Sunday, June 21, 2009

Part One.

How does it taste?

Eff it. I’m not trying another one of your “recipes”

Dude. Just one more time, I swear it’s better than the last one.

Or three or four?

Just try it for Pete’s sake.

He walked across the peeling linoleum in a faded gingham apron, and judging by the muddled stains it was another one of his thrift shop finds. His chestnut coloured hair cemented to his forehead with an appetizing mixture of sweat and grease. He held a splintered wooden spoon to my face. Insisting that I actually put the musky smelling substance in my mouth.

Please, if you hate it, you can spit and out and you’ll never have to try anything I make ever again.

That’s what you said last time.

And did you spit it out?

No, because it burned through the lining of my stomach before I could.

Exactly, so think about how slight the chance is that this won’t be even a little bit better.

I think you might possibly possess the most flawed log..

Dude. Shove it.

With that, he came at me with his viable cutlery weapon and quicker than I could smack my lips shut, the vile ooze was already festering inside my cheeks. It became evident to me that he did not intend to have his creation regurgitated onto his decrepit floor and no sooner than I allowed the congealed mess to trickle down the back of my throat did he lessen his grip on my face. As I sat awaiting my eminent death I hear an almost giddy,

Soooo… is it? He held his curled fingers close to his chest.

How is what? My face? Hurting. My pride? Hurting. My..

The soup! How is the soup??

So that’s what you’re calling it?

Just do me a favor. Shut the hell up and tell me what it tastes like.



Yes. It tastes. Grey. Yup, Grey.

How in the world does something taste like a color? Denny started pacing and tossed his embarrassing apron over a high chair that had to be at least a century old. I could maybe understand if you were eating a piece of fruit from Florida and you said it tasted orange. But grey? Meh Meh Meh. Where do you get off…

That’s about when I drowned him out. Even if someone gave me a thousand years and a Princeton trained research team, I doubt I could ever find a point in listening to him when he got like this.

I scraped my tongue against the back of my teeth and the last of the soups residue mixed with saliva and I was inclined to swallow as if pushed by a force greater than myself. As I did so, a dull numbness started to creep through my gums and tongue. It was a slow progression, soft but not overwhelming, like a child sneaking into the kitchen late, late at night for the very first time.

Denny. Have you tried this yet?

He kind of chuckled and muttered something to the extent of ‘oh, you’ as he walked into the living room.


He clicks on the archaic television that I’m sure had to be one of the first prototypes. Warbled and out of pitch voices drift through the old Victorian house followed by a brief moment of pre recorded laughter. All those old sitcoms are the same. A realistic character with mothering tendencies usually with a touch of cynicism, an antagonizing and annoying friend or neighbor, and at least one unbelievably goofy character that almost makes you cringe at times. Hilarity ensues.

I remained seated around the oak kitchen table, trying to occupy my mind from sorting out my last will and testament.

How on earth did the soup taste grey? I hadn’t really given it much thought, I just..answered. The soup just tasted grey. Just like how Denny was a mess of frugality and un-haltered ingenuity. Or how most of the actors on that old sitcom dabbled in drug addiction or alcoholism or a cornucopia of eating disorders. These things were just facts. And the soup just tasted grey. My opinion had nothing to do with it.


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