LJ Idol: Week 6 (food memory...still lacks a title)
"Are you eating?"
I look over guiltily at the empty bottle of chardonnay and half-eaten box of chocolate poptarts to my left. "Of COURSE I'm eating! Jeez, ma, it isn't like I'm going to wither away to nothing just because he left. Have you ever known me to miss a meal?"
"Just promise me you'll eat something with protein sometime today. Or tomorrow at least. You cannot survive on the McEvoy womens' divorce diet of carbs, sugar and booze."
Damnit. How does she know? Oh, right. She has three failed marriages under her belt. This is just my first. At least I haven't pulled out the Bobby Vinton records. Yet.
Wondering what my version of Bobby Vinton will be and exactly how long I have been wearing my scroungy blue bathrobe and paint-splattered bunny slippers, I shamble over to my miniscule excuse for a kitchen. Clearing out the bank account was a level of assholery to be expected; unplugging the fridge to let all of the food spoil while I was at granma's house for a cooling off period was unexpected, but not all that surprising.
He wants me to starve, I just know it. I can still remember the sound of his voice echoing in my head: "You could stand to lose about five pounds."
Back when I was young and stupid, I wondered if he'd love me more if I just lost those five pounds. Would I be more attractive to him? Would he quit nagging me to dye my hair blonde so I looked more like his ex? Would he quit talking about bringing another woman in to share our bed?
My wedding vows may be laying shattered around my feet, but I made a promise to mom and won't break it. Protein it is.
And possibly that champagne we were saving for a special occasion. Oh, this occasion is fucking special, all right.
I can't risk the science experiments currently building civilizations in the fridge. Death by botulism isn't a glamorous way to go, especially in this outfit. And, come to think of it, when was the last time I brushed my teeth or hair?
Okay. Protein that is not currently in the time capsule developing moveable type and colonizing the freezer. Well, there's always bean soup.
Fifteen bean soup. I just happen to have a yellow and red cellophane bag of "Ham Beens" stashed away for a rainy day when I was feeling uppity. My poor white trash roots were a sore point with him, so vinegary dandelion greens, or fiddle heads, or anything involving ramps were verboten. I barely squeaked by with the soup, and then only because I always made cornbread that even someone from the North couldn't resist.
I put the beans on to soak. I put myself in the bathtub to soak. And I sleep for the first time in days.
The next morning, the water from the beans is drained into the little herb garden that will soon be a memory, hoping it will nourish them in my absence. I chop onion and garlic, wondering if my tears are caused by sulfurous fumes or grief. Regardless, I force myself to stop them; salt added too early to beans toughen them beyond redemption. I add tomatoes canned mere months ago. I add herbs snipped as a final goodbye to my little green patch in the middle of red clay and desolation. I add the detested ramps, and flirt with the idea of fiddlehead ferns as a garnish.
Cornbread would be brilliant, but I fear the milk may be busy inventing the electric typewriter and wouldn't want to be disturbed.
I walk the perimeter of the land, saying goodbye as I sip Andres pink champagne out of a red plastic cup and the soup bubbles away inside what was my cage. Goodbyes are hard, but I know the memories I will carry away from here with me will be harder.
Back in the house, the phone rings. Juggling the phone as I ladle the soup into a chipped bowl, I say "Yes, ma. Protein, just like I promised. Now...can I go eat?"
The first spoonfull scalds my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. The second is perfect, with the spring promise of ramps, the summer joy of tomatoes, the autumn comfort of onions, all married to the planning and quiet desperation of winter's dried beans.
I smile to myself. He would have hated this.
My life in a bowl. And it tastes rich.
I look over guiltily at the empty bottle of chardonnay and half-eaten box of chocolate poptarts to my left. "Of COURSE I'm eating! Jeez, ma, it isn't like I'm going to wither away to nothing just because he left. Have you ever known me to miss a meal?"
"Just promise me you'll eat something with protein sometime today. Or tomorrow at least. You cannot survive on the McEvoy womens' divorce diet of carbs, sugar and booze."
Damnit. How does she know? Oh, right. She has three failed marriages under her belt. This is just my first. At least I haven't pulled out the Bobby Vinton records. Yet.
Wondering what my version of Bobby Vinton will be and exactly how long I have been wearing my scroungy blue bathrobe and paint-splattered bunny slippers, I shamble over to my miniscule excuse for a kitchen. Clearing out the bank account was a level of assholery to be expected; unplugging the fridge to let all of the food spoil while I was at granma's house for a cooling off period was unexpected, but not all that surprising.
He wants me to starve, I just know it. I can still remember the sound of his voice echoing in my head: "You could stand to lose about five pounds."
Back when I was young and stupid, I wondered if he'd love me more if I just lost those five pounds. Would I be more attractive to him? Would he quit nagging me to dye my hair blonde so I looked more like his ex? Would he quit talking about bringing another woman in to share our bed?
My wedding vows may be laying shattered around my feet, but I made a promise to mom and won't break it. Protein it is.
And possibly that champagne we were saving for a special occasion. Oh, this occasion is fucking special, all right.
I can't risk the science experiments currently building civilizations in the fridge. Death by botulism isn't a glamorous way to go, especially in this outfit. And, come to think of it, when was the last time I brushed my teeth or hair?
Okay. Protein that is not currently in the time capsule developing moveable type and colonizing the freezer. Well, there's always bean soup.
Fifteen bean soup. I just happen to have a yellow and red cellophane bag of "Ham Beens" stashed away for a rainy day when I was feeling uppity. My poor white trash roots were a sore point with him, so vinegary dandelion greens, or fiddle heads, or anything involving ramps were verboten. I barely squeaked by with the soup, and then only because I always made cornbread that even someone from the North couldn't resist.
I put the beans on to soak. I put myself in the bathtub to soak. And I sleep for the first time in days.
The next morning, the water from the beans is drained into the little herb garden that will soon be a memory, hoping it will nourish them in my absence. I chop onion and garlic, wondering if my tears are caused by sulfurous fumes or grief. Regardless, I force myself to stop them; salt added too early to beans toughen them beyond redemption. I add tomatoes canned mere months ago. I add herbs snipped as a final goodbye to my little green patch in the middle of red clay and desolation. I add the detested ramps, and flirt with the idea of fiddlehead ferns as a garnish.
Cornbread would be brilliant, but I fear the milk may be busy inventing the electric typewriter and wouldn't want to be disturbed.
I walk the perimeter of the land, saying goodbye as I sip Andres pink champagne out of a red plastic cup and the soup bubbles away inside what was my cage. Goodbyes are hard, but I know the memories I will carry away from here with me will be harder.
Back in the house, the phone rings. Juggling the phone as I ladle the soup into a chipped bowl, I say "Yes, ma. Protein, just like I promised. Now...can I go eat?"
The first spoonfull scalds my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. The second is perfect, with the spring promise of ramps, the summer joy of tomatoes, the autumn comfort of onions, all married to the planning and quiet desperation of winter's dried beans.
I smile to myself. He would have hated this.
My life in a bowl. And it tastes rich.