DESOLATION SOUND

THE BED WAS FINE, NOW FOR THE BREAKFAST

"Will porridge be all right for everyone?"

The question is asked by our hostess at the Inn on St. Aloysius, a Bed and Breakfast in Victoria, British Columbia. Accent on British, as Victoria is more British than any place in England, and our hostess, Jane, is more British than the Queen. Tall, slender, elegant Jane has poured our morning coffee at the exquisitely laid table, and we eight guests, having left our shoes--as commanded--in Jane's foyer, sit expectantly around the board eagerly awaiting our hearty English breakfast. My wife Kay is at my right; next to her is Tanya, a young redhead from Calgary. Next to Tanya is Sally, a delightful lady of a certain age from London--the one in England, not Ontario. Preceding in the anti-clockwise direction, Sally's neighbor is her friend Mary, a Seattle-ite. On Mary's right is octogenarian Charles, another Seattle native. Charles and Mary, although unknown to each other, have visited Victoria many times and just love the fine old English traditions exhibited here.
Now we come to Deana Pos, traveling with her husband Ned, who is perched at the head of the table. Ned and Deana are traveling with Kay and me and have stopped over in Victoria on our way up Vancouver Island to Campbell River to pick up our chartered boat from Fred and Carol Ray. We all thought it would be a swell idea to stay at a B & B in Victoria before hitting the road northward. "Porridge. Yes. Fine idea," says Sally with typical London assurance. "Oh, absolutely," chimes in Mary. Our hostess produces a bowl of greyish, lumpy, gelatinous substance and informs us,"The milk in the large pitcher is warmed just right for the porridge." "Really?" I mutter and take a serving spoonful and pass the bowl on to Kay. "What kind of porridge is this?" asks Sally. "Oh," replies Jane, standing regally at Ned's right elbow, "it's a seven-grain porridge which I obtained at the market nearby." "Very good," observes Charles, pulling his chair closer to the table in eager anticipation. The porridge continues around the table. Kay is silent. Deana is silent. We boaties glance nervously at Ned, the ultimate bitchen surfin' dude. Ned's eyes bulge ominously, but he says not a word. We doctor the stuff with specially-warmed milk, brown sugar, and whatever else we feel might be appropriate. Teaspoon clink. The porridge is consumed. Ned's eyes roll a bit, but he still remains mute. "My, you folks certainly did proudly by the porridge," Jane observes as she hauls in the second course. First she removes the porridge server and our small bowls. Then she places before each of us a dainty plate. On the dainty plate is a thin piece of wheat toast with a runny sort of sauce drooling over it. "This certainly looks yummy," Sally notes. Sally is a very pleasant lady. Tanya remains silent. Kay ditto. Deana also. Ned's eyes are switching back and forth from Charles to Jane as Jane continues around the table, placing this delicacy before each of us. I slice a small morsel from the wheat toast. The sauce is a sort of cheesy concoction with little red specks in it. The little red specks, unfortunately, contribute no flavor whatsoever to the runny sauce. Next to each piece of wheat toast is a slice--microscopically thin--of cucumber.
The silence becomes louder.  We gingerly slice and tap away at this treat.  Soon our plates are empty and we turn our gaze toward the kitchen door. What will Jane surprise us with next? "More coffee anyone? And there's more tea in that silver pitcher." We all take more coffee, except for Sally and Mary, who help themselves to the tea. Nothing is happening. The grand finale must be on its way. Bacon and eggs? Steak and kidney pie ? Kippers and scrambles with cottage-fried potatoes ? Attempts at conversation bridge the gap. We learn of Sally's battle with the British taxation systems. We discover that Tanya is a systems analyst who plays trumpet in the rodeo band at the Calgary Stampede. Charles seem to be a professional traveler/birdwatcher who mainly travels from Seattle to Victoria. Does he have a thing going with Jane? Mary loves having Sally as a houseguest and has visited her friend several times in London. Kay, Deana, and I talk briefly about our trip northward and our expectations of Desolation Sound. Ned says nothing. His eyes are focused intently on his plate. Jane appears proudly in the doorway. She bears a tray laden with the ultimate breakfast surprise. We each receive a glass saucer with a 2-by 3-inch portion of gingerbread perched proudly in the middle. Blueberries and papaya chunks are placed in the center of the table. "Lovely," enthuses Charles as the rest of us nod sympathetic agreement. Ned's eyes commence some impressive barrel rolls. His clenched jaw is beginning to turn blue. We quietly down the gingerbread. We wait. Is the real food coming now ? "Well," announces Jane from the kitchen door, "I hope you enjoyed our typical Victoria breakfast and are ready for a lovely day of visiting our city." "Yes, yes, of course. Delightful. Excellent. Very refreshing." The comments flow around the table as we rise and start toward the exit. Ned says nothing; his neck muscles throb. Deana, Kay, and I regard him anxiously as we head to the foyer where our shoes await us. Shod again, we head toward the car and freedom. Ned finally speaks: "Porridge? What the hell is porridge? I never heard of it since that nursery story about the bears. Bed and breakfast? Was that a breakfast? How does that woman stay in business?"

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