we go to have dinner at her place. she has burned the porkchops, tosses the baking dish to clatter despondently on the countertop like some small betrayal.
"well, shit." hands to hips. "i burned the porkchops."
i'm chopping cucumber and take a moment to look at the partially cremated pig chunks. fact. those suckers are burnt.
"not like you were going to eat them anyway, and now i won't either. but you like beer, right? that's a good thing. i'm proud of you." i haven't had a chance to get a word in edgewise; woman is spitfire. culinary mishaps can end in compliments. alright. just let these things flow.
my father walks into the kitchen, heineken sweating in his hand. i think about how i should have taken a picture in front of the original brewery in amsterdam. "i burned the porkchops," she tells him. he bends dramatically at the waist to study them like a scholar over ancient an ancient manuscript. (carbonchops.)
he stands, straightens his glasses, offers a correction. "no, mom, you transformed them. this is amazing. you're amazing."
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