Page 17 of Easton Island

“Do you remember Great-Grandmother’s sister?”

“The lady who got sick at the art gallery? We ate lunch with her.”

“She’s moving in and feeling a little sad, so Mrs. Arnsby thought she would make a special dish for her,” Morgan explained.

The cook dumped the fresh-from-the-fryer fries into a large bowl and poured the gravy mixture over them before sprinkling cheese curds on top. Using a pair of tongs, she eased a generous portion onto clean plates.

Mrs. Arnsby and Morgan carried the plates to the counter and placed one in front of the boy.

Tristan ran his finger over a gravy-laden fry and licked it. “It tastes yummy. Do I need a fork?”

“They’re fries, so I suppose it’s okay to eat them with your fingers.”

He grabbed hold of a homemade fry dripping with gravy and covered with cheese curds. He promptly gobbled up the treat and reached for another one.

“Well?”

“I like them, but not as much as your chocolate chip cookies.”

Using a fork, Morgan stabbed a fry and took a big bite, her tastebuds tingling at the creamy gravy mingling with the tangy cheese. “They’re delish, Mrs. Arnsby.”

“You’re not just saying that.”

“No. They’re good. I’ve heard of poutine but don’t remember if I’ve ever tried it,” Morgan said. “What’s the history?”

“To be honest, it’s not very exciting. According to what I’ve heard, it was created back in the fifties by a restaurateur from Quebec. A customer asked him to put gravy on his fries. He sprinkled cheese curds on top and created a culinary phenomenon.”

“People found out by word of mouth and started requesting them?”

“Basically. The big chain restaurants in Quebec put them on the menu and the rest is history.”

Morgan polished off the rest of her fries and placed her empty plate in the dishwasher.

Tristan finished his snack and placed his dish alongside Morgan’s. “Are you ready to see my volcano blow?”

“I can’t wait.” She turned toward the hallway.

Mrs. Arnsby stopped her. “It’s not in Tristan’s room. It’s in the garage.”

“Because it made a mess,” the boy said.

The cook rolled her eyes. “We had lava on the wall, on the ceiling. A word of warning…keep your distance.”

“I will.”

Crossing the driveway, they found the overhead door was open, allowing them to cut through to the rear of the garage.

They passed by the array of estate vehicles ranging from expensive sports cars to more practical sedans and pickup trucks, the family car, and finally Burnie. Morgan and her nephew reached the far corner of the garage, free of tools and vehicles.

A thick piece of plywood sat on the cement. In the center was a volcano with red streaks dripping down the sides. On closer inspection, Morgan noticed plastic grass and palm trees circling the base. “You have grass and trees.”

“And people.” Tristan dropped to his knees and showed her the tiny figurines clustered together.

“You’re not afraid the volcano explosion will melt them?” she joked.

“Nah. I had to rinse them off, though.”

Grabbing both sides, they carefully lifted the volcano and set it on a nearby empty cart. “Ben doesn’t want to mess up the garage so we gotta take it outside.”