By Kevin McLellan
I look out the window while sliding the clear plastic casing off from the English cucumber, cut off its ends, cut the usable bit into four cylinders and then into wedges. I remember the incident, put these curved cubes into a medium-sized stainless steel mixing bowl. Next? The Gala apple which needs dicing. I slice off two incomplete spheres, thus leaving a thick apple-wheel core. I lop off what becomes two solid ellipses. A square cylinder—the center—remains, and the remains now top the compost. Dice! Also, I dice two shallots and see that the last step involves balsamic reduction. I remember the incident yesterday. It didn’t involve me, but it is so upsetting that I can no longer refer to myself in the first person.
He brings a lemon back from the fridge and then takes the glass juicer out of the two-door cupboard. Its crown-high corners, if left open, will make you bleed. He stares out the window as he juices, adds salt and pepper, mixes, and tastes. I am now on the other side of the window looking up at him. The recipe called for juice from half a lemon. I added salt and pepper, mixed, and tasted.
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