The Inappropriate Breads
first published as Bradley Sands is a
Dick
from the
Bradley
Sands is a Dick Anthology
“I will NOT be culinarily confined,” he shouts. “That is NOT the rule.”
I know what he means. All the best chefs take risks. They try mixing up ingredients to create new dishes, but this ain’t cuisine he’s dishing up. It’s malice.
Dinnertime comes and I ask for a hotdog. I think that a simple hotdog can’t be too difficult, but that’s when he starts the whole damn bread thing.
He brings me a hotdog sandwich. I can tell he spent some time on it: expertly severing the dogs, placing them flat side down on a bed of ketchup and sliced bread, throwing a sprig of parsley on the plate. He knows I can’t accept the sliced bread without comment. He knows I can’t stand a designated meat without its appropriate bread counterpart. He knows this is going to piss me off. He smiles viciously.
“Where’s the hotdog bun?” I ask.
That’s when he shouts again, “I will NOT be culinarily confined. That is NOT the rule.”
I shudder at the sheer volume of his voice. I meekly put my hands out for the cutlery. He knows I can’t touch bread, not since he told me that my hands don’t work on bread.
He gives me the fork and knife and leaves the room. As I cut the hotdog sandwich, I feel the blood rising in my neck, reddening my face as the ketchup bleeds through the white bread.
At breakfast, I nod knowingly at the familiar bread. I squint up at him. I knew he’d been holding out on the hotdog buns. The suitable meat was not accompanying them on this fine morning. I stare at the buns.
“Peanut butter and jelly,” he says as he hands me the flatware. “Bon appétit,” he adds before exiting.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of my anger. I try to get a grip on my emotions. Using my Zen-like skills of detachment, I attempt to imagine that what is before me is a normal PB and J. It’s working and I feel this wave of empowerment come over me. I can do this thing, I think. I see the classic sandwich; it is before me. But then the knife has to cut through this mountain of a bun and the simple duration of this breaks my suspension of disbelief and I see the oh so recognizable, undeniable hotdog bun with its unmistakable oval, cylindricalness mocking me with its conformity for exclusive hotdog purposes.
In frustration and madness, I scream, “Not Again!”
The laughter, that wicked, maniacal laughter comes from the other room. He knows that he is winning.
The bread torture continues for weeks. He taunts me with hamburgers in pitas. Sloppy Joes become sloppier on Melba toast. Garlic bread is never the same on sweetened cinnamon raisin bread. “Fun sized” pizzas struggle to exist on croutons. The BLT on breadsticks is a puzzle to conceive much less to consume. Even if my hands worked on bread, I couldn’t have picked up a sandwich constructed with the precariousness of a badly built log cabin.
So, today is a new challenge. His cruelty knows no bounds.
“Voila, pool cheese,” he announces.
“What’s pool cheese?” I ask suspiciously.
“It’s a slice of bologna topped with a slice of cheese food, preferably on a paper plate, nuked in the microwave for 45 seconds.” He smirks. “The bologna makes itself into a bowl.”
I have to ask. “Where’s the bread?”
“No more bread. New rule.”
His smirk widens. He knows how much I love bread. I put my hand out for the fork and knife, but he just shakes his head.
“Try it,” he says to my hands. “You might be able to handle bologna.”
I lift the warm meat bowl with the molten liquid cheese food within. I eye the thick curled lip of the bologna. My hands seem to be taking to it just fine. I know what this means. As my fingertips absorb the meat grease, I know he won’t give me utensils again. I wonder what meats I will be forced to pick up. I’m sad. I’m really going to miss the bread, even the wrong bread.
***
© 2009 Kristin Fouquet