Come on Gran,” said Paul. “They’re packed with goodness! How old are you?”