Kitchen Sink Drama

Scalloped Tomatoes (Serves 6)

Ingredients:
5 tablespoons good olive oil, divided
2 cups (½-inch) diced bread from a round rustic bread, crusts removed
3 pounds plum tomatoes, ½-inch-diced (14 to 16 tomatoes)
1 tablespoon minced garlic (3 cloves)
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ cup julienned fresh basil leaves, lightly packed
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Procedure:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Celsius.

Confront him about the letters. Ask him why his ex-wife kept writing to him even after he married you. What is the point, you ask.

If he claims it was an innocent correspondence, throw 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper in his face. You are not an imbecile. You know the difference between innocent and carnal. And guess what his affair with his ex-wife is all about. Definitely not innocent!

Snack on the 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese as you watch him writhe in pain and hear him call you a ball busting bitch. It’s your favorite type of cheese after all. It should be enjoyed with a great show.

Get up from the kitchen table. Take off your wedding ring and throw it in the rubbish bin. This marriage is so over.

Pack your bags. Call a good lawyer. Keep his ex-wife’s letter with you. They’re good for getting a fat alimony.

Stay with your Mom and Dad in the meantime. They’ll keep you from doing anything crazy.

Whatever you do, keep your head high and don’t look back.


* Recipe Ingredients Courtesy Ina Garten/Barefoot Contessa

Repressed

The spider of your hand
Invades my privacy
Your yearning
A solid taste on my tongue
The blood of your desire
Pulsates through my being
I rake my hands
Through the salt and pepper
That covers your head
I am a mess
Uncontrolled
Uncontrollable
Who was it that said
There has to be an end
It should be infinite
The spiders
The invasion
The collision
It should be infinite
How we become infinite
How we unite
The forces of who we are
Into one throb
Into one peak.

Peeking

Eaves

It was obvious in his eyes. He didn’t have to utter a word. Their son did not make it.

She cried quietly into his shoulder praying for strength, praying for courage. How could she make it? She did not want to go on, but there was her husband, there were her three other children. There was her audience. She is a columnist in the local paper and a celebrated author of children’s stories. This was an ending she could not have imagined for her 14 year old Dean.

They sat down in the third row of chairs in the emergency room. She could not understand anything anymore. For all she knew her son was a well adjusted teenager, both athletic and artistic and given to profound reflections.

He ingested a whole month’s worth of downers, which she took for her anxiety attacks, this morning. She found him in his room midmorning because he did not come down for their date to go to the bookstore for their monthly shopping spree.

“I think we should tell the kids,” her husband said.

She wiped her tears, got up and headed for their Mini Cooper. God help me, she prayed.


-end-