Wendy's Cherry Farm

Interface

Cold. Not an ice cube cold or frost bitten cold. Not the kind of cold that engendered warmth—rosy cheeks, teary eyes. Not the kind of cold that made you question if you really did feel warm, or if your body was gaslighting your mind, lighting an imaginary gas.

The refrigerator light flickers. Cold, but not a sensory cold. Not a cold that pricked your skin and made you feel acutely aware of your tactile senses, not a kind of cold that reminded you that you were alive, but cold like something dead. 

The tip of my spoon sinks—slices through the vegetables, sinks through the waxy layer of fat, and slides through the translucent brown jello of gelatin and protein. I scoop up an evenly distributed bite of leftover trifle. My teeth sink into the green pepper. Cold. What were once long, sinewy fibres had congealed into a mucilaginous mass, soft and yielding with a slightly gelatinous bite. The membrane releases a rush of liquid that pools under my tongue—chilled, greasy, and concentrated. The pepper tastes like pepper but also like pork, like soy sauce, and like the metal of the pot it sat in all night. 

The dish had warmed over flavor. Fat oxidizes, leaking its slightly rancid aroma all over the peppers and mushrooms that shared a cramped space with the shredded pork belly. Its potency fills the tupperware, climbs its four walls, and slowly makes itself comfortable in the molecular structure of the plastic. 

Don’t eat that Wendy, it’s not fresh anymore.

My grandma ate yesterday’s leftovers, standing in the kitchen as she prepared the day’s dinner. Thinning patches had begun to bloom on her black t-shirt, at least a decade older than me. The green peppers had lost their vibrant luster, hanging in limp strands off of her wooden chopsticks, burnished and rounded at the ends. 

I watched expectantly as she swallowed with a gustatory voraciousness. Her relish and obvious enjoyment whetted my own appetite, and I became filled with an urge to take a bite.

I want to try it. Can I try it?

My grandma laughed—my childish, innocent curiosity touched her heart. She fed me a bite of pork belly, green onion, and mushroom, perfectly ratioed and rationed.

I took a bite. A browned mango. Wrinkled hands and thinning skin washing dishes together with a Fordist efficiency. Vine anchors and is supported by a trellis. 

Barrier

It was delicious. The noodles were thin and cylindrical, accordioned evenly across the bowl’s diameter. A stray piece or two would languidly pirouette in the meat and soy sauce braised stock like water sleeves.

Red soup noodles. I picked up a piece of braised fish, traditionally served on the side. I firmly closed my chopsticks against the meat, feeling the fibers yield. Two pieces fell into my bowl with a plop. 

Eat more. 

The soup was hot. The noodles were fresh. The flavors were impeccable. I bring another bite to my lips and half the noodles slip from between my chopsticks, supported by the first knuckle of my limp middle finger. My lips are dry. Her lips were parted. They revealed a small row of teeth in the negative space of her mouth. The tubing from her nasal cannula was slightly foggy from the condensation. What was left of her hair grew in tufts of thin, gray strands. Soft wisps spun in swirls around her scalp, resembling the steam from hot tea that she used to brew until the herbaceous, bitter astringency coated my tongue with an aggressive dryness that blossomed outward like cracked earth, tightening with each swallow. 

I stare at my soup. Fat gathers in concentric circles, thin membranes refracted into shifting halos. Cold. I think about how it would separate and coagulate in the fridge into even layers like orange creamsicle jello. I lower my spoon and let it sink.