Everything’s better with butter. The onions sizzle, slowly
turning translucent, then golden brown. The aroma of sautéed onion and garlic
fills the air, wafting up from the old copper-bottomed pot. I love that smell,
and the ones that follow. Rosemary, oregano, thyme; all go into the pot and add
their flavours to the air. My wife and I have been going through a rough patch,
these past few months. That’s why I’m doing this, I thought I would surprise
her tonight on our 13th anniversary. She got cut up over the
smallest thing, poor woman. I know this had been hard for her, soft and tender
as she is. But everything is okay now, I’ve fixed everything. I smile through
the delicious steam and attend to dinner.
I put the spaghetti on the boil and empty the tins of tomato
into the pot. The cut edges of the can threaten me, but I manage to avoid
bodily harm. There is danger here, in this kitchen of mine. With so much heat
and so many sharp implements, it’s a wonder I’ve survived this long. The white
scars on my hands spin the tale of many near misses. But I am long accustomed
to the menace of this place. The kitchen is my domain, and after long
experience the knives have become trusted companions.
My hands fly over the chopping board, neatly slicing
zucchini, carrot and silverbeet, flicking them into the simmering red sauce one
after the other. This was the first thing I cooked for her, when I coaxed her
to my house all those years ago. As soon as I saw her, her smooth long legs,
delicate arms and the graceful curve of her back; I knew I had to make her
mine. Cooking was my weapon then, as it is now. I take a leg from the fridge
and lay it on the bench before me. Surely this is the finest piece of meat I
have ever seen. The skin parts from it with ridiculous ease and before I know
it bite sized chunks simmer contentedly in the sauce.
I drain the spaghetti in the sink, setting it on the table
next to the finished sauce and the salad bowl. A plate from the cupboard, a
fork from the drawer, a single place at the table. I settle down with a sigh,
spearing a mouthful on my fork. I breathe in the smell of it, then savour the flesh melting on my tongue. I think this
might just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. We’ve been through quite a bit
together, her and I. We’ve carried each other through sickness, floods and
grief. Even when we were fighting, when the rage hot so hot I felt like I would
explode and lash out with all my fury, not a day went by that I didn’t love her
more. My lovely, tender wife. I put the leftovers in the fridge next to her
other leg, her torso and her head, all neatly wrapped and labelled.
I love my wife. She’s delicious.
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