The Sandwich
She says she’s hungry, and rolls over with an air of finality. He stands, and pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms. Yawning, he descends the stairs.
He stands in the kitchen and stretches, the extension of his back muscles spins out the long tracery of scratches and he winces, then grins.
First he pours some oil into a wide pan, then lights the flame very gently. He opens his case of knives and selects one that is short-bladed but heavy. Testing the edge with his thumb he notes the labyrinth of tiny cuts on his hand, most healed, some open. He crushes two cloves of garlic and chops a fat red chilli, he scrapes them into the pan, chops a lemon in half and squeezes that into it, cursing as the juice runs over his hands.
The sun is streaming through the kitchen window in torrents, as though it’s trying to get a month’s worth in twenty minutes or so. He opens the window and spring rolls in.
He takes a chicken breast from the fridge, noting that he needs to go and buy some wine later. The scent of frying garlic starts to fill the kitchen, and the tiny chopped pieces jerk fitfully in the oil. He cuts the chicken breast along its horizon and opens it out. He turns up the heat on the gas and the oil sizzles fiercely, a couple of spots hit his hand and he shakes it before he lays the two halves of breast in the pan.
He looks at the chicken whilst it cooks, doesn’t take his eyes off it once, except after he’s turned it over, when he takes a moment away from the pan to cut two slices from a thick granary loaf sitting in an earthenware pot on the back of the counter. He slices tomatoes, and pulls some leaves from the basil plant on the window sill and chopping them, takes the chicken from the pan, places it on one slice, layers the tomato and basil on top, then presses the whole lot together firmly.
When he goes back to the room she’s woken up, and is sat with her knees drawn up, reading. As he enters she looks at him and smiles.
“I’m bloody starving” she says “what took you?”
He stands in the kitchen and stretches, the extension of his back muscles spins out the long tracery of scratches and he winces, then grins.
First he pours some oil into a wide pan, then lights the flame very gently. He opens his case of knives and selects one that is short-bladed but heavy. Testing the edge with his thumb he notes the labyrinth of tiny cuts on his hand, most healed, some open. He crushes two cloves of garlic and chops a fat red chilli, he scrapes them into the pan, chops a lemon in half and squeezes that into it, cursing as the juice runs over his hands.
The sun is streaming through the kitchen window in torrents, as though it’s trying to get a month’s worth in twenty minutes or so. He opens the window and spring rolls in.
He takes a chicken breast from the fridge, noting that he needs to go and buy some wine later. The scent of frying garlic starts to fill the kitchen, and the tiny chopped pieces jerk fitfully in the oil. He cuts the chicken breast along its horizon and opens it out. He turns up the heat on the gas and the oil sizzles fiercely, a couple of spots hit his hand and he shakes it before he lays the two halves of breast in the pan.
He looks at the chicken whilst it cooks, doesn’t take his eyes off it once, except after he’s turned it over, when he takes a moment away from the pan to cut two slices from a thick granary loaf sitting in an earthenware pot on the back of the counter. He slices tomatoes, and pulls some leaves from the basil plant on the window sill and chopping them, takes the chicken from the pan, places it on one slice, layers the tomato and basil on top, then presses the whole lot together firmly.
When he goes back to the room she’s woken up, and is sat with her knees drawn up, reading. As he enters she looks at him and smiles.
“I’m bloody starving” she says “what took you?”
posted by Matt at 9:48 AM
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