On the Alberta/Montana Border: Word Counters challenge. 19-40's

Tuesday, February 16, 2021

The Muffet Conundrum

First of all, a little background...Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating her curds and whey, Along came a spider, And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away. Just FYI, I can’t claim this little ditty…

But I’ve always loved it. And you know why? Because that little girl could have been me. Yep. I love cottage cheese. And hate spiders. Both of which feature rather strongly in this sweet little tale of gluttony and cowardice.

Let’s look into the story, shall we? Examine it with just a little more depth? Because don’t you just love to lift the skirts and get to the petticoats of a story? Hmmm…maybe that’s an unfortunate way to put it.

Miss Muffet, (We’ll call her Agnes, shall we?) was a happy, cheerful little girl. Full of hopes and dreams. Perhaps just a bit more of the latter than was practical, but, let’s face it, she was only just past six.

Her days were spent either in her pretty little bedroom, playing with her numerous toys or in the garden, having Adventures. (Notice the capital ‘A’ in adventures? That’s cause they were Amazing!) There, she was limited only by her imagination.

Oh, and by spiders. Well, most bugs. But especially spiders. Because they had so many spiky, hairy legs. And were just so…crawly. With a knack for showing up at awkward and unexpected moments. And in the wrong (ie: close) proximity.

One fine day, Agnes was playing with her puppy, Dribble (named by her normally placid father following a rather unfortunate episode involving a too small puppy bladder and Papa’s bedroom carpet), or ‘The-Right-Honorable-Poopsie-the-Third’ as he was in this story.

The two of them had just conquered ‘Mount Olympus’ (Agnes’ nanny had been reading to her from the Big Book of Greek Myths. That Hercules. Am I right? Yow.) and were in the process of much celebratory eating and drinking.

Okay, yes, in the myths, said eating and drinking included such things as wine. And wine poured over roasted meats. Definitely some wine-soaked bread. And cheese. Agnes was six. From that menu, her choices were extensively limited. Ummm…yeah.

Sooo…cheese. In this story, like Agnes, said cheese was in its infancy, before all the sweet stuff has been squeezed out and the whole lot aged. (ie: grown up). In modern terms, cheese from the farmer’s own kitchen. Or…cottage.

Agnes loved it. In fact, most mornings/afternoons/evenings, one could find Miss Agnes seated on her favourite low stool (or tuffet for those who don’t have access to Wikipedia) with a tasty little bowl of the stuff. And a spoon.

Many a triumph had been celebrated to its creamy, clarion call. Many a defeat drowned. Many an Adventure summarily interrupted. And always, the sweet rapture of that first delectable taste. The soft, melting curd. The salty tang of the whey.

Agnes had just seated herself prettily on her tuffet—heels and knees together. Head up, spine straight and shoulders back (This was the 1800’s after all) and received her little bowl of tasty, delicious-ness. Wasting no time, she tucked in.

And that’s when Dribble started to whine. Now, at first, Agnes assumed (not surprisingly), that what had pressed her little dog into vocalizing was that innate ‘doggins’ desire: food. In fact, Agnes' instinctive, effective, corrective spoon had already been raised.

Then Agnes realized Dribble’s sharp brown eyes were not—as per usual—trained on his mistress’ treat. Rather, they were watching something…beside her. Now I don’t know about you, but when someone is alarmed about something ‘beside’ me, I...react.

Agnes lowered her spoon and slowly turned to see what it was Dribble was so doggily concerned about. She sucked in a breath. A spider. Making its spiky, hairy-legged way across the tuffet in her direction. Panic was decidedly indicated.

Now you may picture an elegant departure from said tuffet, heels and knees together and spine straight. Myself, I’m going with a bowl shooting straight into the air, skirts and petticoats flying as a screaming little girl disappears somewhere spider-less.

Little Miss Muffet may have lived in the 1800’s, but I’m a modern 2021girl. And BTW, what’s with those skirts and petticoats? I think I’ll picture her in dusty jeans and slightly muddy boots and with a spunky, can-do attitude.

In fact, I think I’ll stick with my Daddy’s version of the story: Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating her curds and whey, Along came a spider, And sat down beside her...So she squashed it with her spoon.

Ha!