Botched Recipes

"A lot of short skirts out tonight," I say as I notice the cabby's eyes wandering the sidewalk.

"Yes, a lot of freaks."

His response is succinct. I can't tell if he appreciates my effort to break the silence or not. This one's not talking on a hands-free cell phone in his native tongue, maybe he could use some conversation. Maybe we all could use a good talking to.

It's Halloween in the City and the gals are dressed to the nines. He calls them freaks, and in his culture they probably would be considered so. I think about how strange a custom the holiday is and try to imagine how ridiculous it must be to the man driving me home. It starts to matter less and less as the street numbers climb, as the avenues rise. I'm almost where I want to be: back with my own little freak.

The car ahead of us has a bumper sticker on its dented trunk that seems redundant and pointless at first. "I <3 My Wife." I think about it for a second and realize its implications, the novelty of such a statement in this day and age. The light turns green and my driver gives hubby a good lean on the horn to wake him up. The back of his head isn't visible from behind. He must be an old man, probably married fifty-five years to his high school sweetheart. It's easy to forgive him for not letting up off the brake so quickly; it's just as easy to understand the cabdriver's frustration. Time is precious to both men, though for different reasons. Twenty-five years have taught me enough to grasp the importance of considering the source, trying on the shoes. Forgive. Forgive. It's all we can do.

I'm fumbling through my wallet for small bills as the cabby and I pass a yawn back and forth. There's no language barrier when it comes to sleep. I decide to tip him well. He thanks me in a genuine tone that only a foreignor can pull off successfully. The hallway in the apartment building smells like ethnic foods from around the globe, all of which are loaded with garlic. My stomach growls as I let myself in with a turn of the key.

She's still asleep. Last night's shift was a rough one-- only three other nurses on her floor as opposed to the usual six. I rummage through the refrigerator and cabinets in search of ingredients for the meal I'm about to make. The smell of food might rouse her from her slumber. If not it's no big deal. I understand. Forgive.

I've been laid off for almost two months, the occasional side-job here and there: a bathroom addition, a gas manifold in a new restaurant, some blown heat lines, a boiler, a curiously named hot water heater. Just enough to supplement my income. I can pay the bills and have some cash left over to play, but I'm not exactly rolling in it. She's the breadwinner right now, and that's fine by me. It feels good to breathe easier knowing I ain't no Atlas. Not all the time, at least.

I crack two eggs into a metal bowl, scramble them, assess the amount, then add another. There's a red bell pepper in the fridge. I slice half of it into the bowl, toss in some green olives, grate some jalapeno jack. A half can of refried beans hisses in the frying pan as I spoon in some leftover rice.

(Pay attention now; here's where I mess up. Again.)

I pour the contents of the omelet bowl into the same pan as the rice and beans.

The eggs disappear into the brown mass of refried bean goodness. The cheese melts nicely, the vegetables warm up. But the eggs. The eggs are gone. All the hot chili sauce in the world won't make up for that blunder. Eggs rancheros this is not, regardless of the tortilla. I stir the brown concoction around as it stiffens up and finishes cooking. Too many ingredients used to start over. It'd be such a waste. Should've cooked the omelet separately, added the rice and beans afterwards. Chalk it up to experience.

The bedroom door opens and she comes out in her robe, eyes still swollen with sleep.

"Whatever you're making smells amazing," she groans as she scratches her cheek, still adjusting
to the light.

"I messed up. The eggs blended in with the beans. They're in there somewhere. I..." but she cuts me off.

"Oh good. I won't have to see them. I don't particularly like them anyway."

She pulls out a plate and sits next to me to eat while my heart reaffirms to my head that I'm still the luckiest man alive.

Behold the broken god of redemption.

Forgive.