FIRST FIGHT BALLET
The stage was set. The lines clearly drawn in the shag carpet. Hub went to work that AM and left me there alone with the liver. Opening the refrigerator door I gazed upon the cost free culinary delight. It had begun to thaw ever so slightly and was beginning to ooze red down the sides of the previously white butcher paper and draining into the bottom of the clear Pyrex 4 cup measuring receptacle.
This was not a sight that even an ardent liver lover such as myself would appreciate at 2 months pregers. I reached in and shoved this item farther back in to the fridge and decided to prepare other items on my menu. For a few days any way. Now under the best of circumstances I’m a rather spacey sort of individual. But being pregnant facilitated this state of being and I pursued other activities, forgetting the organ meat wedged between last weeks leftovers and a stale loaf of bread.
All but obscured from sight, the blob began to take on a life of its own. First a slight green fury film began growing along the red stained lines down the length of the butcher paper and into the bottom. Congealed blood mingled with green fur that almost pulsated with life.
At this point we both regretted that we would have to waste this food, (at least we agreed and feigned regret). I kept promising to “do something” with it. Each time SP reminded me of this need his voice acquired a change of tone that I found quite annoying. Every day I looked in the back of the fridge and my stomach rolled. Every day I closed that door just a little harder than I had intended to. Now I was growing angry at the liver and angry at my lover. The green furry obligation stared back at me from its semi-arctic repose. I swear it blinked.
Seven mornings later lover boy delivered an ultimatum. “Get that thing out of the refrigerator or else!” Knowing I could delay the task no longer I donnned protective gear and approached that white rectangular guardian of food with determination. Opening the door I reached in and grabbed the creature by the Pyrex handle while averting my head to avoid any oders. Holding it out at arms length I made my way rapidly to the kitchen door.
Stepping out into the winter evening I headed for the dumpster a few yards from our home. I had truely intended only to dump the liver out and bring the container back in and wash it out after pouring massive quantities of bleach over it. However halfway to the dumpster an Alaskan evening breeze blew past the outstretched cup and right into my nose! Pregnancy hormones took over and my body threatened to heave the entire days meals out in reverse. The foul aroma was dancing around me like the Aurora Borealis. Heaving and coughing I leaped back up the porch while simultaneously tossing everything, cup and all into the trash can on our porch. Slamming the door shut behind me I stood their gasping for fresh air. I decided to retrieve the cup later.
I had almost forgotten the entire episode and awaited my mans arival at home. When he hesitated to come in the house, standing far too long out on the porch, I suddenly remembered the Pyrex cup. That expensive container that I had when we got married. The one he had admired. Now I had not only wasted food, but I had thrown away something of great value.
Walking carefully into the home in slow motion, cup held out as if in supplication he looked at me and spoke in a tone of voice that was not only entirely new to me but very ominous as well. “Since when can this family affored to just throw away valuable cooking utinsels?” I began to sob, and attempted to explain about the smell and etc but now at the end of his long day and rope, and not having collected money owed from a client he displayed a rare but effective communication style.
“Do you really want to throw this away?! ” he demanded. Taken aback by the new volume I said nothing. “Well by golly lets just do it right then! I’ll make sure it gets thrown away for good!” He flung the offending cup out the door. Expecting a soul satisfing shater as it hit the road he waited for the noise. But instead of that sound he heard the distinct ping, ping, ping, of pyrex bouncing across the icey surface. Deprived of his revenge the focus of his anger now became Pyrex. He ran outside after the item and snatched it off the ground. Running up to the dumpster he flung with all his might and hurled it into the metalic abyss. Ping, Ping, Ping it sang out richocheting around inside. It didn’t break. My man stood beside the dumpster, winter breath whirling around his head. Looking upward he said, “God, are you trying to tell me something?” Hanging his head momentarily, he climbed INTO the dumpster, emptied the contents of the cup and brought it back into the house, straight to the sink. Without flinching he washed it out with hot soapy water and disinfected it. Placing it upside down in the drainer he walked by me and kissed me lightly on the forhead. Sitting down to read the paper he mused, “Any thing that can survive that deserves a permanet place in our home.” I never fed him liver again. Ten years later. Count em! Ten I was standing beside our 3 foot tall kitchen counter and bumped this exact container off onto the soft linolium floor. It shattered into a million shards of Pyrex. We looked at each other. Close curtain.