Third Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2005)
Fiction
— Third Place
Low
Country Boil
By B.A. Goodjohn
(continued)
Margaret stretched the links out on the chopping board and used the very
tip of the Sabatier to separate them. She had not made Low Country Boil
before, but Mark seemed to have developed a taste for all things Southern:
Cajun cooking, bluegrass. He'd even bought her a copy of O Brother
Where Art Thou? She thought the dish, its ingredients cheap, an apt
choice.
She held the handle of the knife in her right palm. It felt heavy and warm. She held the tip against the wooden board with her left thumb and index finger and slowly brought the blade down across the sausage. No pressure at all, really, and the meat was sliced into thin rounds. She picked up the board and swept the sausage into the pan of simmering potatoes with the blunt edge of the knife. She followed the sausage with the onions and a hearty dusting of Old Bay Seasoning, some salt, and a grind of pepper. She shook her head as she placed a heavy lid on the pan. However careful one was with reducing quantities, she thought, there was always too much for two.
She wiped her hands and the knife on the tea towel that hung from the stove door and looked at the folded letter in the bottom of the bag. It was slightly damp, the mauve ink running in the moisture from the chilled shrimp. No need to re-read it, to let it all loose again. Earlier, when she had sat down on the bed and pulled it from its envelope — cheap paper, edged in pink gingham checks. She had smelt the cloying honeysuckle. It had lingered in the room like cut-price air-freshener.
She picked the corncob from the sink and wiped it dry with a paper towel. With the knife held between her right hand and her left fingers, she tested the edge against the ripe corn. She leant down a little harder and the blade cut through the juicy kernals and bit into the husk below. More pressure, a little more, and the knife sang home, its blade hard against the wood. A one-inch ring of corn fell back away from the knife onto the board. She cut again and again until she knew the exact amount of pressure that was needed. Until she was perfect.
Margaret added the corn and the shrimp to the pot and turned back to the recipe book to check the timings. She tested the potatoes with the tip of the knife. They were nearly done. Then, heeding the warning not to over-cook the shrimp, she set the timer for six minutes. That was all it would take.
She couldn't resist reading the letter just one more time, the childish hand that told her with a heart above the 'i' that Mark was a "luving man" and that a girl named Kerry Lou, was "having his baby."
She wrapped
the husks from the corn and the onion skins in the shrimp paper and stuffed
the package into the bin on top of the junk mail: vouchers for an oil-change,
a KFC coupon for free soda. Then Margaret headed for the bedroom, the
Kielbasa sausage wrapper in one hand and the knife, one golden silk hanging
from its hilt, in the other.
