layers
Alright, he thought, I can do this, no problem. Peel the garlic cloves. That’s step one. Sure, they get stuck everywhere. The skins are problematic just like onions. They get stuck on his fingers. On edges of the sink. Everywhere reeks. Onions and garlic. Fucking vegetables with layers as deep as the human psyche.
He smashed into the clove with the bottom of a glass. There we go, he thought. He turned on the faucet and let the cold water ease the skin off, then went to the cutting board. Slice, slice, slice. Remember, he thought, do it like Bourdain said. Curl your fingers under; better to slice open your knuckles then chop off the tip. Dump it into the olive oil. Mix. Stir. Whatever.
Alright, he thought, bowl number two. Eggs, crack ‘em open. But just the yolks. All he needed was the meat of it; the chicken that wasn’t. That gooey yellow mess of it. Who, he thought, looked at this one day and was like, hey, let me fry this up; it’ll taste good. But maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe this was all there was. Maybe the chickens were dead. Maybe this hardened white shell was all that was left. Maybe there was a family to feed. Maybe there were no other options.
Mustard. Where was the mustard? He dashed over to the fridge and grabbed the yellow bottle. Forgoing proper measuring, he squeezed a bit into the bowl with the yolks and grabbed the whisk. Two minutes, he thought, who came up with two minutes? Why did recipes have to be so precise? Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t. Would it really taste that bad if he only whiskeyed for two minutes? Whiskeyed? Oh shit, here it was, going to his head again.
Alright, he thought, drizzle time. Take the olive oil and garlic. Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle. Wait for them to come together. That’s what the recipe said. Wait for it to look like mayonnaise. Mayonnaise. That was a great song, he thought. What ever happened to the Smashing Pumpkins. D’arcy left and everything went to hell. And then Hole fell apart because of that Melissa au de whatever lady. What would Kurt Cobain think of the state of the world right now, he wondered.
Vinegar, salt, and pepper. Mix them in. Whisk, whisk, whisk. Get the oil again. Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle. Mix it all together. Stop! Wait! Didn’t the recipe say… Oh no, he thought. He ran back across the room to his computer. He shook the mouse to wake the screen. Nothing happened. Slam, slam, slam. He bashed the mouse on the desk. The screen slowly came back to life.
Alright, he thought, stop before you’ve used all the oil. That’s what is said to do. Lemon juice! That was it. Stir it in. Taste it. Always taste it while it’s in the process. But wasn’t egg yolk bad for you? Salmonella or whatever. How come it’s ok to eat raw eggs sometimes, and not other times? Who came up with these rules? They didn’t make any sense. Nothing really did anymore.
They tell him to go to school. Get his diploma. Go to more school. Get his degree. Graduate with honors. Go on interviews. Find a job. Get health insurance. Find a girl. Woo her. Get married. Buy a house. Build a white picket fence. Help the wife pop out some kids. Work hard. Get a promotion. More money. Buy a new a car. Shop at Ikea. Install a new kitchen. Put up new wallpaper. Relax with a beer. Tailgate at the alumni football game. Donate to a charity. Get a dog. Teach it how to sit. Teach the kid math. Get another promotion. Buy a grill. Host a barbecue. Build a wine cellar. Start collecting.
Alright, he thought, before I know it I’m sixty-five. It’s time to retire. But he can’t. He’s got to pay for those damn kids to go to college now. The mortgage is due. The car has broken down. The air conditioner needs to be replaced. The computer crapped out. The water heater doesn’t heat anymore. That white fucking fence is rotting away and the university wants another two grand donation to help build a new parking garage.
And then, he wonders, who’s going to put food on the table now? He’s got the same family with the wife, the two point five kids who still live at home because they can’t find jobs. The dog, the cat, the thirty gallon tank full of fish, and maybe a ferret or a hamster or some other kind of rodent he paid for when he’s dealing with a mouse infestation in the basement.
Alright, he thought, what’s even the point? Whisk, whisk, whisk. Taste it again. It should be creamy. That’s what the recipe said. Add more salt or pepper or lemon juice or whatever. To his taste. But what was his taste, he thought. What did he even want? He didn’t know anymore.
And this fucking aioli wasn’t helping to ease his worries. All it did was make him wonder if he’d followed the right directions.