Twice. Twice he had actually puked. He had stopped counting the number of dry heaves, as it had become a constant state instead of a surprise reaction. Bits and pieces had been left to rot in the bottom for nearly a year. No one had bothered to check the bottom; like usual.
Mr. Macell continued to bark orders from the kitchen, and Carl, like the rest of the cleaning staff, obeyed without question -- working through the vomiting, the heaving, and even the one girl who simply passed out from exhaustion and was carted off to god knows where. Carl heard footsteps up to the attic but learned long ago not to ask questions.
One of the less than aware ones, Simon - the best that Carl's bleach and vomit riddled brain could muster -- bothered to ask about the timetable and was summarily dismissed. They had exactly 8 days remaining to completely eliminate any trace of food service from the unlicensed facility before the city inspectors would be coming by to declare the place fit for transfer to the new owners. 8 days to do two weeks worth of work. They were only on day 2 and he hadn't seen anyone get a break yet. They were allowed about 6 hours of sleep, on site, and were nearly always awoken by their relief shifts fucking something up much to the dismay of the owner.
Mr. Macell, or simply "Chef" as they all called him, was a machine. Carl had yet to see him sleep either. Many times the Chef would sit, take a call or two, answer a few emails, but then would be right back to his check-list and inspections. Getting a check in the check-box meant being able to take a smoke-break; and given the intensity of the work, that was a godsend. A single smoke could be stretched out to the full twenty minutes and Carl had learned a system of micro-napping. He was going to get that bonus. This would be the last maintenance job he would ever work.
He pulled out the next panel and puked again. Not, as much, from the smell this time, but from sight of the gelatinous mass covered in mold that oozed out on his hands. He recovered, closed his eyes, and scooped it into the bucket. He sprayed the interior with bleach and got to work. The gore dissolved and soaked into the sponge. Carl had also lost count of the number of sponges he had ruined. Part of the job. He squeezed it out into the bucket and nearly puked again. There, looking up at him through the grey sludge was the clear remnants of an eyeball. That was it. That was all it took. He did puke this time, right into the bucket, and the grey sludge splashed back into his face. The smell and thoughts overtook him. He felt the world spin as he tipped over, spilling the grey masses onto the floor.
Carl awoke in the attic. His stomach ached for food and his arms itched in a way that he had never considered. As his senses returned he reached to scratch the intolerable itch but couldn't move his hands. Sleep paralysis, brought on by deprivation had taken him. His eyes, barely open, saw nothing but a massive blob in the room with him. He struggled to focus but couldn't. A smell of pickled ginger shocked his nose back into use and forced his eyes open. He was seated on the floor. In front of him, Mr. Macell spoke to an obscenely fat mat that Carl did not recognize. He resolved to push himself up and apologize, but when he looked down, he realized he was dreaming. His legs had been removed at the hips leaving only a weirdly bandaged stump on each side. He reached out for them, instinctively, to confirm that they were gone, but found his arms too had been removed. He felt no pain, which only furthered his belief that he was dreaming.
Across the room the large man looked at him. He heard the man speak, not as much in his ears as his brain. He was dreaming. He had to go back to sleep now. Finally a good night's rest for all of the hard work he had done cleaning out the old meat drawer.
Friday, January 23, 2015
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Included in the Feast
1. Sweet Potato Mash with Pecan Crusted Pork Belly Bits
2. Whipped Cranberry Sauce with Crushed Red Pepper
3. Roasted Wild Turkey with Duck Sausage Stuffing
4. Butternut Squash Soup with Cumin, Cream, and Coconut Milk
5. Wild Rice and Mushrooms
6. Grilled Asparagus with Toasted Almonds
7. Balsamic Roasted Carrots and Parsnips
8. New Ambrosia Salad with Sliced Coconut and Tangerines
9. Maple Glazed Apple Fritters
10. Fonesca 40-Year Tawny Port
2. Whipped Cranberry Sauce with Crushed Red Pepper
3. Roasted Wild Turkey with Duck Sausage Stuffing
4. Butternut Squash Soup with Cumin, Cream, and Coconut Milk
5. Wild Rice and Mushrooms
6. Grilled Asparagus with Toasted Almonds
7. Balsamic Roasted Carrots and Parsnips
8. New Ambrosia Salad with Sliced Coconut and Tangerines
9. Maple Glazed Apple Fritters
10. Fonesca 40-Year Tawny Port
Monday, September 15, 2014
The Lion of Soissons
Perhaps you have heard the tale of the Wolf of Soissons. No? Let me tell you. At the end of Winter of 1765, just after a game of Hoax was announced by the local Invictus, a woman and her unborn child were attacked by a wolf in the parish of Septmont after the end of evening Mass. The local villagers took the fetus into the church to be baptized before it died, and wouldn't you know it, while the people were distracted, the wolf attacked again not three hundred yards away. This time it was Madam d'Amberief and her son, who fought together to drive the wolf away.
