Tea and Onions
Chamomile sat in her garden under the birch trees sipping chai tea whilst nibbling on a piece of raisin bread, buttered and then sprinkled lightly with brown sugar. It was her birthday and that morning she wanted to spend it alone. The evening she would spend like Jay Gatsby, but for the meantime, silence was ideal. She savored the birds chirping and the clinking of china and even the smell of the onions from her neighbor’s garden, which she hated.
Anyone who named their child Chamomile was opting for her to love tea, and she stirred the liquid lovingly before taking another sip. Her pot was almost out and she rang her maid for another full one. But just as she made motion to ring the bell, her neighbor came out of the back door and started for the garden. Chamomile had memorized their usual routine: after talking for a good forty-five minutes, the neighbor would pull up first her peppermint and then her onions, taking great pains to wash off the dirt before putting them in the sunlight to reek. Chamomile cursed her sensitive nose and started to stand up.
“Good morning, Miss Potts,” her neighbor said, smiling brightly.
“Good morning, Mrs. Shirard.”
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite.”
“I’m so glad you invited us to your party tonight! You must be preparing for it soon, so I won’t keep you.”
Thank God, Chamomile thought.
“I was just going to pull up some onions for you to use if you want them. They’re very sweet and well, I didn’t know what else to get you for a gift.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Shirard. I think my cook has enough onions, but thank you for the thought.” In actuality, there were no onions in any of the dishes Chamomile ordered; she made sure of it. “But if you’re looking for a gift…I don’t want to be rude, but a tea pot would be nice. Or flowers; I love flowers.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have any,” Mrs. Shirard said looking like a child who had an accident and was caught for wrongdoing.
“Well,” Chamomile stumbled over her words. “It’s just that I hate onions, Mrs. Shirard. I’m sure yours are wonderful, but I can’t stand the things!”
Mrs. Shirard looked at her and then laughed. “Oh, you should have said sooner. I’ll see what I can get when I stop by town this afternoon.”
“I meant no offense when—”
"You silly girl, there was none taken. But you’d best get inside and get ready. I don’t want anything else to interrupt your relaxation.”
“Thank you,” Chamomile stuttered, wondering how the woman knew so much and yet nothing about the fact that she hated onions.
Mrs. Shirard smiled as Chamomile left and a servant came to take away the teapot and china. “What a silly little girl,” she said to herself. “This will be an interesting party.”
