I still don't know what this is, but there's over 7000 words of it
I never do the dishes if I can help it.
I came on to cook, not to clean, and I’ll tell anyone who stands still long enough to listen.
But there are times, not many of them, but definitely times plural, when the meal is making itself, it’s so easy, and the ingredients blend themselves together in a perfect four-part harmony, and even the hum and pitch of the refrigerator is different, and I realize that I was born to make food, and the meal belongs to me and I will most generously allow others to eat it, and everything about it is my territory and my provenance, and even the dishes must be done only by my hand, and those are the times that I oversee everything, down to the last fork, and put the leftovers, if there are any, safely and comfortably to bed in the fridge.
Death, who likes to eat, bless him, will cunningly touch his napkin to his lips.
Cupboard, he’ll say with a small smile crinkling the edges of his baby blues, you’re a whiz. An absolute whiz.
And I will say nothing, I probably won’t speak for the rest of the evening actually, I’ll be so absorbed in my Meal and the proper disposal of it. There are, in fact, usually leftovers.
The next day the leftovers will come out and they will nearly make me vomit. I will have not even the dry heaves over them, I will have the wet, sucking, cricket-playing heaves at the sight of the Tupperware, I will pull off the lid with one hand and clutch at my stomach with the other, I will turn the remnants of my once-perfect meal upside down in a square-shaped heap with rounded edges, it will sit bubbling gently on a dejected plate, and I will serve it cold to my family while I curl up in a corner with the uncontrollable hinky shakes and weep into yesterday’s napkin.
Death, who likes to eat, will pick up his fork.
Cupboard, he will say, you’re a nutjob. A real nutjob. You should probably be on some sort of medication.
And then he’ll take a bite out of the square-shaped heap, and I will gnaw on my fingernails and hope that the corpse of triumph turns to ashes in his mouth.
I came on to cook, not to clean, and I’ll tell anyone who stands still long enough to listen.
But there are times, not many of them, but definitely times plural, when the meal is making itself, it’s so easy, and the ingredients blend themselves together in a perfect four-part harmony, and even the hum and pitch of the refrigerator is different, and I realize that I was born to make food, and the meal belongs to me and I will most generously allow others to eat it, and everything about it is my territory and my provenance, and even the dishes must be done only by my hand, and those are the times that I oversee everything, down to the last fork, and put the leftovers, if there are any, safely and comfortably to bed in the fridge.
Death, who likes to eat, bless him, will cunningly touch his napkin to his lips.
Cupboard, he’ll say with a small smile crinkling the edges of his baby blues, you’re a whiz. An absolute whiz.
And I will say nothing, I probably won’t speak for the rest of the evening actually, I’ll be so absorbed in my Meal and the proper disposal of it. There are, in fact, usually leftovers.
The next day the leftovers will come out and they will nearly make me vomit. I will have not even the dry heaves over them, I will have the wet, sucking, cricket-playing heaves at the sight of the Tupperware, I will pull off the lid with one hand and clutch at my stomach with the other, I will turn the remnants of my once-perfect meal upside down in a square-shaped heap with rounded edges, it will sit bubbling gently on a dejected plate, and I will serve it cold to my family while I curl up in a corner with the uncontrollable hinky shakes and weep into yesterday’s napkin.
Death, who likes to eat, will pick up his fork.
Cupboard, he will say, you’re a nutjob. A real nutjob. You should probably be on some sort of medication.
And then he’ll take a bite out of the square-shaped heap, and I will gnaw on my fingernails and hope that the corpse of triumph turns to ashes in his mouth.