The villagers thought that would be the end of it, but over the next day several more attacks occurred, such veracity and frequency led many to believe that it was not one wolf, but many. A man of Courcelles was wounded, two young boys on the path to Paris were bit, a farmer on horseback lost part of his face, a mill worker was killed, a woman was partially decapitated, and a young girl nearly lost her leg. After less than 24 hours, the citizens of the county banded together and attempted to capture the wolf, but succeeded only in gaining more wounds and losing a hunting dog. The wolf was also seen killing a number of sheep, a slave boy from Africa, and a few cows before fleeing back to the wound.
Armed only with a pitchfork, Antoine Saverelle, who had been a member of the local militia, tracked the wolf to a small lane. He pinned it to the ground and held out for fifteen minutes before other armed peasants came to his aid and killed the wolf. Saverelle himself was awarded with three-hundred livres from Louis XV himself.
Don't believe me? I believe they have historical websites where you can read all about my little hoax. Strange what the people will see when they come eye-to-eye with a Lion. I was only a few years into my Requiem then and was awarded an estate in the very land that I had driven mad with terror nights before. To this night, they still speak of the Wolf.
The villagers thought that would be the end of it, but over the next day several more attacks occurred, such veracity and frequency led many to believe that it was not one wolf, but many. A man of Courcelles was wounded, two young boys on the path to Paris were bit, a farmer on horseback lost part of his face, a mill worker was killed, a woman was partially decapitated, and a young girl nearly lost her leg. After less than 24 hours, the citizens of the county banded together and attempted to capture the wolf, but succeeded only in gaining more wounds and losing a hunting dog. The wolf was also seen killing a number of sheep, a slave boy from Africa, and a few cows before fleeing back to the wound.
Armed only with a pitchfork, Antoine Saverelle, who had been a member of the local militia, tracked the wolf to a small lane. He pinned it to the ground and held out for fifteen minutes before other armed peasants came to his aid and killed the wolf. Saverelle himself was awarded with three-hundred livres from Louis XV himself.
Don't believe me? I believe they have historical websites where you can read all about my little hoax. Strange what the people will see when they come eye-to-eye with a Lion. I was only a few years into my Requiem then and was awarded an estate in the very land that I had driven mad with terror nights before. To this night, they still speak of the Wolf.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Stone Soup
A wearied traveler came to the village in search of sustenance. When he arrived, each of the villages said the same: "There's nothing we can give you that we can spare." The wearied traveler nodded to each, and when he had reached the end of the city, set up a camp and built a fire.
Taking water from the river into his prized cast-iron pot, he dropped in a handful of stones and set it to boil on his fire. Using the last of his garlic, he tossed it into the pot and raised it above the fire to bring it to a small simmer.
Hours later, a passerby asked, "What are you making?"
"Stone soup, it is a tradition of my people," said the traveler.
"I have never heard of this," said the villager. "How does it taste?"
"Would you like to share a bowl? It is delicious as is, but would be better with just a few carrots."
The villager considered for a moment and realized that he did not have any carrots, but his neighbor did. The smell of the soup was delicious and he had gone without breakfast again.
"I do not have any carrots, just some onions I can offer. But my neighbor recently harvested some carrots and potatoes from his garden, if I can convince him to give you those, can the three of us share a bowl?"
The traveler smiled, "Of course! I will add some more water now so there will be plenty for all of us when you return."
