Lou Milner - One Big Kettle of Borsch

One Big Kettle of Borsch

by Lou Milner

As the cliché goes, Diana had it all: soul-mate husband; two perfect, grown children; beautiful and, of course, intelligent, creative, sensitive, talented grandchildren—three of them; a lovely home overlooking the sea; a trendy little commuter suite in the heart of The City; and talent. No shortage of talent. Diana was one of those infuriating people with the Midas touch—a whiz with figures, a shrewd investor, a gifted actress; an empathetic storyteller; a brilliant painter. And yet…and yet…

Was something missing?

Looks? No, on the eve of 60, Diana was still, by any gauge, a beauty.

Black hair? True, there wasn't as much as in her youth; and her perpetual quandary was "to color or not to color"; and although it was a top-of-mind dilemma, it wasn't weighty enough to cause this inexplicable angst.

The state of the world. That was her problem. A big, insurmountable problem. There were so many sour soups the sensitive Diana would lovingly re-season if given the chance. She'd ensure the earth and all its inhabitants—flora and fauna, including the highly flawed human variety—once and forever lived in a sweet mellow stockpot of goodwill, as was surely the original intent. Sadly, the chief cook's job was not being offered and the task was beyond her power. It was this powerlessness, she decided, that was the reason of her discontent. And it was getting her nowhere but sleepless.

What she needed was time alone. Time to thoughtfully observe and reflect and perhaps buy a new pair of shoes.

Always just a notion away, Synchronicity presented the opportunity: an audition in The City.

The part was minor, but it was an excuse to be someone else, somewhere else. She'd go early to prepare.

Diana embraced the role with compassion, enthusiasm, and a voracious appetite for Ukrainian garlic sausage. Although the script called for a mere six lines, she transmogrified into the bit character Domekia Klewchuk—the maid of a less-than-wealthy Russian businessman who had married a salesclerk named Joan and migrated to Vegreville, where the average daily temperature in July was a tepid-verging-on-chilly 61 degrees Fahrenheit.

Her hair, as expected, was Diana's first hurdle—"to color or not to color." Tossing caution through the window, she opted for Simply Steel Meets Snow White. What the heck, she may as well rid herself of black altogether and go for the complete head of bland.

Next, she bought a full-figure undergarment and padded all the appropriate spots, thereby endowing herself with large melon-like protuberances on thigh, buttock, and bosom. It felt odd at first but, later, somewhat warm and comforting. Being encased in an excess blanket of pseudo flesh reminded Diana of her happy, youthful wiener-skinning days.

Now, utterly engrossed in the new persona, Diana never left her fashionable downtown apartment without babushka on head and trusty Troika in mouth. She was the true embodiment of every matronly Russian stereotype. She even delighted in the feel of walking the streets late at night in her scuffed brown flats, which she unearthed after much sole searching in the dusty shoe aisle of the New 'n Abused on Commercial Drive near Bingo Heaven, her favorite haunt.

Every day for a week, Diana drank vodka from the bottle, smoked her stubby Troikas, and rehearsed her lines: "Nyet, nyet, nyet. Too hot!" "Please to bury shoes. It is Ukrainian custom." "No more eggs. We eat dumplings." And "Dah, I love polka dance."

Finally, the moment of deception and the hour of audition arrived. Diana delivered her lines with such emotional intensity, the director, teary-eyed, applauded and thanked her. "We'll be in touch, Domekia," he said with grave insincerity, looking her directly in the orbs.

Domekia. To Him, Diana was Domekia.

Domekia waited eagerly by the cell phone. When the call finally came, it was her agent. He had news. Bad. While her performance was outstanding, the director wanted someone younger, thinner, and less buxom, with salt and pepper hair.

Normally, this would have devastated Domekia, but she so possessed her new identity that despair was impossible. She felt reborn, and thirsty. She could hardly wait to be back with her husband in their island home. When she called to tell him of her saga in The City, he said she sounded hoarse, but sexy, and he too had taken time to reflect. His days as sculptor and golfer were behind him and he was ready to start life anew, as a musician. He had purchased an accordion, a beautiful instrument, and could already play On Top of Old Smokey almost perfectly on the piano side, though he was still experiencing difficulty with the "left hand button things."

There was something in the way he said "button things" that broke Diana-Domekia's heart and reminded her of all the wonderful lives they'd lived together over the years. She knew there'd be more wonderful lives and big blue skies ahead for her and her accordion-toting lover.

Maybe she couldn't change the whole planet, but with a few modest alterations she could always make her own little world a brighter place. And, that, she decided is what everyone needed to do. Yes, she'd drink to that—from the bowl of sweet summer borsch.

"Bud'mo!"*

__________________

* "Let's be!" a tale by Lou Who? on the event of Domekia's 60th birthday