Not even the knowing tap of old man McCutcheon’s finger against the glass of the barometer could ease the rising tensions of the townsfolk. Guarded whispers turned into anxious mutterings as the children were ushered in to tend the kippers for supper. Were the predictions correct? Could it finally be happening?
An anxious radio call through to the folks down at the docks went unanswered and, as the winds picked up, a few heavy drops of rain spat at the ground.
It was happening. The perfect storm.
"Ol' Man 'Cutcheon done got it right! Storm's a brewin'!"
At least, that’s how I think it happened. I’ve been forced to reconstruct this story from hearsay, conjecture and the decoding of the significant cheese wheel bruising that I found on my arms in the days following my ordeal.
Waking up on a barn floor surrounded by muscatels. Drawing the ire of a whole pen of enraged truffle pigs. It must have been one hell of a lactic acid trip.
The last thing I remember before blacking out was hearing that the final course of my dinner would be Truffled Old Telegraph Brie.
In the haze of seagulls, ocean spray and mayday calls made over the static (also known as the “no one will ever marry you” mayhem that occurs when I sit down to a table full of dairy products) I remember the most delicious truffle aroma, a powerful white mould cheese flavour and a centre so creamy that Davy Jones himself would have filled his locker with the stuff.
Some of the older fishermen still talk about that day. Old McCutcheon will tell anyone who asks that the needle on the barometer has shifted naught since that dark day in Saskapontackport history. The day when the nets snapped, the mainsails ripped in two and one unlucky boat (me) got tipped over by the giant wave (cheese) of a perfect storm.
Old Telegraph Brie with an inner layer of truffles. Yum!
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