I'm suspicious that this somehow links to the confession -- did someone steal your security blanket and own up to it recently? :-D
Blanket Butter beans fall from his hand, which trembles leaf-like, into the pot and the noise reminds him of rain and gunfire in a humid jungle fifteen hundred miles away where he learned to cook like this.
He chops chicken breast and the knife blade slides through cold flesh and blood doesn't spurt, this doesn't hurt until there are cubes ready to cook, gently so that they turn white and not brown unlike pale skin under relentless sunlight and can be added to the pot the melting pot where everything came together with the beans.
Slicing onion next brings him no tears he cried them all away for this lifetime, for the friends blanketed now by foreign earth, and the pungency of garlic stirs memories of red-lit bars and how easily money and morals can be spent.
Greg - I honestly can't remember the inspiration for this prompt. Not even a guess, sorry. Just another sign I need to keep up on comments a little more promptly.
I am not sorry for that pun.
This is masterfully done. I can picture this man and his past and his struggles with all that he must confront (or not) so very, painfully clearly.
2 comments:
I'm suspicious that this somehow links to the confession -- did someone steal your security blanket and own up to it recently? :-D
Blanket
Butter beans
fall from his hand, which trembles leaf-like,
into the pot and the noise
reminds him of rain
and gunfire
in a humid jungle fifteen hundred miles away
where he learned to cook like this.
He chops chicken breast
and the knife blade slides through cold flesh
and blood doesn't spurt, this doesn't hurt
until there are cubes ready to cook,
gently so that they turn white and not brown
unlike pale skin under relentless sunlight
and can be added to the pot
the melting pot where everything came together
with the beans.
Slicing onion next brings him no tears
he cried them all away for this lifetime,
for the friends blanketed now by foreign earth,
and the pungency of garlic stirs memories of red-lit bars
and how easily money and morals can be spent.
And finally the velouté,
thickened with cornflour and spiced with
pain! rage! remembrance! chili and cumin;
poured like a blanket over the rest
to conceal what we did.
White chili.
Greg - I honestly can't remember the inspiration for this prompt. Not even a guess, sorry. Just another sign I need to keep up on comments a little more promptly.
I am not sorry for that pun.
This is masterfully done. I can picture this man and his past and his struggles with all that he must confront (or not) so very, painfully clearly.
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