And – just before I head to work for a night shift – why not give a read to another short Valentines Day story?
I’ve marinated the meat in the best red wine I could afford, five days now, with garlic onion and bay leaf and a little stick of cinnamon, lots of cracked black pepper, and lots of tears.
On the fifth day I rubbed it with olive oil and browned it well in a hot pan. I kissed it for luck. Crane was right, it tasted bitter.
I carried the meat ceremoniously to a black metal roasting pan that I’d beaten with a hammer into the rough shape of a coffin. I browned a sliced onion in the pan, added more tears, and a little butter for flavor.
Then I deglazed the fry pan with a bit of the marinade, stirring and scraping the caked-on bits from the pan, swilling it into the juice for more flavor.
I poured the contents into the coffin-roaster, covering the meat just a little over half way. I stuck the coffin-roaster into a slow oven, set to 300. Nice and slow, everything took time, let the hurting leak on out.
I added the insecticide last.
I served it in a valentine shaped bowl, bought especially for the occasion. I set her body in her chair across the table from me. The freezer kept her when I could not. Her chest hung open like a secret treasure box. She had a smile on her face. I’d placed it there, a finishing touch before placing her in the freezer.
Then I spooned it up. Bitter, it tasted bitter, but no worse than finding your wife in bed with your best friend.
Heart meat is hard, unless you cook it properly.
I ate it up, every last drop.
I bit my lip until the gag reflex stopped working, and waited to die.
If I’d timed it right, they’d find us together before she thawed. A frozen tableau, two hearts, one broken in my chest and one well braised in my belly.
Well done. Well done.
Yours in storytelling,