My mother’s Succulent City Chicken
egged and crumbed
skewered then fried
then s l o w l y cooked in bubbly gravy
in the shallow electric skillet
that sat on the butcher block top of the
freestanding dishwasher
that sat unplugged
On bitter winter nights
windows sealed tight
with radiators ticking
and gurgling
(I learned from my Dad that meant they needed to be bled)
we had chilli
piping hot
with cornbread
yellow from the oven
with butter dripping
and always with chilli
there was Peanut-Butter-on-Ritz-Crackers on the side
And…
“WORLD FAMOUS Spaghetti Sauce”
recipe dog-eared
then cut
from The Sunday Paper
marinated in spices and Dad’s prized tomatoes
with glugs of Pink Catawba wine
– that special ingredient for zest –
Mum never drank
We always said Grace.
When I was eight
I prayed in church
on my knees
not for a bike
with dangling coloured streamers
and a banana seat
but for peace to come to our kitchen table
I bartered with God at eight.
Mum at one end
Dad at the other
five girls
one boy
all pawns
fists clenched tight around forks
lumps tight high in our throats
two dogs under table
forced to learn family secrets
one day … one year, one moment
somewhere between courses
love was traded for rage
a sickness imbued my mother’s soul
between bites of tender chicken
words whizzed by like flying bullets fast
past innocent faces
to pierce my father’s pride
Shrapnel
imprinted words
embedded in our collateral skin
forever
White paper napkins were for wiping tears
before the three-scooped-
chocolate-fudge-
whipped-cream-in-a-can-
banana-splits were served
Cherry on top
Years of unlearning
death gripped cutlery
my silver engraved fork
is held like a baby bird
I adorn my table now
with fresh pressed napkins
fed through rattan rings
and bright cut sunflowers
sturdy stalks in water
in big glass jars
even just for toast
Amy Clody,
Sydney NSW
