News
A Now and Again Note from Andrew Appleby
25/06/2010 08:12:00
The Tooth Fairies
IT was at the end of last summer when our friend Shayla gave us a parting gift of some lovely, healthy and bonny pink rock salt. She is always very thoughtful and generous. The crystals seemed to glow in their crinkly cellophane wrapper. Their gentle hue resembled the most delicate of rose petals, or 'rose leaves', as GMB would have said.
Like many gifts of condiments, they awaited their turn to be included in
our varied cuisine. At last, this February, they were given their
chance to enhance one of Sigrid's specialities … risotto! Within this
rice favourite of hers were prawns, mussels, shallots and tiny squid
tentacles, wrenched from one of our special tins brought back from
France.
Her great wooden paddle-like spoon scraped round the cruzet. Rich smells
of the sea filled our dining room as my glasses steamed over with
vapours from the pot.
My plate was proffered. My fork was poised. As the misty clouds on my
lenses began to dissipate, Sigrid sprinkled a smattering of Shayla's
salt over my charged platter. The al dente allium touched my soul as I
bit. The rice, sticky, yet still pent with texture, touched my tongue.
The aroma of fresh mussels enticed a further forkful. "Marvellous,
delicious and perfect." I praised as I gaily reloaded my fork.
My jaw closed as Sigrid lapped up her well-earned praise. Crack! went my
left upper canine as my unsuspecting lower mandible closed. An innocent
pink crystal, the colour of seriously diluted blood, had lodged like a
frightened puppy in my dogtooth. I emitted a howl. My curling tongue
sucked at my injured fang. Hiding deep in the crevice was the guilty
little grain of un-dissolved saline rock! The cause of my sudden
discomfort slipped from its toothy grip and stuck to the tip of that
prehensile organ of mine. I then removed it from my tongue. I watched
the guilty little grain turn to liquid on my quivering fingertip as it
dissolved in a drop of foaming spittle.
I felt that my tooth had taken on a subliminal fissure. Perhaps an old
filling had compacted slightly under the pressure of my greedy
mastication as well? Maybe the root had been forced higher into my
skull? At that moment I considered these possibilities as I gingerly
placed a small forkful between tongue and teeth. I sucked rather than
chewed.
Sigrid uttered words of sympathy to her Kloss Hans. Her endearing name
for me took on a truer meaning as I carefully avoided the troubled doggy
dent. With care and attention, Sigrid quietly removed the offending
dish of salt. She filled our transparent grinder with it, and like Lot's
Wife, it became a pillar of fleshy pink sodium, to be ground into
powder instead of the dangerous gravel that it was.
My tooth was soothed. Over the ensuing days it took on a more
comfortable feel, though it oft warned of a certain weakness. I became
used to avoiding that side of my mouth in the serious business of
cracking nuts, crab shells and prune stones. I watched out for the
stubborn bits in muesli. I looked after my eyetooth and hoped it would
keep up the good work until I could see our dentist in France.
It was just this month. June. We had removed from our freezer a mangled
bag of meaty remains. Was it a portion or three of Mrs Vasey's violent
cockerel that we had to put down? No it wasn't. It was a sachet of
road-kill pheasant that Sigrid had skilfully garnered en route from
Perthshire. Lardons, garlics, carrots, red wine, the offending ground
pink salt, Parmeswarans pepper and some jellied stock from a Finstown
duck joined it in the oval iron receptacle. The medley of flavours
joined gently over a couple of hours of slow simmering. It was allowed
to cool completely over the next day.
My sweet heart, or Elskling, as I call her, carefully removed all the
bones. The dish was ready to re-heat for our splendid supper. The
pleasant pheasant hotpot was about ready. My serving was placed on my
plate by the mash of tatty and celeriac. The combination is classic.
My lips smacked in appreciation and anticipation. We commenced our
repast. A sip of St Chinian, a touch of cranberry sauce and a twist of
the salt-mill made it all perfect. God was kind. His grace allowed me to
almost complete my avian treat when it struck! Mopped up in the blend
of tuber and root veg was a morsel of delectable pheasant. Clinging
within it was a chip of bird hip. This had escaped the diligent scrutiny
of my Elskling. My lower jaw defied gravity. The sheer levity of the
movement clinched it. That fragment of ossified joint followed its
trajectory to the upper doggy peg: The very one that had suffered the
affliction of deadly pink salt in February.
Sigrid heard the loudly audible crack. She saw my eyes widen. Her hand
reached out to mine as my right palm went directly to my left cheek. "I
have split my tooth!" I uttered. A sensation of discomfort and damaged
gum erupted in my mouth. The taste of fresh blood welled inside my face.
"Emergency dentist!" was all I could utter. I dialled the Balfour
number: All those eights. The kind receptionist informed me of the
required digits for NHS24. My index finger pressed the required
numerals. A tape recording answered me. Then there were the 'options.' I
leaped the numeric hurdles without tripping. A delightful Irish voice
gave me confidence. I would be called back when an emergency dentist
could be located.
I went to bed, handset clenched in my right fist. Their I lay until the
piece of electronic technology throbbed and expleted on my compressed
lifeline. "NHS24". The Emerald Isle accent informed me. "You will be
contacted shortly by a dentist who will treat you. Wait there and he
will phone." My gratitude warmed the coracles of her heart.
Nine minutes after a Polish accent greeted my right lug. "As soon as I
can locate a dental nurse to assist me, I will phone you back and ask
you to make your way to the emergency dental clinic," Michal informed
me. I alerted Sigrid to locate the car keys.
The phone pleeped its ring-tone sequence once more. My perspiring mitt
lunged it to my lobe. "We can see you at 21.45hrs." the East European
voice informed me. I was delighted.
Our headlights lit the Old Finstown Road. We turned in past Horner's
Quoy and found the clinic as the fluorescent lights flickered on. A
delightful red-haired dental nurse greeted us. I was directed to the
dark couch. The mastermind like chair took my weight as Michal peered
inside my gaping mouth. In moments the swinging lump of fractured fang
was wrested from my flapping gum. Bits of old filling swilled within my
saliva. They pinged into a spit tray. My remaining exposed ivory was
coated with creamy cement, which solidified in moments.
"Clench your jaw." The attentive dentist suggested. I responded. The
pain had dissipated. I was in complete comfort.
After a few brief enquiries as to my nativity and aboriginality, I was
handed a bill for four pounds eighty pence. The comforting Polish voice
said: "Just pay it sometime when you are passing."
I thanked the pair of tooth fairies profusely and gratefully. The whole
service was brilliant and actually enjoyable. I will in the future,
though, be more guarded over those pinches of salt and pheasant bones!