When the villager returned, with his neighbor and his neighbor's family, they each brought a little something for the pot: carrots, potatoes, onions, celery, and bacon. The traveler added each to the pot and continued to let it boil. The traveler shared stories of his adventures while the villagers shared stories of their city. When the soup was finished, others arrived having seen the group gathered around the fire.
The traveler stood and beckoned them all forward.
"Come friends, I have been enjoying a meal with your citizens. I will add some more water to the soup and we can all enjoy a second bowl." The citizens were amazed and each quickly returned home to grab an ingredient for the pot. By evening's end, dozens of citizens had all been fed and they all considered the traveler a new friend.
As the fire died down and each of the villagers returned home, a few stayed behind to share a bottle of wine with the traveler. When all but the first villager left with a smile, the traveler poured out the last of the soup to put out the fire, recovering the stone at the bottom.
"I see what you're doing," said the villager. "We would not give you food, but by bringing us all together you fed yourself and made yourself look useful to us. We each contributed to your meal while contributing to each other. This story is old and boring - you can bring us together for a meal, but you cannot force us to accept you."
The traveler smiled. "It's true, I brought you together with my stone soup, but that was not my intention. I told you before I was hungry. This was the only way to acquire a meal. Bring you all together and get one of you alone."
"What do you mean?" Asked the villager.
The traveler did not answer. He stood and watched as the villager fell to the ground, poisoned by the soup which all of the villagers had eaten, but most would not notice now snug in their bed. The traveler removed his knife and began to flay the villager, taking the best cuts of meat for himself and leaving the rest for the coyotes and wolves which would shortly be along.
Taking water from the river into his prized cast-iron pot, he dropped in a handful of stones and set it to boil on his fire. Using the last of his garlic, he tossed it into the pot and raised it above the fire to bring it to a small simmer.
Hours later, a passerby asked, "What are you making?"
"Stone soup, it is a tradition of my people," said the traveler.
"I have never heard of this," said the villager. "How does it taste?"
"Would you like to share a bowl? It is delicious as is, but would be better with just a few carrots."
The villager considered for a moment and realized that he did not have any carrots, but his neighbor did. The smell of the soup was delicious and he had gone without breakfast again.
"I do not have any carrots, just some onions I can offer. But my neighbor recently harvested some carrots and potatoes from his garden, if I can convince him to give you those, can the three of us share a bowl?"
The traveler smiled, "Of course! I will add some more water now so there will be plenty for all of us when you return."
When the villager returned, with his neighbor and his neighbor's family, they each brought a little something for the pot: carrots, potatoes, onions, celery, and bacon. The traveler added each to the pot and continued to let it boil. The traveler shared stories of his adventures while the villagers shared stories of their city. When the soup was finished, others arrived having seen the group gathered around the fire.
The traveler stood and beckoned them all forward.
"Come friends, I have been enjoying a meal with your citizens. I will add some more water to the soup and we can all enjoy a second bowl." The citizens were amazed and each quickly returned home to grab an ingredient for the pot. By evening's end, dozens of citizens had all been fed and they all considered the traveler a new friend.
As the fire died down and each of the villagers returned home, a few stayed behind to share a bottle of wine with the traveler. When all but the first villager left with a smile, the traveler poured out the last of the soup to put out the fire, recovering the stone at the bottom.
"I see what you're doing," said the villager. "We would not give you food, but by bringing us all together you fed yourself and made yourself look useful to us. We each contributed to your meal while contributing to each other. This story is old and boring - you can bring us together for a meal, but you cannot force us to accept you."
The traveler smiled. "It's true, I brought you together with my stone soup, but that was not my intention. I told you before I was hungry. This was the only way to acquire a meal. Bring you all together and get one of you alone."
"What do you mean?" Asked the villager.
The traveler did not answer. He stood and watched as the villager fell to the ground, poisoned by the soup which all of the villagers had eaten, but most would not notice now snug in their bed. The traveler removed his knife and began to flay the villager, taking the best cuts of meat for himself and leaving the rest for the coyotes and wolves which would shortly be along.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Explain
Louis stood at the Expediter's Station, patiently translating the notes from French to English so the cooks could understand them. In front of him, four of the staff, two chefs and two servers, stood upright and waited for him to speak.
