Red and the Riding Woods

My grandmother lives alone in a cottage in the Riding Woods. This sounds like the start of a fairytale but I can assure you there are no good morals to be learned from this tale. It’s a distinctly immoral story in fact… so let’s get straight to it.

It’s about 11am when I reach the quaint little cottage in the middle of a small clearing amidst the dense woodland. My great grandfather had built this place for his family, so by all accounts I think my grandmother had lived here almost her whole life. I knock on the still sturdy oaken door, taking note of what is probably a handwoven welcome mat of some kind. “Home of Sweetness” is painted on it beneath my feet. I always wondered if this was some kind of regional variant of “Home Sweet Home”.

About twenty seconds of pondering later I hear the heavy lock turn and the door creaks open.

“Lil’ Red!” cries my grandma in her country accent, arms outstretched. Like she has her own gravitational pull I move into her hug and she wraps me up warmly. Grandma’s hugs are the best, and while she’s not a little old lady I am still taller than her and she buries her face into my shoulder. Finally she straightens her arms to take a good look at me, like grandmothers tend to do, and grinned. I’m wearing a read coat of course, as was my signature and these days my namesake. I loved to wear a little red hood when I was a kid so the name stuck. I don’t mind it.

“Oh my strapping, handsome grandson,” she says proudly. “You really ought to visit your lonely ol’ grandma more often.” Ah the guilt trip starts early, but I smile because she’s mostly joking.

“I forget how gorgeous you are sometimes,” I say, brushing a loose strand of gray hair from her face back behind her ear. She’s keeping her hair in a tight little bun, which serves to make her look a little more aged than she really is. “But when I remember I rush back over here to check and make sure you’re still the prettiest granny around.” The older woman blushes at my compliments and while I’m also teasing and joking with her, there’s definite truth to my words. For a woman of her years my grandmother is still stunning, her big blue eyes are piercing, her face lined pleasantly, especially when she smiles like she does now.

“Oh my you’re a sweet talker as always,” she grouses, slapping me on the chest before ushering me into her home proper. I finally get the smell of cookies and breathe it in deeply, my mouth already watering. My eyes follow granny as she moves into the kitchen and I make my own way to the old couch, stacked with cushions that I need to find other places for so I can sit down. “Milk and sugar?” I hear her call from the kitchen and I hear the sound of china clinking.

“Yes. Three sugars please,” I call back, and try to make myself comfortable.

“How about some lemon?” my grammy offers as she places the tea tray down on the coffee table in front of me. I see some slices of it on a plate in the tray, along with a couple of whole lemons as if for show.

“Lemon?” I wonder, and she smiles.

“Well, without the milk o’course,” she says raising the little pot of milk in one and and showing you a slice of lemon with the other. I can’t help but reach over and pick up one of the whole, uncut lemons and feel its heft in my hand. It’s huge.

“Oh my, grandma. What big lemons you have,” I say before I realise what words have left my mouth to stop myself. We look at each other then she laughs at my embarrassment.

“All the better for squeezing with,” she grins

I try to get past this I point to the little pot.

“I’ll take the milk,” I say.

“My grandson likes it sweet,” my granny notes, and tips a good splash of it into my cup.

“Loves it,” I add, lifting the delicate teacup to my lips and taking a sip. It’s so sweet, just like my little old grandma, and I say as much.

“Oh my!” she laughs.