There’s more to this story than I thought when I scribbled the first draft a few days ago. That feels good.
So They Chew
By Laura McHale Holland
His gut is a giant diet gingerale, hers a sloshing jug of bitter lemonade. They are not hungry. But the 6:00 news is on; it’s time to eat. So they do. Tuna fish. Casserole. The kind with potato chips, peas, mushroom soup.
So they chew. Slowly. Just a few bites. Then a few more. It doesn’t taste like the tuna casseroles their mothers once made. Two-thirds gooey, one-third crispy. Burned around the edges. Grease on the tongue.
Their version tastes like a hanta virus in the toolshed, a white blood cell count rising, a bogey man in the crawl space, a neighbor walking away from her mortgage.
In silence, they chew on. They eat everything on their plates. It’s what they were taught to do.
(The casserole photo is from Salwa’s 5 alive flickr photo stream.)