Page 92 of Untying the Knot
The fire alarm screeches, my steak looks like roadkill, and my pesto is a funky shade of brown. The only good thing about this entire meal will probably be the freshly washed plate that I washed by hand because the rest of the dishes were in the dishwasher, and it was my turn to buy detergent, and I forgot.
Once the smoke is cleared out and the smoke detectors get their lives in check, I move back to the kitchen and pitifully plate my meal. I’ll be straight with you. It looks like trash. But dammit, I’m going to eat every bit of it out of spite.
I adjust my potatoes on the plate so they don’t look as shriveled, I take a chainsaw to my steak and cut it into medallions to make it more appealing, and then I drape my sauce over the steak for presentation, attempting to show off how green it is against the black of the steak. But . . .it’s the color of a swamp. Not sure where I went wrong there.
Beer in hand and false pride in my chest, I take my plate out to the patio, where Myla is sitting and reading a book, and I take a seat. I press play on my podcast but keep it at a reasonable volume and then poise my fork and knife at my meal.
From across the table, Myla sets her book down and then lowers her sunglasses. “Looks positively five star over there.”
“It is. It’s really fucking good, so be jealous.”
“Oh, I am.So jealous,” she says as she watches me take my first bite.
Dear God, what is that flavor that just blasted my tongue? Tastes like . . . like burnt hair.
Did I burn hair while cooking?
I don’t recall.
Either way, keep your face happy and pleasant.
Make moaning sounds.
Let her know what she’s missing out on.
“Mmm, fuck is this deli”—is that a bone I just chewed?—“Delicious,” I finish after I swallow.
Just then, the doorbell rings, and she gets up to answer it. When she’s back in the house, I quickly search around my food for any burnt hair or bones, and when I come up short, I just realize it’s my shit cooking that’s the problem. I’ve been so fucking out of touch with life that I’ve completely forgotten how to act like a normal human.
I’ve always appreciated everything Myla has done for our marriage, especially with my demanding schedule. When it was break time, I would be sure to help cook, to pick things up at the store, to do something just as simple as rub her feet at night, but fuck, when did that stop?
When did I stop caring?
When did I become so detached from everyday life that I can’t even cook myself a goddamn delicious meal?
Myla approaches while I hunch over my plate like I’m devouring this homemade delight as I watch her deposit a to-go bag from my favorite steakhouse, the very same one I went to yesterday.
“What’s that?” I ask, my eyes zeroing in on what she pulls out.
“I couldn’t get my mind off the steak that fell on the floor yesterday, so I ordered myself another one with potatoes and a side of lobster. And a cheesecake for dessert.”
Goddammit, the cheesecake, like velvet satisfaction for the mouth.
“Well, enjoy. Bet it won’t taste as good as mine.” It actually pains me to lie through my teeth.
“Yeah, keep thinking that. Maybe it will help you choke down the swill on your plate.”
I hate to admit it, but this is swill.
She takes a seat, pulls out her dinner, and then wafts her hand over it while taking a deep breath. “Oh, they have outdone themselves. And look at this butter for the lobster? So dreamy. Lobster on the West Coast really is supreme, don’t you think?”
My eyes narrow because she knows exactly what I think about lobster that is from anywhere but Maine.
“Oh God, just look at this meat? I can’t remember the last time I had this much meat in my mouth.”
Boy, is she ripe today!
“Excuse me if I moan, but I’m going to suck the juice right out of this meat and enjoy this meal.”
