Hi friends,

Things are getting a bit heavy over in Dispatches, so I put it aside for the day and decided to try this little one-off instead. This is a scene set just before the beginning of Rainbow Valley, when Anne and Gilbert are in Europe and the Blythe kids are staying with Marilla in Avonlea (most of them, anyway).

Inspired by and dedicated to oz diva.

Sugar and Salt

Clear spring sunlight streamed into the kitchen at Green Gables, where Marilla Cuthbert stood at the heaped table, packing a picnic basket.

"Really, Marilla," Rachel Lynde clucked over her knitting. "No five children on earth are in need of two dozen plum puffs for their dinner. You'll destroy their digestion, that's what."

Marilla cast a glance out the open door to the veranda, where roly-poly Rilla Blythe sat weaving a chain of daisies. Beyond, a glimpse of dangling feet marked the cherry tree where Nan and Di were whispering secrets among the blossoms.

"I'll hardly destroy their digestion all at once," Marilla smirked, rearranging the plum puffs in the basket until there was room enough for one more.

"Maybe not. But you've had them for two whole months already."

"And their digestion is just fine, thank you," Marilla sniffed, wondering whether another jar of preserves would make the basket too heavy to carry. After all, Jem was only thirteen and Walter twelve. They might think they could manage, but she suspected that their pride rather outstripped their stamina.

"I don't know what Anne and Gilbert can have been thinking," Rachel intoned to her needles. "Three months in Europe! Sheer extravagance, that's what."

"I'm sure they were thinking that they work very hard and were due a proper holiday."

"Well, there will be no settling back to ordinary life after such an adventure," Rachel predicted gloomily. "For them or the children."

Marilla, who had her doubts that life at Ingleside was ever particularly settled or particularly ordinary, was saved from replying by the precipitous arrival of Jem and Walter. Mud-spattered and glowing, they tumbled over the threshold and into the kitchen, bringing with them a swirl of spring breeze.

"These are for you, Aunt Marilla," Jem grinned, holding up a slightly ragged but brilliantly colored bouquet of April's freshest buds.

Marilla accepted his offering and patted him fondly on the cheek. When she went to get a vase, Jem snagged a plum puff from the half-full plate on the table.

"Aunt Marilla, do you know what we found?" Walter asked, his gray eyes alight. "A beautiful, rambling apple tree, way far back in the woods. It's all covered with blossoms like you've never seen on an orchard tree — white streaked with pink and little red flecks in the center. And so many! It will be just bursting with fruit in the fall."

"Hrumph," said Rachel, needles clacking. "The apples will be small and sour with no one pruning the tree properly."

Walter's face fell, but Marilla intercepted his nascent frown. "Now, now. I believe I've heard your mother speak of that very tree. And if the fruit is a bit unusual, I'm sure it will have a rare flavor."

Walter seemed somewhat comforted by this thought. At least, his spirits were high enough to allow him to reach for a plum puff.

"Come on, Walt," said Jem, cramming a third puff into his mouth. "There won't be any apples at all for ages and ages. Let's go out to old Hester Gray's garden and see if we can't hunt up some mayflowers."

Jem hoisted the basket and allowed Marilla to kiss him on the top of his curly red head. This, Marilla understood, was a special privilege that he would not have suffered from anyone else, not even his mother.

On the veranda, Walter stooped to scoop Rilla into a piggy-back ride. In a trice, they were off to collect the twins and meet whatever adventures awaited them in the wide world.

Marilla turned back to the debris-strewn table and sighed. Where had the time gone? Surely it was only a moment since they had been babies. Soon, she wouldn't be able to kiss the top of Jem's head at all, even if he did allow it.

"Marilla Cuthbert. You are entirely too fond of those children," Rachel scolded.

"Nonsense," Marilla bristled. How could anyone be too fond of her own grandchildren?

