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Cookie was a very worried man. For two weeks he had worried and fretted and listened to the
jibes of the messmates. Now,
near the end of the mission; when they were heading home and he
couldn’t put it off any longer, his day of reckoning was rapidly
approaching. With a sigh, he checked the various serving dishes all ready
to go out into the officers’ wardroom.
It didn’t help that when he was being forced to face his worst
nightmare, all three of the command officers were going to be eating
together, along with about a half dozen or so of the junior officers,
all because the admiral had wanted to celebrate the completion of a good
mission. The cook heard the bustling and shop talk
that indicated that Captain Crane had entered the room, followed closely
by Commander Morton. Maybe,
he thought, the Admiral would forgo the meal this evening, or at least
eat in his cabin, as he was wont to do when end-of-mission reports were
coming due. But then a
deep, booming greeting told the cook that the OOM was in the wardroom,
too. Evans glanced at one of the dishes and then at
Cookie, his eyes partly sardonic and partly amused.
“Don’t say a word, Paul,” Cookie warned. “Not one word. Just
put the lid on it and serve it.” The messmate’s mouth quirked into a slight
grin and then he shrugged. “Okay,
Cookie, but I’m not taking the heat on this one.” Cookie sighed.
“Not asking you to. Let’s
just get the stuff out there and hightail it back in here.
Maybe if we’re not in sight….” “You mean range?” Cookie glowered at his assistant, then he picked
up the tray that contained several large tomato soup covered meatloaves.
Evans grabbed the large container of mixed vegetables and the
tray of dinner rolls. “Coward,”
Cookie muttered. As Cookie laid the last bowl on the table, he
saw that the messmate was already in hiding.
He quickly joined him.
The bantering continued joined by the soft clinking of utensils
and lids being lifted from the serving bowls.
Suddenly there was silence.
It was absolute and lingering.
No word was spoken, no plates rattled, not even the shuffling of
feet. Then there was a slight throat clearing sound.
“Cookie? Could you
join us?” came the slightly puzzled voice of the XO. With another sigh, Cookie wiped his hands on his
apron and walked into the wardroom.
“Yes, sir, Commander Morton.” “It’s been a week since we crossed the
equator, I am not aware that it’s anywhere near the first of April or
St. Patrick’s Day….” “Wrong color anyway,” Captain Crane added,
his mouth curved in a slight grin, even though his eyes also showed
astonishment as he stared at the offending dish. “It’s no one’s birthday, none of the men
have had any children born in the past day, none of the men’s wives
have announced a pregnancy either, so may I ask why in blazes did you
dye….” Morton continued. “Not dyed, sir,” Cookie explained quickly. “Not dyed?” Morton and Nelson said at the
same time. “No, sir, and I promise I didn’t order them,
either, Admiral, Mr. Morton.” “Then may I ask how we managed to get
these?” Crane interjected, gesturing at the large bowl of mashed
potatoes. They were a very
lovely light shade of lavender. “From purple potatoes, sir,” Cookie answered
with a nervous swallow. “And
I tried them, they are good to eat, Skipper.” It was quiet again for several seconds and then
the admiral began to chuckle. Soon
he was laughing. Soon
everyone was laughing and all the while the mound of lavender-colored
mashed potatoes sat like some serene ‘purple mountains majesty’ in
the middle of the table. “All right, gentlemen, let’s dig in. We aren’t going to let a strange looking lump of food stymie us now are we?” Nelson asked as he reached for the dish of potatoes. ** Yes, there are several varieties of blue/purple potatoes. In fact there are quite a few, something that surprised me. The purple potatoes were the only starts available at Lowe’s when I was ready to plant potatoes this past spring. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I got some very lovely lavender mashed potatoes. Mine were darker of skin and a bit lighter of flesh than these.
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