"Explain," he said, his French dialect heavy with pity for the fate that stood before one of them. The dining room supervisor, Maria, spoke first.
"Chef, sir. We weren't aware Mr. Vintalle was dining with us this evening. He used an assumed name and took a reservation from an executive at the Brandenburg Group. We served him according to the Chef's instructions."
He looked up, momentarily, sensing the slight difference between the two references, the first Chef, softly, meaning him, and second, meekly, meaning the Baron. He shifted his eyes to Brian, who had been running the kitchen that evening.
"The menu was prepared and served flawlessly, Chef. When that plate left the kitchen it was exactly as the Chef would have wanted. I stand by that, knowing full well what it means if I am wrong."
He waited to see if the moment of "did he believe me" washed over Brian's face. It didn't. Safe for now. He looked back down at the notes - more beets; it was early in the season but several of the rural farmers were having good luck as long as their gardens didn't flood. Maria's voice brought his eyes back up to the line-up.
"We weren't aware that Mr. Vintalle was a vegetarian, sir. How could we have possibly known? Tracy announced the menu to him and he didn't object even the slightest."
He slipped from behind his notes, the email he had received and handed it to Maria.
"Explain zis then," She quickly took the copy of the email and scanned it. "Aloud, s'il vous plait." Maria shifted her weight and swallowed.
"Good Evening, Mr. Macell, and the staff of L. M. Chicago. I would like to thank you for you and your staff's kind hospitality this evening. It is true what they say that your restaurant is a one of a kind experience. I would like to note, for future reference, that providing a vegetarian option for your guests would be best practices, in my opinion. While I was more than thrilled with the soup and salad provided, I found myself unable to eat the Veal Cheeks..."
"Arretez. Repeat."
"I found myself unable to eat the Veal Cheeks," she repeated. Louis closed his notebook, and clipped the pen back into his shirt.
"Do you find it strange that a vegetarian would not want to eat Veal Cheeks?" All four of the staff remained silent. "Zis is a simple question, no?"
"Yes, chef," Maria, Brian, and Tracy said in unions. Thomas remained silent.
"You have a different view, Tomas?"
"Yes, chef. It is a simple question, but I do not find it strange. In my experience certain diners will find any excuse to complain in an attempt to secure a free meal in the future." Louis looked them over for a moment.
"All of you may go, except for Tomas." The remaining three scurried out of the room while Thomas remained, confident but concerned. "Tomas, I would like to offer you se position as Expediter. Your first task es to hire a small, unnoticeable staff that will be in se dining room to eavesdrop on guests to prevent sengs like this in the future. Some of sem will simply walk through with water, wine, or bread in order to stay on the floor. Se must be unseen and very good at listening. Do you understand?"
"Yes, chef."
"Dismissed." Louis took a deep breath, and returned to his notes.
Later...
Work on the warehouse was nearly complete. The door frames had all been widened and the garage extended to hold the food truck. Louis parked the Volt in the docking station and plugged in the vehicle. He walked inside and was no more than two steps in the door before he was lifted off the ground and slammed into the wall.
"Explain." The Baron was full of anger. Louis could feel the rotten breath dissolving his nose hairs as each syllable passed over him. The Baron had been kind enough to pick him up by his shirt. Standing almost eight feet tall, the Baron had had a fresh meal, but was Louis still frightened. He knew better than to show weakness.
"The customer lied, Lord. He did not inform se staff he was a vegetarian and he lied about his reservation. I have retasked se staff to ensure it never happens again." He was dropped to the floor and felt his ankle snap.
"That's the second time, Louis. There will not be a third." Louis watched as the Baron's cape trailed through the door into the Lion's private chambers. He picked himself up and leaned against the wall, staring into Maria's dead eyes as the last of her living blood seeped from the bite mark on her neck. He took a long breath and felt the last of the Baron's blood stitch the ankle back into place. He wondered if any of the Baron's blood was still in her veins. The Baron would not leave him so empty, or leave her unattended if it was not. He stepped forward, feeling the new bones slide into place. He picked up the knife and fork that had been dropped to the floor.
