| A short story |
[Mar. 29th, 2007|10:38 pm] |
The smell of roasted peppers wafted up to the ceiling, hitting the fan and speeding off to directions of the room. It was an intoxicating mix, sauteed onions mixed with bell peppers and diced garlic. Only the main ingredient remained. Slowly, the chef prepared the knife.
Such a dish would only deserve the best meat. The most tender cuts, the most veined sections. Scraps could be thrown into the garnish for decoration, but the majority of the dish would need to be a prime cut. Something from the loin, perhaps a filet mignon.
He put the knife down and chided himself. No, there must be more than the main dish. Perhaps a little cooked asparagus soup to whet the appetite. He pulled pots and pans, turning on sections of the range and moving to open canisters of broth.
After a few minutes, things were simmering nicely. He diced the asparagus, mixed in some salt and a little flour to add substance, and let the natural flavors take over. Then he put the lid on and let it simmer.
Would the loin be too tender? Would it not be a little better to have a more gamey cut? Something that would be tenderized, yes, but more so something that would have a price. No! Nothing is too good for the guests that will be sitting at his table. But before the main course, perhaps a little desert.
The trick with deserts are that they must be light enough to go down after a meal, no matter the condition of the individual tastes of those being served. Fruit was definitely out, as though he loved the natural sweetness embodied, he knew he guests would not. Perhaps a light sorbet served inside small pie crusts? It would be a little extra effort, but with a slight addition of chocolate sprinkles, it should be quite fine. Dark chocolate though; it was to be a very serious meal.
A few moments passed and the chef was well on his way. The candles were set, the table decked for guests a plenty. All traces of clutter had been given over to spare rooms or pushed aside. He gazed on, content that he was doing the best he could. Afterall, he was a chef, and had little taste for decoration. Perhaps my guests will understand and enjoy my attempts, he thought to himself. I've been so busy, I hope they will notice my efforts.
Finally, the meats. He had made his choice, and was determined that, in the end, smooth and tender were the way to go. Rolling up his sleeves, he began slicing slowly and carefully. He trimmed and tucked, making sure that there was nothing out of place. Oh, he was no butcher and merely a novice chef from the start, but surely his guests would notice his dedication, his commitment to their comfort. Perhaps a few things burnt, but a good meal none-the-less. He was sure of it, as he marinated the cuts and put them on to simmer in a mixture of oils and spices.
*****
They came in slowly, loudly, to a house filled with life. The aromas were superb and far beyond what they were used to, though they suspected the chef had made a special treat for them. Timidly, they entered, silenced by the demands of their stomachs, to sit and partake. Soup, desert, and main meal all on the table, with their chef asleep at the head of the table. His arms were supporting his head on the table, and he looked peaceful. Let us not wake him, they whispered. Surely it is a good meal that he intended for us, they murmured.
So they sat and quietly began to eat. The glasses tinkled and the forks scraped on plates. Though they had noticed him at first, they had no cares for him now, as long as they were satisfied. They gorged, and, began to feel hungrier, for the meal itself was small and delicate. Light on the stomach, they brought in coarse breads and dank beers. They caroused into the night, while their chef slept peacefully. At dawn, they approached the chef to thank him for the party. It had been a lively and epicurean in it's selection of events.
They approached the sleeping chef and shook him softly, ever so softly. When this did not work, they spoke to him, calling him to answer for his wonderful revelry. Still he lay there. Finally they pushed him up, crying that it was rude to ignore guests.
He fell to the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling. His clothing had the dark stains of a butcher pushed into them, failing to conceal the mesh of wounds. The cuts were small and delicate. So very delicate. |
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bioascension's journal
Imminent Danger
mwa ha ha
devious
contemplative
tired
exhausted
still here