The Great Write Way, Chapter Two: Twice upon a time...
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Consolation Tasty-Kake
It’s that time of year where fannish hearts grow light and the leather pants come out of the closet. But not for us...the brokeass white girls. Dag. I’m dragging my own personal ghetto around and cursing the Man in terms that would make a street-corner philosopher proud when it comes.
“ You’ve got a package.”
Despite it being from Baltimore, it is not that kind of package.(That would take care of the boredom thing and the poor thing in one big shot were it not for the risk-of-prison thing and neither of us is especially sure we can jail. We are citizens down to our bones. Damn it.)
“What real people do you know in Baltimore?” Mom says, as always surprised by my online posse’s breadth.
“Oh, there are Balmeristas.”
We ponder again why I’m the only Buffista from my desert clime. “I just don’t understand that.”
Local Buffy fans embarrass me or I would invite someone. But they’re just too...Trekkish or something. Too eager to whip out the fangs and paint their bare chests...gak. I can feel superior for about twenty seconds before I say “This process works because our brains are deductive instruments and theirs are day-old banana pudding.” Ok, they’re not my kind of geek, is the truth of it.
My mother gives me The Baltimore Face...the one that says “I’ll believe this is cool if you say so, but it makes no sense at all.”(She’s getting some practice as the obsession grows with my “Wire” watching, but she knows cookies are good things. Cookies and a box of Tasty-Kake.)
“They’re on Homicide. A few times.”
“Oh.” I quote Homicide like her creepy cousin quotes the Book of Mormon. She knows that’s all there is to say.
But it was the next best thing to Bodymore, and being left on a dark street corner with people I love. My crew sent me a shout-out.
Comfort Food
Her father made biscuits each morning, and split and buttered them. He added sugar and put the halves together to melt the butter and sugar. He set them at her door when he left for work, and she ate them, warm and sweet, as she got her sisters and brother ready for school. Their mother had died of consumption when she was 12.
She made biscuits almost every day for 40 years, the motions automatic, the measurement by feel. Her children and grandchildren still add butter and sugar to biscuits, their warmth as fleeting as life, as sweet as love.
edited to make Perkins look crazy (thanks, Perkins)
Love that, Ginger! Definition of comfort food, really.
buttered him
Though I think you didn't mean him there.
Love that too, even without the typing mistake. But though the typo is gone, the memory lingers on.
Oh and Allyson - insent
COMFORT FOOD
_________________
Flour dusting the bare countertop, the clean smell of real butter, chicken stewing in the battered pot on the gas stove.
Cobbler oozing sweet black juice, cooling under a stained but clean cheesecloth, awaiting the finishing dollop of vanilla ice cream.
Strong brewed tea in a glass carafe, still warm and smelling of sunshine from its day brewing on the back stoop.
Red blood shines on the kitchen faucet, Cashmere Bouquet dusting powder and viscera combining in a sweet melange of carnage.
Grandmothers make the best comfort food.
foody bits
I have her recipes, but I can't re-create them. My mother's cooking was not the stuff of which 'home cooked' legends are made. But some of her dishes were the highlights of my youth.
Nothing exotic. Canned ham baked in a barbecue sauce. Meatloaf with cheese on the inside and the meat the perfect balance between dry and moist.
And fudge. My god, that fudge.
And her potato salad defined summer.
The very height of '50s-'60s middle class cuisine. I've learned to love complicated food and things I'd never heard of as a child. But I'd be a happy woman if I could taste that potato salad again.
And the meatloaf.
And the fudge.
My first attempt at a woman's POV. That should not prevent merciless critiques; only way to learn. Dedicated to Ginger - cause I thought that typo deserved something special:
Comfort Food
An icy glare from Gleason is prelude to a hot tirade. “What are you, stupid? This is an important client, and you send the package third-day air? I don’t care if the due date is a week and a half away. I don’t care if I did say we had to cut down on shipping costs. You should have known better.”
I face Gleason, absolutely poker faced. He’s the kind of boss who always finds an excuse for rage. As his pasty white cheeks puff out and turn red. I remember clever dark hands, lean muscles and kind brown eyes. This morning Gleason has no power to bother me.
At lunchtime Gleason gives another to package to ship “while you are at it” on my lunch break. I pull out my sandwich, and calmly set the package aside. I think of knowing fingers helping me out of my dress, unhooking my bra, of long unhurried kisses. In a few days my desire to feed Gleason to the paper shredder will return, but right now other desires suppress the anger. For once I’m really ignoring him, not just pretending as I finish my apple.
I leave work fifteen minutes early to make the overnight FedEx deadline. I think of the rumors of Gleason’s on-line porn collection I heard at the water cooler today. The next time Gleason leaves early and forgets to log out, I’ll check it out. If the rumors are true, I think Gleason will “accidentally” set a task to forward them to the HR department.
As I approach home, pornographic images of my own cross my minds eye. I think about the comfort food waiting for me there, my hot buttered him.
Comfort Food
My great-grandmother relied on the simple things during The Depression. Simple being inexpensive. Browned ground beef, beans, and cottage cheese. These were things always available and easy to get. It was the staple meal for her family of five, living in Detroit with few pennies to spare. No one ever complained, and conversation flowed freely. Anyone peeking through their window would see the love and warmth coming from that meal. No matter how bad things got, or how much money they didn’t have, they still had each other. Is it any wonder that my grandmother still makes it for us?
Oohh nice Aimee. chili and beans were often a staple in our house growing up. We always had hamburger in the fridge and a pot of beans soaking on the stove. Not the same thing, but similar in spirit.