"I am ze chef," he said to himself. "I do not have to explain why you were wrong." He knelt down beside her and cut into the wound, the bronze plated knife slicing away the necrotic flesh.
"Explain," he said, his French dialect heavy with pity for the fate that stood before one of them. The dining room supervisor, Maria, spoke first.
"Chef, sir. We weren't aware Mr. Vintalle was dining with us this evening. He used an assumed name and took a reservation from an executive at the Brandenburg Group. We served him according to the Chef's instructions."
He looked up, momentarily, sensing the slight difference between the two references, the first Chef, softly, meaning him, and second, meekly, meaning the Baron. He shifted his eyes to Brian, who had been running the kitchen that evening.
"The menu was prepared and served flawlessly, Chef. When that plate left the kitchen it was exactly as the Chef would have wanted. I stand by that, knowing full well what it means if I am wrong."
He waited to see if the moment of "did he believe me" washed over Brian's face. It didn't. Safe for now. He looked back down at the notes - more beets; it was early in the season but several of the rural farmers were having good luck as long as their gardens didn't flood. Maria's voice brought his eyes back up to the line-up.
"We weren't aware that Mr. Vintalle was a vegetarian, sir. How could we have possibly known? Tracy announced the menu to him and he didn't object even the slightest."
He slipped from behind his notes, the email he had received and handed it to Maria.
"Explain zis then," She quickly took the copy of the email and scanned it. "Aloud, s'il vous plait." Maria shifted her weight and swallowed.
"Good Evening, Mr. Macell, and the staff of L. M. Chicago. I would like to thank you for you and your staff's kind hospitality this evening. It is true what they say that your restaurant is a one of a kind experience. I would like to note, for future reference, that providing a vegetarian option for your guests would be best practices, in my opinion. While I was more than thrilled with the soup and salad provided, I found myself unable to eat the Veal Cheeks..."
"Arretez. Repeat."
"I found myself unable to eat the Veal Cheeks," she repeated. Louis closed his notebook, and clipped the pen back into his shirt.
"Do you find it strange that a vegetarian would not want to eat Veal Cheeks?" All four of the staff remained silent. "Zis is a simple question, no?"
"Yes, chef," Maria, Brian, and Tracy said in unions. Thomas remained silent.
"You have a different view, Tomas?"
"Yes, chef. It is a simple question, but I do not find it strange. In my experience certain diners will find any excuse to complain in an attempt to secure a free meal in the future." Louis looked them over for a moment.
"All of you may go, except for Tomas." The remaining three scurried out of the room while Thomas remained, confident but concerned. "Tomas, I would like to offer you se position as Expediter. Your first task es to hire a small, unnoticeable staff that will be in se dining room to eavesdrop on guests to prevent sengs like this in the future. Some of sem will simply walk through with water, wine, or bread in order to stay on the floor. Se must be unseen and very good at listening. Do you understand?"
"Yes, chef."
"Dismissed." Louis took a deep breath, and returned to his notes.
Later...
Work on the warehouse was nearly complete. The door frames had all been widened and the garage extended to hold the food truck. Louis parked the Volt in the docking station and plugged in the vehicle. He walked inside and was no more than two steps in the door before he was lifted off the ground and slammed into the wall.
"Explain." The Baron was full of anger. Louis could feel the rotten breath dissolving his nose hairs as each syllable passed over him. The Baron had been kind enough to pick him up by his shirt. Standing almost eight feet tall, the Baron had had a fresh meal, but was Louis still frightened. He knew better than to show weakness.
"The customer lied, Lord. He did not inform se staff he was a vegetarian and he lied about his reservation. I have retasked se staff to ensure it never happens again." He was dropped to the floor and felt his ankle snap.
"That's the second time, Louis. There will not be a third." Louis watched as the Baron's cape trailed through the door into the Lion's private chambers. He picked himself up and leaned against the wall, staring into Maria's dead eyes as the last of her living blood seeped from the bite mark on her neck. He took a long breath and felt the last of the Baron's blood stitch the ankle back into place. He wondered if any of the Baron's blood was still in her veins. The Baron would not leave him so empty, or leave her unattended if it was not. He stepped forward, feeling the new bones slide into place. He picked up the knife and fork that had been dropped to the floor.
