Categories > TV > Thunderbirds

From Grandma Tracy's Journal

by hobbeth 1 review

Grandma's chronicle of what happened on the island during a rescue, and when it was over

Category: Thunderbirds - Rating: G - Genres: Humor - Published: 2006-03-05 - Updated: 2006-03-05 - 1142 words - Complete

It had been a terribly complicated and exhausting rescue. All the boys were involved, and my son, Jeff, never left his desk until he knew they were all on their way home, safe and sound. I always feel so helpless in these situations. I wanted to do something, but what? So I decided to do what I do best, it seems - bake apple pies.

Everyone has told me that my apple pies are the best they've ever tasted. My recipe even won the blue ribbon at the state fair in Kansas, four years in a row. Then I stopped entering it. It wasn't fair to the others; soon they would have dropped out and I'd be winning by default. But I'll never stop making my pies until I'm dead. And the boys love them so - I have always had to watch carefully, or they would disappear as soon as they were out of the oven.

I know we have this new-fangled way of baking, but I prefer the old-fashioned methods. They have always worked for me. Jeff obliged me by installing a conventional oven in the kitchen, and I use it all the time. So this day, it was put to work, once again.

I decided to bake a pie for each of the boys, as well as Jeff, shortly after they left and headed for San Francisco. Oh, didn't I tell you? The rescue involved one of the worst earthquakes there in the last century. The city's resources had been stretched to the limit, and the state's, and they called International Rescue for help. What complicated things was that the aftershocks were happening ten to twenty minutes apart, and some of them were very strong.

I got out the apples (Jeff always makes sure I have an ample supply, bless him) and started to peel and core them. Kyrano walked in to make Jeff some coffee, saying that it was going to be a long rescue and Jeff wouldn't rest until it was over. That's my son, all right. He cares so much for the boys. He's like his father so much, I sometimes forget he isn't.

Now where was I? Oh yes, peeling and coring. Well, I'm not going to go into detail about the preparations of my pies. After all, it is my secret recipe. I will say that peeling and coring by hand takes time. I don't like these inventions that are supposed to do it so much faster. They take too much of the apple along with the peel. So let others use them; I'll continue to do it my way, thank you. I made six (one was for the rest of us). I'd sent two up last week with John, when he went back to Thunderbird 5 for his monthly tour of duty, with explicit instructions not to eat them all at once. I decided to tell him to have one, once the rescue was over.

There was room in the oven to bake only two pies at a time, so I set the other four aside, and put a cloth over them, so they wouldn't dry out. I put the first two pies in the pre-heated oven and started the timer. I went to see Jeff while they were in the oven, but he was busy keeping tabs on the boys, helping them figure out what to do, when a building collapsed that had been thought safe. Fortunately, no one was inside, but it made getting to some people in the next building more difficult.

I stayed with him for a while, thinking how proud I was of him, and of my grandsons, to do something as important as this, risking their lives to help others. Jeff raised his sons well - with my help, of course, especially after Lucille died - and they didn't become like so many children of wealthy parents you hear about, thinking that their only destiny is to spend their father's hard earned money. My grandsons went out and worked hard, making their own way, then finally returning home to become a team.

Well, when I got back, the timer was just going off. I checked the pies; they were bubbling slightly, and the top crust was a beautiful golden brown. Kyrano said I hadn't lost my touch with pies. I smiled and told him that as long as I was alive, I never would. I took them out, put them on the rack to cool, and put the next two in, restarting the timer. This time, I intended to stay in the kitchen, so since Kyrano had work to do in his garden, I decided it was time to wash up the things I used to make the pies.

The timer went off just as I put the last bowl away, and I took the pies out; they were just as perfect as the first two. The last pair went in and the timer was started for the third and last time. I decided to turn on the radio and, after much searching, found some music that I could enjoy. What the kids listen to nowadays makes me wonder sometimes if they have any sense at all. Oh, I suppose there are a few songs worth listening to, but they just don't sing them like they did when I was the boys' age.

Just moments before the timer went off again, I felt a difference in the atmosphere in the villa. I realized that Jeff was not so tense any longer. His powerful personality - so like his father's - was such that I could always sense what he's feeling. I realized that it meant the boys were safely on their way back. I remembering sighing in relief and, hearing the timer one more time, went over to the oven to take the last two pies out. That's when I sensed something I hadn't felt in years.

The radio was still on, so I didn't hear any sound, but I knew what was going on. I smiled, remembering all the times when I'd gone through this before. I pulled out the pies, one at a time, then without turning around, I said, "Jefferson Tracy, don't you dare touch those pies!"

I looked around then, and saw the astonished look on his face. "Mom! How on earth did you know? You couldn't have heard me with the radio on. Then again, you always knew when I was trying to sneak in to get your pie. How do you do that?"

I walked over and took the coffee mug from him and put it on the counter by the sink. Then I turned around and patted him on the cheek and said, "It's a mother thing, son. It's a mother thing."

You know, it was so nice to see my boy acting like a kid again.
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