I made a meal. I thawed the pork loins, and baked them in the aluminum roaster with tasty spices. I heated up rice, and peas. A nice hot meal, with enough leftover for two more. Once they cool in the fridge, I will decide if I shall have them this week, or portion them up and vac-seal them for later. There didn't used to be leftovers.
The spices were a mix we got on Kauai a few years back, from the vanilla farm, a variant of garam masala, I put a little low sodium Worcestershire in the bottom and the lightest glaze of the lilikoi syrup I got at the farmer's market in Hawi this last trip. The rice was a Tasty Bites packet of brown rice we'd bought for Burning Man last year. The peas were Le Seur, some of the last from the big stock up, also from last year. With the exception of the lilikoi syrup, all of this food was in the house before, before, before.
As I plated up my food, I looked out the kitchen window, knowing I would have been calling Larry in from his chores to eat his supper while it was hot. He'd bustle in and stomp around, washing his hands and grumbling I had interrupted his flow. He'd be patting me on the bum and giving me awkward hugs while I worked, and I'd swat him. Then he would carry the tray with the plates for me into wherever we were eating. His gray cotton jacket he would have been wearing still hangs on the hook by the back door. His work gloves went up in smoke in the desert. There is nothing here now but me and this pantry food, the and the ghost meat from the freezer.
I didn't cry much, but I screamed at the universe for a minute, begging for him to come back, to share a meal, gripe at me, all while giving me a grab and a hug.
This is why I avoid cooking. Fuck.
The spices were a mix we got on Kauai a few years back, from the vanilla farm, a variant of garam masala, I put a little low sodium Worcestershire in the bottom and the lightest glaze of the lilikoi syrup I got at the farmer's market in Hawi this last trip. The rice was a Tasty Bites packet of brown rice we'd bought for Burning Man last year. The peas were Le Seur, some of the last from the big stock up, also from last year. With the exception of the lilikoi syrup, all of this food was in the house before, before, before.
As I plated up my food, I looked out the kitchen window, knowing I would have been calling Larry in from his chores to eat his supper while it was hot. He'd bustle in and stomp around, washing his hands and grumbling I had interrupted his flow. He'd be patting me on the bum and giving me awkward hugs while I worked, and I'd swat him. Then he would carry the tray with the plates for me into wherever we were eating. His gray cotton jacket he would have been wearing still hangs on the hook by the back door. His work gloves went up in smoke in the desert. There is nothing here now but me and this pantry food, the and the ghost meat from the freezer.
I didn't cry much, but I screamed at the universe for a minute, begging for him to come back, to share a meal, gripe at me, all while giving me a grab and a hug.
This is why I avoid cooking. Fuck.
No comments:
Post a Comment