"I am ze chef," he said to himself. "I do not have to explain why you were wrong." He knelt down beside her and cut into the wound, the bronze plated knife slicing away the necrotic flesh.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Just West of Des Moines
Interstate 80 between Des Moines and Iowa City is one of the boring stretches of road known to man.
Jake Lowe knew the route well, being the primary night driver of Henderson Live Transport, specializing in making sure that whatever the aggro businesses of central Iowa needs transported gets transported without incident. It's harder than one thinks to move 2,000 Broad Breasted White turkeys from the grow-out barns, which coincidentally house upwards of 10,000 live birds each, to the slaughter houses without using some sort of sedative for the ride. Night makes the moving easier, as the birds are always calmer and much less likely to panic from outside influences. Jake almost envied the birds. At the very least, they had no idea for the utter boredom they were in for before being relieved of it. They just sit in the truck, let their fat little heads lull back and forth, and a couple of hours later, be run across a circular saw after being mildly electrocuted.
The headlights in front of him, from over the hill, snapped him out of his mild road hypnotism. He reached for his Monster, knocked back the last few sips, and chucked the can into the aluminium graveyard that was the passenger seat. He reached for a new can from his cooler, cracked the tab, and settled in for the remaining hour before he would hit civilization again.
That's when he heard it. The turkeys, all 2,000 of them, started squawking. Probably rafter panic. It happens. He turned up the radio and slipped it into a lower gear to help drown out the sound. The sound got louder. For more than a moment, he considered putting in his headphones. Instead, his eyes reactively drew his attention to an obstruction in the road ahead. He slammed on the brakes. His heart raced as he felt the load shift. Weird where the mind goes. Not to the 2,000 birds about to become free for the first time in their lives (at least those that survived the crash), and not that this would probably be the end of his career as a driver, but that everyone would probably think he had been on meth again.
He could see it now, the obstruction. It was a food truck parked sideways, right in the middle of the Interstate. Standing right in front of it was the fattest man Jake had ever seen. Dressed in purple with some sort of long, red cape flowing out behind him, Jake realized he had in fact, fallen asleep at the wheel and this was some terrible dream.
The squawk of the turkeys behind him suddenly became maddening. He could hear them beating themselves against their cages trying to get out. The truck was stopping, but not fast enough. Whoever this hallucination was, he was about to become part of the front of Jake's truck. The voice echoed in his head.
Turn.
He did as he was told. The truck, turkeys and all, jackknifed, skidded and started to tip. Jake felt the belt pull taught against his chest, and his head slammed into the window, knocking him out cold.
He came to in the hospital, a nurse and a police officer hovering over him.
"Mr. Lowe, if you're up to it, can you answer a few questions for us about the accident?"
He nodded, even though it hurt his head to do so.
"We're you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol at the time of the accident."
He nodded, even though it hurt his head to do so.
"Was it Methamphetamine?"
He nodded, a third time, as instructed, even though it hurt his head to do so.
"Last question, Mr. Lowe, and then we'll let you get back to your rest. Would you please explain why, when we found you, you appeared to have been...eating the birds that died in the crash."
He swallowed, hard. The taste of the flesh was still in his mouth.
"I was hungry."
The officer wrote a few notes in his book.
"At this time, you're only being charged with a DUI and cruelty to animals. The hospital is recommending psychiatric evaluation, so you'll be kept for observation for the next couple of nights...try to get some rest, you've had a rough night."
Jake looked out the window and saw the sun rising and he smiled. At least he wasn't bored anymore.
Jake Lowe knew the route well, being the primary night driver of Henderson Live Transport, specializing in making sure that whatever the aggro businesses of central Iowa needs transported gets transported without incident. It's harder than one thinks to move 2,000 Broad Breasted White turkeys from the grow-out barns, which coincidentally house upwards of 10,000 live birds each, to the slaughter houses without using some sort of sedative for the ride. Night makes the moving easier, as the birds are always calmer and much less likely to panic from outside influences. Jake almost envied the birds. At the very least, they had no idea for the utter boredom they were in for before being relieved of it. They just sit in the truck, let their fat little heads lull back and forth, and a couple of hours later, be run across a circular saw after being mildly electrocuted.
