Ms Greta Baumgarten's Mithridatum of Despair

Image created in canva, using linked image from Pixabay.

This week's prompt is Temptation. And your skill challenge is to create a character who is faced with desire in the face of danger.

Ms Greta Baumgarten was a formidable woman. She was the kind of woman who upon seeing a small kitten helplessly mewing, would shrug, and continue on her way. She would walk by the affable butcher, with his cleaver-in-hand, and allow a shiver to tickle through his spine. She would not be described as the kind of woman who would stroll, but rather, her gait was stern and deliberate. She was a handsome woman who did not depend on mascara, and although she had no qualms with anyone, nor they with her; she was imagined by all as uncongenial.

Outside of Ms Baumgarten’s kitchen window was a large oak tree, whose canopy stretched into the neighbouring yard. It was a golden canopy, and the hue of the leaves reflected a warmth which the formidable women craved. The falling leaves had a mesmerising effect on her heart and she stood at that little window and stared. She was taken by the oranges and reds, and their sense of delicate fragility. She ached to crunch them under her bare feet, but she knew decorum would prohibit it.

As her whole body yearned to be outside, she was struck back into the present, recalling the hopeless loneliness she felt as a child, which now haunted her into middle age. Her apron strings around her waist were loose, as was her bundled hair. She knew no mithridatium for her despair, and she sighed most deliberately, knowing of no one who would understand the etymology of either that word, nor the roots of her lingering internal pain. It threw her then, that the doorbell had rung.

On answering the door, she was very aware of the state of her hair, which suggested a less formal woman than the façade which she intended to project. Despite this, she held her hands in a poised manner across her middle and listened to the offering of the stoic man before her; the one who had rung her doorbell.

“Hello ma’am”, began Stewart, “I moved into the house next door earlier today, I just thought I’d come by and introduce myself”. He continued on in a drawl which left Ms Baumgarten perplexed – feeling like her knees would give out at any moment. She noticed the way his moustache was beginning to grey from its ends. She noticed the unevenness of his eye brows; the left being slightly higher than the right. She noticed that the buttons through his blue checked shirt had a pearl effect, contrasting the cotton which held them in place. As she shut door, her heart moved for the second time in the space of minutes. She noted with some uncertainty a curious feeling rising through her entire being – she felt overwhelmed as she imagined with a silly giddiness, that infatuation had stolen her sensibilities. But what of decorum? She had stopped listening to half of what he had said, in order to just be in the moment, losing herself in the hard wrinkles by his eyes.

She returned to her kitchen window, intent to see the tall stranger, with a sensible gait and a stern manner returning across the lawn. She could nearly hear the oak leaves crack beneath his brown polished boots. The silly giddiness continued to rise up in her, as she envied those leaves who, despite the brevity of the moment, were touched by him. She closed her eyes and let out another sigh – a sigh of longing, which turned into panic. Could she pursue a romantic interest with her neighbour? She attempted to calculate the costs, and the probabilities of finding love in the middle aged arms of the fanciable chap, whose musky sweat from lifting boxes seemed to have lingered in her nose. She felt a certainty that the odds were around 3.14% - which sparked an idea, that she would ring his own doorbell, in the possession of a warm apple crumble.

Ms Baumgarten, ever the pragmatic woman, had no intention of kneading the dough or boiling the apples. She removed a frozen pastry from the freezer, reviewing the instructions to set the oven, before setting the timer. As the clock began to tick slowly down from twenty minutes, fanciful ideas overtook the softening the middle aged woman who stood in the middle of her kitchen. She was taken by the moment – and she began to untie her apron, discarding it on the floor – an action, which she will forever remember as a rebellious carelessness, and not one to be repeated. She bent further over and removed her sensible flats with orthopedic support, embracing a quasi-sexuality as she peeled back her tan coloured knee-high socks. As her socks landed upon her apron, she removed her good oven mitts from the good kitchen linens draw. She knew these were likely to impress, as they were dotted with small baked goods; she began to think of apple crumble as the mithridatium for her suitor’s desire. She almost smiled at the cleverness of that thought.

She left her home, bare foot, and deliberately turned towards the golden oak, whose leaves she intended to crush beneath her own feet. Holding the baking tray, and having allowed her hair to further loosen, she was stopped by a sudden panic. She looked again at the oak tree stretching out before her, it’s leaves abandoning it – leaving it as naked as the prudent woman now felt. She was driven on only by her desirous urge to get to know Stewart at a much more profound level than simply a neighbour. Having thrown decorum to the ground, she knew any passer-by would surely judge her uncouth appearance – and the further she ventured from her front door, the more exposed she continued to feel. Yet, as the world stood still, it can’t have been more than eight or nine seconds later that she found herself pressing the doorbell.

Stewart opened the door and smiled, and despite his immediate confusion, knew that the way to a man’s heart was his stomach, and invited in the woman, who he would come to know as Greta.

Explanation of title and the pie:
For those of you who know me, you know I love a good modernist poet. It was only earlier today I declaring my adoration of a Mr TS Eliot when @jayna wondered about our favourite writers. In this piece, I use the phrasing, 'Mithridatum of Despair' - a line borrowed from Max Harris, one of Australia's leading modernist voices of the 1940s and 50s - and indeed, a prolific writer and commentator until his death in 1992. Click here to read his delightful verse whose title I 'borrowed'.. In a nutshell - a mithridatum is a mythical recipe of 65 ingredients used to cure poisoning. It's origins are date back to the first century BC.

And of course, the apple crumble - the original temptation taking us back into the Garden of Eden.