Alicia Audrey
Alicia Audrey is a writer, editor, and blogger living and working in The Bahamas. She works in the non-profit sector and has particular interest in women's issues, education, and literacy. She writes flash fiction--posting at least one story per week on her blog--and is currently compiling short stories for a collection and revising her women's fiction novel manuscript. She enjoys reading, writing, exchanging long letters, cycling, baking, and strong cups of tea. She can often be found sharing thoughts, feelings, and sudden revelations as @AliciaAudrey.
Egg Salad Salvation
Alicia Audrey
Mother was batshit crazy. She died in a mental institution five years ago. I never expected to be anything like her, but here I stand. Halfway there.
With vivid memory substituting for a cookbook, I mimic Mother's method. I drizzle Kirsch over freshly cut pears, strawberries, blueberries, and sharon fruit. With a shaking hand I reach for a shot glass to measure 1.5 ounces of gold rum, adding it to the fruit with a splash. My nerves are shot, so I pour one for myself. I enjoy the sensual burn. A sigh escapes as reality speaks.
“You’re just like your mother.”
A repressed memory slithers to the front of my mind.
Mother made my stepfather a killer quiche. In my childish innocence, I thought arsenic was a necessary ingredient. Mother let me pour it into the egg mixture as she swigged from a tequila bottle.
Decked in diamonds kept afloat by chains of gold, Mother sang softly as she worked.
She was a caged bird, about to break free.
However temporary her freedom, she'd enjoyed every happy hour of it.
I want my freedom long and sober.
I tuck the vivid scene into the recesses of my mind.
Yesterday is history . . . Today is a gift.
It's just like Mother to skip the part about tomorrow being a mystery.
A dark red apple sits on the cutting board. I can't bear to cut into it. Instead, I polish it and place it back in the fruit basket.
I didn't fall far from the tree either. I'm just another pretty little thing. To him. He thinks of me as...
Garnish, dear. Mother's voice is consomme-clear.
Mint leaves are finely diced and sprinkled over a fresh fruit salad. My golden bracelets jingle.
A little gold to cover the blue.
Yes, I was naïve; blinded by romance, then bound by marriage.
The knife severs the ciabatta bread at a forty-five degree angle. Once. Twice. The result is a triangular piece from the top of the loaf. He won’t open his sandwich for inspection with this decorative distraction.
The base is generously brushed with corn oil. Unwashed spinach leaves cover it. He hates when it's wet, and I can't bear the idea of sparing him E. coli.
Slices of a beautifully ripened tomato glisten on the bed of spinach. Perfection.
This morning's egg salad needs something else. It's bland. I intentionally made it that way. He won’t question the changes in flavor or texture.
His sentiments were clear this morning.
“I don't need a sloppy wife and disgusting food,” he said.
I mix in grated pine nuts and four tablespoons of ground corn for good measure. A breathtaking combination. Now, a dash of salt, a sprinkle of pepper and it's ready to smother tomato slices.
Like a pillow to your face.
I grin as I set the triangular top in place. Beautiful, crowning glory of my culinary creation. When he sees and tastes it, he will be pleased. So will I.
This masterpiece is worth dying for, and he'll make the trade without knowing. He would die a happy man if not for the swelling in his throat.
Add more pine nuts, just to be sure.
If not for the itch that will distract him from the impossible task of breathing.
Blessed corn. Comedic effect.
“Remember when you put corn in the casserole, Mother?”
I laugh heartily at the memory of my husband, like a child afflicted with chicken pox. The rash was disgusting, but his reaction was hilarious.
Mother responds with maniacal laughter.
I hope he'll remember, as he struggles, how I grabbed at the air last night. Will he remember wrapping his sausage hands around my neck? Will he regret squeezing the air from my lungs?
When life gives you lemons, dear . . .
I cut six lemons in half and twist them. Their juice runs into a pitcher of hot water and sugar. I always make it hot, then bring the temperature down in the freezer. By the time he's done, my favorite afternoon beverage will be ready.
For vodka.
“Of course, Mother.”
There'll be private cocktail hour on the patio. I'll raise my glass to the setting sun.
In mock memoriam.
“No. In celebration,” I correct her.
I smile as I envision my evening. His brief future. The rest of my life.
The best part is I won't even have to touch him. With the right ingredients, I've made the sandwich of his life. I truly am the wife he deserves.
I delicately place the sandwich on a square white plate. It joins the bowl of fruit salad on a crystal serving tray.
“Mother, you're proud of me, aren't you?”
Beyond words.