Bon Appétit by Nicholas Starr Kellogg

I never liked the women that my father chased around like a puppy who’d lost his mother. Fat, short, abrasive, somehow saying more about the way he thought about himself. To me, my father was always a rock, stoic, a giving tree whose branches had been nearly hacked away by the axe of my self-indulgent, capricious, drug riddled mother. But once she went away— and I mean really went away. Locked away for so long that she’d be old and grey the next time she saw the light of day and breathed the air of the free. I’d always assumed my father would find someone that shared the same familial values as he. Not that my father was a religious fanatic, but rather he had a keen understanding that when a man becomes a father it’s that man’s responsibility to put his family first. Whether it was taking me to my grandmother’s house on Christmas Eve to open presents and eat cookies in the comfort of her love or holding my hand whenever I was sick and never leaving my side no matter how deep into the twilight we drifted. Perhaps that’s where his image of women came from, his mother. My grandmother, a woman who would wake up at 2am to get ice cream from the freezer and of course, offer me a bowl. A woman who sounded like a grizzly as she rumbled down the hallway towards her favorite closet— the fridge. Who’s that famous guy who said that all men only want to marry their mothers? I don’t know, but I think he may’ve been on to something.

Salt, pepper, sugar, garlic, onion, rosemary, and time. A roast needs time. Especially one as fatty as this one. You see, the longer you leave that succulently scrumptious little piggy in the oven the more that fat renders. Leaving little bursts of euphoric flavor at the bottom of the pan to help soak the vegetables. Carrots, potatoes, onions, apples, basking in the fat and creating a second dish in the process. I wasn’t sure which cut of meat to use so I just used a piece from both. They were filled with such tender, and marbled flesh as I drove my knife deeper past the subcutaneous fatty bits and pulled out the good meat to tenderize until it was the perfect kind of firmness for my roast. I sure hope my daddy loves it. I know he will, he eats everything his little girl has ever cooked for him.

Daddy met Hilda on an online dating website for people over the age of thirty-five. I bit my tongue; I didn’t want to make fun of him for joining the cavalcade of the Lonely-Hearts Club. And I understood his eagerness to acquire a woman after we’d learned there wasn’t a chance in hell my mother is coming home. I suppose he’s lacking the touch of a woman, even the words of one considering my age. He has the audacity to call me Angi, even after I’ve told him several times over that my name is Angelica and I won’t tolerate being called those childish, pet-names any longer. I’m only a child when he wants me to be. I’m certainly not a child when I’m cleaning his shit-stained underwear while doing his laundry. Taking hot sudsy water and digging the poop particles out because apparently his wiping hasn’t advanced past the pubescent stages of learning how to be an adult. I’ve also never been too young to cook him a proper meal.

Lemons, limes, finely diced mint stirred in a glass with ice to create my father’s favorite beverage. A little bit of Tito’s from the bar perhaps to loosen his mood and whet his appetite before the roast is carved and served. The citrus will cut the coppery wiring of fat and blood— and the alcohol will make him feel more acquiescent of the meal he’s being served. Open. That’s  the correct way to look at it. I need my father open. Open up for me, Daddy, open up for me so I can open up for you.

I hated her the first time I laid my eyes on her. Hildy, fat in all the wrong places with a somehow skinny ass. A high hairline resembling that of some old fat elf that lived under a bridge, disgruntled while showing all the signs of a cow that eats tubs of ice cream and whatever her equally cancerous son left behind on his plate after dinner time. IF there was anything. In the early days I liked to imagine they owned a troth, rather than plates and when it was dinner time Hildy would ring her bell and the mother-son duo would oink upon stuffing their faces with rich and vile meals that were never meant to be consumed in such a short about of time by us humans. Her rolls looked like folded marshmallows, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about what those congealed bits of yellowing fat would look like as they spilled like an egg’s yolk onto our living room floor.

“This is Hildy, Angi,” My father said and I wanted to grab my flaying knife and turn his cheeks into crackling.

A pot filled halfway with peanut oil, but canola or anything other than olive oil would do. You take the stringy bits of melting, yet still calcified fat and toss them in one at a time until that perfect golden brown. You can serve them as is, salt and pepper or add them to the top of the roast for an added crunch. How about both? There’s nothing better than not wasting any bit of the life you’ve taken for nutrition. I won’t waste their bodies; lord knows they’d been growing them for too long just to be tossed away and buried in the dirt.

