November 28, 2014

“Sometimes you fried things and when the frying oil splattered your bare skin, you closed your eyes and wished for it to happen again. You flicked water at the oil and then the oil flew up, sizzling on your arms, and you almost cried, almost but not quite, and your eyes watered but not enough moisture accumulated to drip down your face in a stream. You didn’t pick anything out of the oil. In fact, whatever breaded something it was that you tossed in, you left hovering at the bottom, the breading going from pale to golden to brown to black, then beyond, to completely scorched and saturated with grease. Smoke came out of the pot and it was strongly scented and its body filled the house so that when you breathed, you choked, but you were pleased with that choking because it meant something although you couldn’t be certain what.”

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