Chapter 26 - The next breakfast
Three years after the morning with the evidence portfolio, I cooked rosemary short ribs again.
Not for Daniel.
For myself.
I had avoided the recipe.
Not intentionally at first.
Then intentionally.
Smell is memory with no manners.
Rosemary and slow-cooked beef transported me instantly back to the dining room.
Daniel chewing.
Dana’s folder.
Two officers.
My bruised face.
So I stopped making it.
Until a Sunday in October.
I woke early.
Opened the refrigerator.
Saw short ribs.
Thought:
Enough.
I cooked.
Rosemary.
Garlic.
Salt.
Low heat.
My father arrived around eleven.
Nina came later.
I had forgiven her for the leaked photograph eventually.
Not quickly.
She brought wine.
I said:
“Careful. Apparently I become a criminal mastermind after half a glass.”
She winced.
“Too soon?”
“Three years.”
“Still too soon?”
“Little.”
We laughed.
I served breakfast at the same walnut table.
The chair Daniel kicked backward had a scratch along one leg.
I never repaired it.
Not as a monument.
I simply forgot.
Dad ate.
Then asked:
“Is this the famous meal?”
“Yes.”
He chewed.
“Needs salt.”
I stared.
May you like
Nina burst out laughing.
Normal life had finally insulted the trauma enough to make it smaller.