"You'll ruin them yet," Rachel proclaimed. "It's like I used to tell my girls when their own were small: Some children are like fruit, best preserved with sugar. And others are like meat: you need plenty of salt to keep them from spoiling rotten. But mind you don't mix up the two or you'll ruin them both."*

Marilla grinned. "Oh? And what about my Jem? Sugar or salt?"

"A side of bacon, that one," Rachel said through pursed lips. "You mark my words, Marilla. It'll take a whole barrel of salt to rein him in."

The plates she was carrying to the sink rattled as Marilla shook with mirth. "And I suppose that makes Walter a plum preserve, does it?"

Rachel nodded decisively. "Indeed it does. You could heap all sorts of compliments and favors on Walter and it wouldn't spoil him in the least. It isn't in his nature. But go easy on the salt or he'll shrivel."

Marilla was curious to see Rachel play the game out. "And the girls?"

"Oh, I suppose you couldn't spoil Di either way," Rachel admitted. "She's a capable, even-tempered girl. You can treat her tenderly without worrying it'll go to her head. Not like Nan. She's got quite a high enough opinion of herself already without more buttering up."

"Come now, Rachel. She's only a child."

"And a proud one. Rilla, too. Now, there's a precious little miss who's halfway to spoilt already. It's only a matter of time before someone gives her a nice, salty jolt. And it will do her a world of good."

Marilla chuckled. "Have a plum puff, Rachel. Or shall I fetch you a pickle?"

"Isn't there another one?" Rachel asked, bypassing the gibe.

"Another what?"

"Another child, of course."

This brought Marilla up short. "Oh," she blinked. "Yes, of course. Shirley."

Rachel sensed Marilla's discomposure and pressed her advantage. "Don't you think it's rather odd that Anne and Gilbert sent him off with Miss Baker when all the others came up here?"

"No . . ." Marilla replied, sounding only partially convinced.

Rachel shook her head. "Well, I can't say that I know Shirley Blythe well enough to make a pronouncement on his character. But seems to me all you'd have to do to win his loyalty is spare him a second thought."

Marilla clucked her tongue. "Come now, Rachel. He isn't neglected. It's only that he is Susan's particular favorite. And from what I hear, he is a quiet child and much prefers to stay out of the rumpus the rest of them get up to."

"Well, there's them that's forgettable and them that wants to be forgotten," Rachel declared. "I don't know that the Blythes are generally a forgettable lot, so you keep your eye on that one. When he's around to be seen at all, that is."

"They'll all be going home in a few weeks," Marilla sighed. "I had a letter from Anne this morning. She and Gilbert leave from Southampton in a fortnight. Then it's a week to Kingsport and a day from there to here. Then they'll all go back to Ingleside and things will be very quiet here." There might once have been a time when such a prospect would have cheered Marilla's orderly soul, but she knew that it would not be the prim, proper quiet of a well-scrubbed house, but the silence of an unmistakable absence.

"Now, now, Marilla," Rachel said with a pacifying air. "It won't be as quiet as all that. School will be letting out just around the time Anne returns and you'll be up to your ears in little Keiths and those tow-headed Andrews boys."

"Yes," Marilla said, a slow smile widening over her face. "You will be, too, Rachel. Or haven't I told you? I promised Dora I'd take her boys when her time comes. Should be about the beginning of June and I'll keep them a week or two at least to let her rest."

"For mercy's sake," Rachel muttered. "Just see that you lay in a good supply of salt, Marilla. A very good supply."

*With apologies to the 17th-century American poet Anne Bradstreet (c.1612-1672), one of my favorites. She had nearly as many children as Rachel Lynde and wrote some surprisingly beautiful meditations on Puritan domestic life. In her "Meditations Divine and Moral," Bradstreet wrote: "Divers children have their different natures: some are like flesh which nothing but salt will keep from putrefaction; some again like tender fruits that are best preserved with sugar. Those parents are wise that can fit their nurture according to their nature."