Art Pact 24
In our defence, we had been at the festival for seven hours, marshalling the dervishes and E-heads non-stop as the ring parade orbited the town centre. We were dead on our feet, flicking up our legs with every five or six steps in obeisance to some muscle spasm or cramp, all dreaming of soft fabric sofas and beds, but too hungry to sleep. So we sat back and let Alun do all the cooking, which meant that we got South Mars cuisine whether we liked it or not.
I sat in the kitchen, slumped on the chair in the bay with my head pillowed in my arms while Victory lay across the two chairs on the open side of the breakfast bar, her long red hair spilling onto the floor at one end, a worn flip-flop dangling precariously from a single painted toe at the other. Alun bustled around us, using the table as a staging point for his various pots and pans so that every few minutes I would feel a clunk of something heavy hitting the surface I was resting on, and I would wearily raise my head to see what had been left with me. At first it was all his mise-en-place bowls, measures of spices and ghee and the chopped asparagus and potato mixes that's a characteristic (so Victory tells me) of the town Alun comes from in Argyre Planitia. Those were okay - I lifted my head high enough to reassure myself, then let it lower again, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to avoid anything that spilled out.
When I closed my eyes the after-images of camera flashes played on my eyelids, thick violet and magenta blotches that slowly slid to one side or the other, just evading my attempts to follow them. There were fewer this year than last, so the ban must have been having some effect, but I was still certain that I would wake up in two morning's time with the dry scratchy eye feel of too much exposure. I let my free leg reach up under the table until my bare right foot touched the underside of the opposite chair. Then, walking my big and next toe towards me to the edge of the chair I slid over the fabric, stretching out until I reached the warmth of Victory's thigh. She flinched, jerking her leg away, then rose up on one elbow to hiss at me.
"Dude!"
She rolled her eyes towards Alun, then jerked her knee forward to knock my foot back onto the floor. I suppose my feet were probably freezing.
"What's that?" Alun said.
"Nothing, honey."
He nodded, reaching out to grab a wooden spoon without looking. Victory glared at me, then let her head drop again. I went back to my forearm pillow, and drew my feet back under the chair, skimming through the dust-balls. Oh yes, I thought, it was my turn on the rota.
Another thud on the table, and this time when I looked up I stayed up. This was what I had been watching out for - the pot full of fresh breath-worms, wriggling in their pot. They were a delicate crimson, the fancy sort that Alun had imported rather than the bland ones they grew in that giant warehouse in Britain. The pot was uncovered, the careless way Alun always did it, trusting too much in the gravity, still convinced that it was an oppressive unbeatable force. No matter how many times I tried to warn him, he would not believe that it couldn't hold a simple worm in place the way it crushed him to mother Earth, so he left the pot of still live creatures wriggling on the breakfast table only a few inches from my resting head, and I had to look up to make sure that nothing would creep up on me, reaching out every so often to gingerly flick a particularly adventurous worm back into the boiling mass of the pot.
I find the process of cooking breath-worms fascinating, because of the quick-slow-quick nature of it, so I perked up a bit anyway, and even got up to follow Alun to the hob and look over his shoulder. To start with, the heaving crowd of little creatures. Then he added the oil, and in an instant they were immobile as the liquid plugged their spiracles and mouths. Onto the heat next, and within a couple of minutes they were jumping again, as the oil bubbled and simmered and churned them until they were crisp. I plucked one out with a fork and tried it. Perfect as always, a bit like a french-fry with a hint of chicken.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"What for?" Alun asked. I shook my head.
I sat in the kitchen, slumped on the chair in the bay with my head pillowed in my arms while Victory lay across the two chairs on the open side of the breakfast bar, her long red hair spilling onto the floor at one end, a worn flip-flop dangling precariously from a single painted toe at the other. Alun bustled around us, using the table as a staging point for his various pots and pans so that every few minutes I would feel a clunk of something heavy hitting the surface I was resting on, and I would wearily raise my head to see what had been left with me. At first it was all his mise-en-place bowls, measures of spices and ghee and the chopped asparagus and potato mixes that's a characteristic (so Victory tells me) of the town Alun comes from in Argyre Planitia. Those were okay - I lifted my head high enough to reassure myself, then let it lower again, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to avoid anything that spilled out.
When I closed my eyes the after-images of camera flashes played on my eyelids, thick violet and magenta blotches that slowly slid to one side or the other, just evading my attempts to follow them. There were fewer this year than last, so the ban must have been having some effect, but I was still certain that I would wake up in two morning's time with the dry scratchy eye feel of too much exposure. I let my free leg reach up under the table until my bare right foot touched the underside of the opposite chair. Then, walking my big and next toe towards me to the edge of the chair I slid over the fabric, stretching out until I reached the warmth of Victory's thigh. She flinched, jerking her leg away, then rose up on one elbow to hiss at me.
"Dude!"
She rolled her eyes towards Alun, then jerked her knee forward to knock my foot back onto the floor. I suppose my feet were probably freezing.
"What's that?" Alun said.
"Nothing, honey."
He nodded, reaching out to grab a wooden spoon without looking. Victory glared at me, then let her head drop again. I went back to my forearm pillow, and drew my feet back under the chair, skimming through the dust-balls. Oh yes, I thought, it was my turn on the rota.
Another thud on the table, and this time when I looked up I stayed up. This was what I had been watching out for - the pot full of fresh breath-worms, wriggling in their pot. They were a delicate crimson, the fancy sort that Alun had imported rather than the bland ones they grew in that giant warehouse in Britain. The pot was uncovered, the careless way Alun always did it, trusting too much in the gravity, still convinced that it was an oppressive unbeatable force. No matter how many times I tried to warn him, he would not believe that it couldn't hold a simple worm in place the way it crushed him to mother Earth, so he left the pot of still live creatures wriggling on the breakfast table only a few inches from my resting head, and I had to look up to make sure that nothing would creep up on me, reaching out every so often to gingerly flick a particularly adventurous worm back into the boiling mass of the pot.
I find the process of cooking breath-worms fascinating, because of the quick-slow-quick nature of it, so I perked up a bit anyway, and even got up to follow Alun to the hob and look over his shoulder. To start with, the heaving crowd of little creatures. Then he added the oil, and in an instant they were immobile as the liquid plugged their spiracles and mouths. Onto the heat next, and within a couple of minutes they were jumping again, as the oil bubbled and simmered and churned them until they were crisp. I plucked one out with a fork and tried it. Perfect as always, a bit like a french-fry with a hint of chicken.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"What for?" Alun asked. I shook my head.
Comments