The Secret Chef
One For The Table published this story I wrote and illustrated for Father’s Day this Sunday:
Some men BBQ ribs. Others grill hearty steaks or shrimp with an array of specialty South American hot sauces. My dad, however, does not. He holds myriad talents, but cooking is not one of them. Or, so I was led to believe.
Since I was old enough to ask for dinner, my dad has continually told my brother and me that he can’t cook. “Lizzie!” he’d yell to my mom, “Quick! The kids need some food!” His panic palpable and contagious. Before long, we’d all be yelling for our mom’s swift and seemingly effortless intervention. Initially, she tried to tell him to make it himself, but each time he would make it so poorly - too much butter, too little jam, toast with too burned edges - that we decided we would never ask him to make anything again. Even the simplest jobs would go awry. “Oops!” he’d exclaim with questionable enthusiasm from the kitchen. “I’ve charcoaled the popcorn again!”
How Time Moves Through the Body
A little thing I wrote…
You’re born in the very early morning when you can still hear the floorboards creak. You know everything. Silence sits next to you and you stare at it and around the room that’s just welcomed you both. You wonder if Silence is a he or a she but you know you’ll never really know because the answer changes all the time. A penny drops and rolls down the corridor. Silence is gone; you hear every sound.
You are introduced to your family.
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