Elsie’s Welsh Rarebit

Agatha Christie said of her grandmother, “Although a completely cheerful person, she always expected the worst of anyone and everything. And with almost frightening accuracy [she was] usually proved right.” Her grandmother would say “I shouldn’t be surprised if so-and-so was going on,” Christie recalled. “And although with no grounds for these assertions, that was exactly what was going on.” Sounds just like my grandmother Elsie. Elsie fancied herself an adept armchair detective. She was thrilled when our neighbor was murdered. Wait—that might lend the wrong impression. She was saddened by the loss of life, certainly, but elated at the chance to do some sleuthing and speculating. She quickly deemed it a love triangle gone wrong, a day before the police figured it out. I can see her now, seated in her floral chintz wingback chair with feet propped on the hearth, reading a good mystery. I must say that on early dark winter evenings I find myself right there in her favorite wingback, set about my guilty pleasure of working my way through The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, all 1,878 pages of it, with a plate of Elsie’s rarebit to sustain me.