The Gruyère Geyser

Brenda considered Aunt Mildred's visits a bi-annual audit of her domestic competence. This particular evening, the audit was under strict review. The antique silverware gleamed, the linen napkins were starched into weapon-grade origami, and a Gruyère-rich French casserole bubbled with a threatening serenity. Gary, Brenda's husband, was strategically positioned on the couch, armed with a remote and strict instructions to 'project an aura of calm, not complacency.' The children, Timmy (8) and Lily (6), were encased in their Sunday best and threatened with a lifetime ban from screens if a single 'un-cherubic' sound escaped their lips.

Mildred arrived, a woman whose smile could curdle milk and whose opinions were as unyielding as her perfectly coiffed perm. Dinner commenced with Brenda navigating a conversational minefield about the neighbour's questionable topiary skills. Then, the first ripple: Timmy, demonstrating his newly acquired 'no-hands' drinking technique, successfully transferred half a glass of milk onto Mildred’s pristine beige cardigan. Brenda’s smile became a rictus. Gary simply raised an eyebrow.

Before Brenda could deploy a napkin large enough to swaddle a small child, Lily decided it was her turn. Tasked with 'helping clear the table,' she chose to transport the crystal bowl of decorative, slightly sticky, polished fruits by crawling, 'cat-style,' with it balanced on her back. A sudden wobble beneath Mildred's chair, a muted 'thunk,' and a perfectly ripe plum rolled directly into Mildred's lap. 'Well,' Gary murmured, 'at least it’s one of your five-a-day, Mildred.'

Brenda, now visibly twitching, rushed to the kitchen for a damp cloth. It was at this precise moment that the Gruyère casserole, having endured hours of silent simmering, decided it had had enough. With a sound akin to a disgruntled volcano clearing its throat, it erupted. A glorious, cheesy geyser shot upwards, showering the ceiling, the freshly wiped cabinets, and a bewildered Gary with hot, bubbly potato and Gruyère.

Brenda returned, cloth in hand, to find Mildred dabbing at a plum stain with one hand and a Gruyère splash with the other, Gary attempting to catch falling cheesy stalactites with a napkin, and the children staring up, rapt, at the culinary redecoration. Brenda simply slumped onto a chair. 'Right,' she sighed, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, 'who's in the mood for pizza?'