The first thing I thought of was the three blind mice having their tails cut off with a carving knife, but I couldn’t find a recipe for mouse-tail anything. I suppose I could have come up with one, but I couldn’t find a recommendation for the proper wine to serve with it, so I discarded that idea.
Here’s what I ended up with. I’ve attempted to write it in British, which is my second language (my first is American). I hope I haven’t made too many mistakes in translation.
Dinner For Three
by Marian Allen
So me and Mimsy and Flora was having a kind of a cook-out. We was on the long hols and decided to camp in the woods behind the house. Mum didn’t fancy it, because she said some psycho tramp could come do us proper, so we said we’d just like have the afternoon and do a Girl Guides supper and be in before dark.
We dug a bit of a trench and built a fire in it (Mimsy’s dead good at that) and put a tin pot of water over it. When it was nearly on the boil, we dipped some out for tea and started the stew.
Mum had contributed the ingredients. She’s a good old girl, really. We’d cleaned everything and cut it into cubes and bagged it, and bagged a bit of salt and marjoram and that, and carried it out in an insulated bag. Now we took turns putting stuff in.
We pretended it was gross stuff we’d foraged and all, but it was really beef and onions and potatoes, with salt and pepper and marjoram and a bay leaf. We put it in a bit at a time, so the pot didn’t lose the boil.
Then we settled back and did a send-up of this fat bird at school who’d pissed Flora off.
The stew was just beginning to smell like food when these two old blokes staggered out of the woods.
“Cor,” I said, “drunk at their age!”
They looked like they’d been in a fight, too.
One of them sort of pulled the other one along, like they were just taking the woods as a shortcut, but the other one tried to chat us up. Disgusting!
You never know when a drunk is going to turn ugly, though, so we played along a bit, told him he’d see better days and that.
When they were gone, I was like, “I hate to say it, but it looks like Mum was right. Let’s scarper.”
I kicked the dirt back into the fire trench and packed it down. Flora put all our bits and bobs into the carrier, and Mimsy and me put the lid on the pot and used our jackets to hold the handles as we carried it home to finish on the cooker.
We told Mum it was the insects that drove us in. If she’d known she was right and we was wrong, she’d have never let us hear the last of it.
But we never went into those woods again.
~ * ~
MY PROMPT FOR TODAY: 3, Macbeth and the three witches