LatinosUSA

I missed the start of an interview on ABC’s News Breakfast. Two strange-looking scientist types had started explaining their theory of some disaster heading our way. “It’s coming,” the bespectacled, cadaver-like female guest explained to the host. “Something frightful, like a kitchen dragging a village behind it.” Her companion, a pale-skinned man with wild eyes and wiry red hair nodded sagely.

Of course it’s coming. And my muesli’s waiting. I started to eat and tried to imagine a King Kong-like kitchen rampaging across the land. The next time I see a sign on a van saying Mobile Kitchen, I shall look twice. And what of the village? I haven’t read her book, but when Hillary Rodham Clinton wrote It Takes a Village, I don’t think she counseled readers on dealing with rampaging kitchens. As I’d missed the start of the interview, I wondered if there’d been instructions to viewers to empty their cupboards. What about the plumbing, gas, and electricity? Would that be what the something frightful was? My wife, Fiona, always says the kitchen looks frightful after I’ve been cooking in it, but I always leave it in a stationary, anchored state. What about the second fridge with all my beer in it?

Would it be the whole village? Surely the park would be left behind. And, once that’s established, the galloping galley can leave the pub here, too. I’ll go to my favourite watering hole to help anchor it, and I’ll make sure the lads from the rugby club are there as well. Imagine not having a pub; it’s the only place one can get a decent meat pie with fresh coleslaw and pickled onions. Of course, now I’ve written that, the kitchen might feel so slighted, it’ll take the pub, the bakery, and the fish-and-chip shop. The fish-and-chip shop! The rugby field would have to stay. Could we negotiate a trade? Perhaps we should hurriedly clone Lord Kitchener and have him create a kitchen concentration camp. He could detain everything but the kitchen sink, which, my wife says, we can’t do without.

What will the government do?  They’ll want our vote at the next election, so they’d better get to grips with the situation. If they lose the support of our entire village, the rest of the country might come out in sympathy with the two-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty-seven of us voters – providing we’re all still around. Hang on. Maybe that’s it! How many suicide bombers can the village produce? How many will give up their lives for the sake of the community? Isn’t that something we should demand of the mayor? It’s why we voted for you, Shane. Have some pride! Strap on the vest and hunker up to the plundering kitchen before pulling the pin. We’ll put a plaque to honour you by the entrance to the town hall, even erect a statue if we can raise the money. Once Shane sees the way the wind’s blowing, he’d surely contact whatshisface, the Prime Minister. Have him send in the SAS, or some such unit … something frightful. We’ll match our frightfuls with theirs, whoever they are. Is there a they, or is the terrorist a single entity? Something, or someone, must have irked the kitchen. Maybe Shane can send his wife, Murgatroyd, to infiltrate whoever are, or whatever is, behind the planned dastardly attack. She’s always very charming and amenable at the village flower show.

Imagine all those knives flying about. Pots and pans, too, but the knives would be the biggest danger. Fiona says I should get my posterior into our kitchen and start cooking – she reckons the petrifying pantry would be so alarmed, there’d be immediate negotiations for peace.

“Think of it,” she said. “You’d be the man who quelled a kitchen. They’d put your picture in all those blokey magazines. Women would fall at your feet.” Then she laughed so much she got a fit of coughing. She breathlessly reached out and put her palm on my cheek. “Don’t worry, dear, there’s nothing to be concerned about,” she said. “Virginia and her guests were discussing a new book that’s out, and what you heard was chat about a quotation from it.”