We sat in the living room, they allowed me to pick the movie but by the time it’d started they’d already placed a blanket over their laps, and I swear they were doing something under that God Damn thing. I’m twelve, not fucking four. And my real mother once brought a man home one night when she left me sleeping in her apartment, they were drunk, and high on something else and when they entered her shitty, one bedroom home, that the state and my Daddy was helping her pay for. They fell to the floor and fucked each other’s brains out. See? I know what adults do. I know why my father can’t accept it. He doesn’t understand we could have a good life together, it’s the fucking, that’s what it is. My mother once told me a man’s got all that juice in them, and if they don’t get it out, they’ll hurt us. That’s why we are here, to help them get it out.

I found a recipe online for a Filipino dish called Dinuguan. Otherwise known as blood stew. Dark, chocolatey meat that has a sweet, yet minerally taste. Two livers, two hearts, and intestines put on the stove, slow and low. Vinegar, garlic, onions, and chili peppers mixed in with the organs and blood and set to simmer for well over eight hours. That’s alright, I don’t think my daddy noticed anything besides the smell while he was getting ready for work. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he asked me if I’d seen Hildy, and I told him that she’d gone out to get us some macchiatos. I handed him his thermos that I’d filled with strong black coffee, just the way he likes it. And handed him his baggie for lunch. I didn’t use any of the ingredients from the special dinner I had planned, I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

First came Hildy, then came Sam. Her little boy, three years my senior but somehow a brain that’d stopped growing past the age of ten. He was annoying from the get go. Always asking me things about my body and I once caught him standing over me naked in the dark and I didn’t know what he was doing, but I knew it wasn’t anything good. The worst part of all of it was watching the way my father interacted with him. Like Sam was another one of his children, but he couldn’t have been, because I’m Daddy’s little girl.

There’s a sweets shop that turns their donut holes into eyeballs for Halloween. After my father and I had gone trick or treating, he’d sometimes take me there and I’d get the jelly ones. Each time I popped one into my mouth I’d feel that sugary ooze fall down my throat and imagine I was eating the real thing. I only had four to plate our dessert, but I figured my father wouldn’t complain because he never does. And by the time we get to that dish, I’m sure he’ll have had more than enough to eat.

I’m standing at the bottom of the steps wearing one of my mother’s old dresses. Hildy’s clothes wouldn’t fit if there were six of me. There’s still blood saturated in the carpet, and it’s stapled to the wood so there was no way for me to dispose of it. Daddy’s going to have his hands full tomorrow but it’s the weekend and we can tackle the project together just the way it will always be. I also couldn’t move most of Hildy’s body because she was so fucking heavy— so he’ll need to pick up the deflated bits of grizzle I didn’t store in the basement freezer. There’s less Sam, but still more that needs to be done after our liberating meal. I hope Daddy doesn’t see the part of Sam I put inside the garbage disposal, but then again, that little lecherous shit shouldn’t have been stroking himself to me in the dark. He cried like a little baby when I showed him what I did to his fat mother before I placed a paring knife in his knee and used the cheese grater to take off his nose. Howled a whole lotta nonsense, and I shouldn’t have to tell you when I took away his favorite toy if he’d been awake or not … what do you think?

The front door creaks open and standing in the doorway is my Daddy. He looks handsome. He’s wearing a suit and tie, his complexion, a ghastly white as he examines the mess I’ve made. But then, he sees I’m smiling and the instinct to smile at his little girl is so engrained that he can’t help but smile back.

“Honey.”

“Daddy.”

“What have you done?”

“Dinner, Daddy. I’ve made you dinner.”

He sees the candles illuminating the dining room, and we both follow stains of blood like rose petals and take our seats. The feast, he sees what I’ve prepared for him, his smile, never wavering as he opens his first dish and lets the fresh aromas of the blood stew waft into his nostrils. I can tell he’s starving, I didn’t pack him the biggest lunch because I was scrambling, and he’s gained a few pounds since fat Hildy came into his life. That’s alright though, we can start our diet soon after we’ve had one final meal exercising overconsumption.

“This looks,” He pauses, picking up his spoon and I can see the wheels are turning in his head. “This looks great, my love. This looks absolutely splendid, Angela.”

            I’m beaming, if I had a tail, it would be wagging. I watch my father sip his stew and can’t wait to reveal the roast. I just hope there it isn’t too decadent; it’s hard work cooking with so much lard.

“Bon Appetit, Daddy.”

Nicholas Starr Kellogg

Image: Pots, Pans and food being prepared from Pixabay.com