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The Way of the DishesToday I followed the Way of the Dishes. From Kinvara to Keelhilla along the greasy road. The dishes flew before me. Cups, plates and bottles of red wine, a joint of beef, stewed leeks and white bread, sliced for eating. I could see them floating just ahead set upon a white cloth. I could see the flap of it, rising to cross a hedge like a flat fish swimming through clear water and me beneath like a small sprat following. To follow was not easy. The dishes rode across country, taking hedges and ditches on their white wings, while I was trapped by my car and the narrow ways of men. I had to turn corners and guess at my final destination. I saw the dishes fly to a cliff face and drop behind bare branches, hazel and ash. I parked the car and found the cloth come to ground, embroidered hem fluttering by the saint’s bed. A heap of fallen stone. The saint was a lean man. He picked at the beef and poured salt over the leeks, lest he be tempted. He tossed his bread to the sparrows and foreswore the red wine, preferring water from his blessed spring. But his servant gnawed the bones bare and spread good butter on his bread. He drank his wine, thanking whatever power it was that had sent cloth and dishes, whatever white hand it was that cooked this food, and the kindly air that carried it. I watched from behind a tree as he feasted while his master picked and prayed. I watched his belly swell. I heard him groan as his starved guts cramped. Within the hour he will be dead and buried under a heap of stone. While the saint will live, revered by all for his restraint. And the feast will grow mould, the white cloth will rot and the wine will turn to vinegar in a tarnished cup.
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