Mise en place

What I did was I chopped up an onion, some garlic, tomatoes. I went out to the porch and grabbed some fresh basil, tore it into little pieces while I chewed on the inside of my cheek and thought about what it would mean if heaven was just a synapse in your brain that fired off when you died. I guessed no one would really care either way before long. It would just be another test of faith or whatever.

The best part was the smells but I didn’t take notice. I said a little incantation over the pot, the kind of thing a body does that’s made for being alone. I cracked a knuckle against the side of my face, which I guess that’s an odd way to do it but it was my way and my other hand had a spoon in it.

Doing a thing yourself is better than doing it fast or particularly well, or at least that was my new thing since I’d tossed out all the jars in the cupboard and replaced them with a seminal kitchen full of vital raw materials. I got a beer from the fridge and opened it with my shirt while the water made headway on a boil.

What if eternity was just the last second of your life? I thought this was a good question for asking, and when she got home I would, no matter that it was one of those questions that might spotlight how unlike each other we were and make my homemade pasta bitter in our mouths. You have to do a thing if it’s worth doing.