So I thought before I go off on rants or start subjecting you all to too much crazy I'd give up this rather nice and straight forward piece, about one man and his Sandwich.
H.
PS, if you happen to know who Ivor Culter is, then imagine he is reading this story to you. If you don't know who Ivor Cutler is, go here.
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Midnight Snack
"I pad through the house to the kitchen. The soft sounds of bare feet on
carpet giving way to the skittering, sibilant sounds of feet on linoleum as I
gently push the door closed behind me. Walking around the dining table I
advance on the fridge, the door swings open, bathing me in electric light and
the chill smell of crisp foods. My eyes rove back and forward across the
shelves. Lettuce, half an onion, yoghurt, spread, milk, cheese…
Hunger pulls quietly but insistently at my insides. It is a pernickety feeling,
it regards the foods through my eyes and turns its gastric nose up at them.
Nothing will do, any option is metaphorically chewed and spat out, but the
gnawing yet not severe pangs still come from my stomach. Savoury or sweet? The
bread lies on the board, inviting like an old friend. The jar of peanut butter
waits with a look if inevitability upon its earthy hued face.
As I reach for the knife my stomach growls, irritated no doubt by my
lacklustre choice. It forces my eyes to glance round the room a second time.
Chocolate cake sits like a rich uncle on a plate laden with crumbs and
sprinkles, it’s icing winks at me with hundred-and-thousand eyes. Easter eggs
on the sideboard twinkle at me with youthful allure, their wrappings crisp with
the promise of sugar. No. The stomach demands savoury,
Then I spy them, the doughy oblongs peer up through thick cellophane,
nearly opaque but revealing tantalising crusts. I wrestle with the knots, the
slithery plastic moving like frictionless water over my sleepy fingers. Then my nails catch a crease
and the loops fall away and the rich smell of baking fills my nose, and my
insides purr. The bread knife’s long shiny blade glimmers as I touch the
handle, disturbing it. But it is caked in cake crumbs, brown smears and clots
cling to the serrated edge like mud to wellies. Moving slowly, silently, I
retrace my steps to the sink, letting the dribble of cold water ripple over the
blade, loosening the bits. The liquid flows down the handle and chills my
fingers as I angle the knife this way and that, using a nail to lift the last
of the stains from the steel.
Vigorously rubbing it on my sleeve I return to the ciabatta. It rests
languid on the breadboard, putting the brown loafs to shame, they, in their
store-bought and showy packaging slink into the periphery, like over-dressed
harlots. The ciabatta lies quietly, self-assured in its wholesomeness. When I
hold it the crust gives slightly, and I imagine it sighing with glee as I trace
the knife point over its exposed flank.
The crunchy exterior gives under the pressure, and fresh smells rise like
steam drom a hot pavement. They dance around my nose, and I lick my lips as I
fold the bread open. It tears apart, opening to reveal a landscape of fluffy,
aerated peaks and valleys. Its there, on the bread board, a bready butterfly,
waiting patiently as I go back to the fridge to retrieve the cheese and the
mayonnaise.
The mayo goes on first. I use a spoon to tease the gelatinous whiteness
out of the jar, to which it clings. I ease it over the landscape of ciabatta
with care, filling in the valleys with glaciers of the eggy cream. One half and
then the other. Then, picking up the hunk of cheese I reach for the grater.
Stainless steel edges catch the light from the open fridge and it winks at me,
trepidatious. The cheese, slightly sticky in my fingers kisses the grooves on
the grater, which sclices off the solid, lactic sections methodically and rains
them down onto the waiting mayonnaise.
When the second layer is done, the angular gratings jutting up from the
seas of mayo I hold the nearly empty jar to my eye, reaching in daintily to
scoop out the dregs, trying not to get any on my fingers. I suspend the spoon
over the ciabatta, letting the globules fall where they may. Next the harsh crack
crack cracking of the pepper grinder as it sprinkles black dots over the white
and chalky preparation. They land haphazardly, clustering where troughs in the
mayo form pits of piquant flavour. My stomach shifts like a restless dog,
finding a comfortable place to wait.
I look down at my creation, it looks back at me, a pile of protein and
carbohydrate that flirts with my taste buds as I turn the bone-white knobs on
the grill. It hums into life, splitting the expectant silence. Slowly, careful
of the scrape of metal on metal I extract the tray. I lay the ciabatta, with
its precious cargo on the bars, like I would place a friend in a bed. It gets
comfy on the tray, seductive bulges of mayo ease outwards towards the edge of
the ciabatta as I slide it back under the glowing filaments.
Watching it sunbathe, I flex my fingers, waiting for the tell-tale sizzle
of cooked cheese that now seems lifetimes away. Staring in at the illuminated
snack I wait impatiently, my stomach wonders in a loud grumble if it will be
enough. I look back at the cheese, the diminished lump lies on the breadboard,
surrounded by crumbs and stray gratings. Nearby the packet of oatcakes exhibits
itself, rough coarse-grain biscuits visible between the cardboard flaps.
Perhaps.
Then the sound makes my stomach twitch. The crisping of bread, the
sputter of cooking mayo and my eyes return to the grill to watch the pile
subside into the ciabatta, withering deliciously. I can see veins of mayonnaise
bubbling in the red half-light and deep browned seams of cheese slowly
spreading downwards towards the heated dough. My stomach is impatient,
yearning, aching, the hunger intensified by the immanent relief.
The smell on the hot air that blasts from the open oven excites it, and
it drums my fingers on the table. Plates. Pulling my tortured gaze from the
food I open the cupboard, the cold unfeeling pile of plates waits for me,
making no sound as I carefully separate them and withdraw one. The ringing
ceramic sound cups my ears as I lay it on the table and turn back to the grill.
I can wait no longer, and slip a hand into the hot space between element and
cheese to run a fingertip over the exposed bread. It is hard, browned and
inviting under my touch. Sliding the ciabatta out on nervous fingers I manoeuvre
it to the plate, staring worriedly at it, my stomach playing fast-forward films
of it tumbling to earth to lie, upturned on the tiles. With relief it is placed
on the plate, sighing as the heat escapes from its insides. Smiles of singed
cheese greet my roving eyes and I waft the air above it to test the flavour.
The pepper has descended into its soft mattress, cratering the topmost layer
with marks that make mouth-watering promises to my stomach.
The ketchup bottle is upended, its weight shifting in my hand as the
contents succumb to gravity. They track a stately course down the plastic,
collecting at the neck, held in place by fear for the hot, rich mass below. A
slight pressure from my fingers that caress the bottle propels the red
lusciousness in a ragged spatter. It scatters in the air, spreading itself
evenly over the cheese and mayonnaise. Replacing the ketchup I gaze lovingly at
my creation, glistening and viscous on the toasted bread. My stomach growls
threateningly and with the mien of a soldier baring a fallen comrade I lift the
plate to my chest. The smells are strong, wetting my tongue as I nudge the
fridge closed with a shoulder and cross the silent kitchen. The light clicks
off as I pull the door closed with a foot and I pad back to bed.
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