Story by Emmjay
“It’s too thin !”
“It’s supposed to be thin. How else will it come out thin ?”
“I dunno. You’re the chef.”
“Let’s give it a go. After all, what have we got to lose ? If it isn’t right, I’ll make another batch thicker.”
“I reckon he’ll be chuffed – what with no donations coming in, this is going to be a bigger hit than Girl Guides bickies.”
Granny’s delicate rear end disappeared into the gleaming stainless-steel palace aka the Pig’s Arms kitchen.
Foodge heard the distinctive clunk of the stove door. Or was it Granny’s dentures falling out again ?
She re-emerged and motioned Merv to whack a glass canoe of Trotter’s Ale on the counter. Times two.
The conspirators twittered as their plan started to yield a toasty goodness smell that permeated the front bar, rousing the patrons’ appetites and prompting orders for Granny’s famous wedges with sweet chilli sauce and sour cream – to be washed down with lashings of Merv’s new IPA (Intriguing Pig’s Ale).
In no time the new culinary mistresspiece announced its own readiness and Granny ran her Doc Martin’s across the linoleum and into the kitchen.
She returned, beaming satisfaction with her new creation.
“They’s the flattest pancakes I’ve ever seen, Granny. I told you the mix was too thin !”
“It’s supposed to be like that, Foodge.”
“They’s pretty small for pancakes, Granny. Is they pikelets ?”
“You’re a fuckin’ pikelet, Foodge. They are wafers! Have you never heard the phrase ‘wafer thin ?”
“I thought people were saying Wayfarer Thin – like those Ray Bans”. Foodge was running right along his limit of cool. Granny rolled her eye. The other eye had lit upon Father O’Way who strode into the bar for his customary Happy Hour pint of Benedictine.
“Hi Father” said Foodge.
“Hi Foodge, my son” A smile wafted its way over the faces in the bar – echoing a pub rumour not flattering to either Foodge or the good Father, but not a word was spoken by the crowd.
“And what kind of pastry confession might that be, Granny” said Father O’Way , staring at the curiously familiar discs.
“My new creation – and hopefully the savour of the gutted Parisian icon, Notre Dame, Father”, said Granny.
“I call them ‘Father O’Wafers”. A howl went up from the patrons and a demand for absolution was met with the rapid distribution of the Father O’Wafers, quaffs of seriously dark Pink Drinks and clerical arm waving by the Good Father.
“Those are amazing”, said Merv, who had a kind of halo-like affair around his bonce – which was in effect a Trumpian fog of hair that had been teased just a tad past breaking point.
“I don’t get the frog bit, Granny”, said Big M. “How on earth are you going to make enough of these pastry teasers to fund a new cathedral roof ? I mean it’s taken ten years for Emmjay to realise that the roof of St Generic Brands is in a similar state. I mean he could fix it with a paragraph of builder talk, but Oh, NO, he’s busy “, said Big M in an unusually sarcastic outburst.
“I have a business plan” said Granny. “I have enlisted the international tyke sisterhood. We are going global with the invaluable support of ….. the Brides of Crust.”.
“Father O’Wafers” said Father O’Way. It has a certain ring to it. I can see it now. Up in lights – Father O’Wafers – for occasions when you haven’t got a prayer”.
“Not a parish or conglomeration on the planet who wouldn’t give them out at Confusion” insisted Merv, who by now had become deeply under the spirit.
‘This is just the start” said Granny. “Manne and I’ve begun R&D on our next line – “Commission Royals – wickedly indulgent, sticky after-Mass treats for sharing with kiddies in the sacristy. I started with an old Georgian recipe and added a little extra frisson”.
Foodge looked puzzled. He was struggling with the concept of adding a little extra friction – which is rarely a good thing – especially in the cloisters.
“I think you’ll have to work on that a bit more Granny”.
“Not as much as Emmjay” has to work on the roof of St Generic’s Brand”, said Father O’Way – a master of changing the subject – before Bishop Bishop gets his claws into this little caper.