Potato Peeler

Potato Peeler

“Besides being complicated, reality, in my experience, is usually odd.  It is not neat, not obvious, not what you expect.”  - C.S. Lewis

Reality is unexpected Grandma said.  Just when you expect things to go one way they all of a sudden shift.  It’s like Life gets a kick out of jilting you.  Grandma could peel a potato without breaking a strand of the skin.  Her thumb did all the cajoling a potato needed to expose it’s firm, golden body.  Grandma loved her wooden cutting board.  Every inch had a knick.  Grandma kept it well oiled so that the wood never dried out.  She didn’t talk much when she cooked.  She didn’t listen well when she cooked either.  She was in tune to the ingredients int her pantry, the temperate of her stove, the atmosphere of her kitchen.  She didn’t cook to consume; she cooked to create.

It rained the day Grandma died.  Reality is unexpected indeed.  It was the day I was supposed to get married.  Instead the wedding was postponed to what became the funeral day, and the sun shone like a crazy diamond.  The earth was still too wet so we wore galoshes and rain boots and trod out into the open field where Grandma wanted to be buried.  She didn’t want a tombstone.  She wanted a red maple planted to mark her grave.  We ordered a fine sapling from a posh nursery.  It came in a ten gallon bucket.  There were already leaves on its thin twiggy branches.  Grandma was anything but thin.  

I thought about Grandma’s potato peeler.  It was curved and had a black handle.  The first time she met Rainier she tucked her hair behind her ears and frowned.  She said he reminded her of the pesky boy who always pushed her in school.  Then she never said any more.  Of course I should have known.  She gave Rainier a potato to peel.  He surprised her by aptly peeling it.  She fed him her meal and never said any more.  Come to think of it, Grandma always tested my friends with a potato peeler.  

The day of the funeral was the day Chezy got back from Paris.  I hadn’t seen her since high school graduation, and she was three years older than me.  Her hair was a frizzy bob, and nothing she wore seemed to match but she looked like she belonged on the cover of W magazine.  Why did she return?  She could have avoided a lot of pain.

No one could find Grandma’s potato peeler.  Dividing her estate turned into a war.  She didn’t have a will, or no one could find that either.  I didn’t want the scraps.  In the end I didn’t want anything that would tarnish her memory.  When no one was looking, I unscrewed and took the blue porcelain knob from her vanity drawer.

Eggs Benedict

The pan of water simmered after I added a splash of vinegar.  The eggs in the basket were chilled and speckled brown.  Large as a rock it nestled perfectly in my palm.  My hands were tired, as was my neck.  I left my equipment in the trunk of the car, not caring to look over the day’s results.  I cracked the shell against the pan’s side and watched as the egg slid into the water.  The whites floated like clouds and curled ever so slightly, quickly becoming opaque.  I thought of whiteness and the large quantities of inundation imposed by white space.  I caught myself frequently wiping my fingers on the kitchen towel.  

Another late night project, another night alone.  I dropped butter into the double boiler and whisked the egg yoke.  The sun had long set, and I was still in my work clothes.  The deadline got pushed back another week.  I reduced the heat and whisked the yoke more fiercely.  The whole grain artisan bread popped from the toaster.  The poached egg was almost done.  Dinner for one.  I stopped cooking for him.  I removed the hollandaise from the heat, plated my egg and topped it with the creamy, lemony sauce.  I studied the candlelight on the table as it played on the silver and accents.  I had a bag packed under the bed.  My passport was in my purse.  I never knew if today would be the day.  I turned away from the table and ate standing.  I didn’t taste the eggs or the sauce.  

Don’t knead it too much, Grandma said.  She didn’t wipe her fingers often.  She let the white flour stay on her skin and mark her forehead when she swiped her hand to push up her glasses.  

The dough needs breathe.  It needs breathing space.  Massage it like a knotted muscle that needs relief.  

I wiped my mouth and put the plate in the sink.  It would be easy to stay.  All he needed to do was say so, say he wanted me to stay.  But perhaps I’m the dough that needs breathing space.  

I turned off the kitchen lights and headed for the shower.  The mess will be an unpleasant greeting for him in the morning when he makes his coffee.  I feel the simmering waters submerge me until I, too, become hardened.