The headlights in front of him, from over the hill, snapped him out of his mild road hypnotism. He reached for his Monster, knocked back the last few sips, and chucked the can into the aluminium graveyard that was the passenger seat. He reached for a new can from his cooler, cracked the tab, and settled in for the remaining hour before he would hit civilization again.
That's when he heard it. The turkeys, all 2,000 of them, started squawking. Probably rafter panic. It happens. He turned up the radio and slipped it into a lower gear to help drown out the sound. The sound got louder. For more than a moment, he considered putting in his headphones. Instead, his eyes reactively drew his attention to an obstruction in the road ahead. He slammed on the brakes. His heart raced as he felt the load shift. Weird where the mind goes. Not to the 2,000 birds about to become free for the first time in their lives (at least those that survived the crash), and not that this would probably be the end of his career as a driver, but that everyone would probably think he had been on meth again.
He could see it now, the obstruction. It was a food truck parked sideways, right in the middle of the Interstate. Standing right in front of it was the fattest man Jake had ever seen. Dressed in purple with some sort of long, red cape flowing out behind him, Jake realized he had in fact, fallen asleep at the wheel and this was some terrible dream.
The squawk of the turkeys behind him suddenly became maddening. He could hear them beating themselves against their cages trying to get out. The truck was stopping, but not fast enough. Whoever this hallucination was, he was about to become part of the front of Jake's truck. The voice echoed in his head.
Turn.
He did as he was told. The truck, turkeys and all, jackknifed, skidded and started to tip. Jake felt the belt pull taught against his chest, and his head slammed into the window, knocking him out cold.
He came to in the hospital, a nurse and a police officer hovering over him.
"Mr. Lowe, if you're up to it, can you answer a few questions for us about the accident?"
He nodded, even though it hurt his head to do so.
"We're you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol at the time of the accident."
He nodded, even though it hurt his head to do so.
"Was it Methamphetamine?"
He nodded, a third time, as instructed, even though it hurt his head to do so.
"Last question, Mr. Lowe, and then we'll let you get back to your rest. Would you please explain why, when we found you, you appeared to have been...eating the birds that died in the crash."
He swallowed, hard. The taste of the flesh was still in his mouth.
"I was hungry."
The officer wrote a few notes in his book.
"At this time, you're only being charged with a DUI and cruelty to animals. The hospital is recommending psychiatric evaluation, so you'll be kept for observation for the next couple of nights...try to get some rest, you've had a rough night."
Jake looked out the window and saw the sun rising and he smiled. At least he wasn't bored anymore.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Recipe for Old-fashioned Rabbit Stew:
From 1393's Le Menagier de Paris: A Modern Translation (1885) by L. Macell
Rabbit was a popular game food among the French Aristocracy of the Fourteenth Century because it was easily retrievable by dogs and the game itself reproduces quickly. Furthermore, rabbit only needs a few ingredients to be transformed into a delicious one-pot meal. With a short amount of prep time, and only a few hours of cooking time, this delicious all-in-one meal will satisfy the general appetites of 5-6 guests and can easily be doubled or even tripled when both meat and vegetables are available.
To prepare one wild rabbit:
First, gather the dry portions for a dusting:
- One handful of flour
- Three pinches of thyme
- Salt
- Pepper
Grind all dusting ingredients into a fine powder and douse the skinned rabbit until evenly coated.
Heat one pound of separated pig fat in a large pan until just boiling.
While the heat is rising, divide the rabbit into sections of appropriate pan size. If you have a large enough pan, you do not need to divide the rabbit at all. Dust exposed sections of the divided meat.
With the fat rendered to liquid, fry the pieces of the rabbit evenly. Place braised pieces in the pot.
Combine selected vegetables, add 1 half-pin of cider or ale and a measure of the rendered pig fat.
Cover and bring to a smile (just short of a simmer) for two hours.
Debone the rabbit and add the meat back to the remaining stew.
Serve with bread.
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