Poyke (Jennifer Semple Siegel)
He
unloads the black cauldron from the van.
“It’s
called a ‘poyke,’” he says.
She
doesn’t care what it’s called, just that it’s too big and heavy for this camping trip.
He
insisted and prevailed because she was too exhausted to argue.
It
had been a gag wedding present –
Some joke,
she thinks.
Once
camp has been set up and dinner finished, they will tell the children.
She
wants to blurt it out, get it over with.
Just
nuke it.
Yes,
painful, but over quick.
He
wants to cook the news slowly, prepare and prime the children, a pinch of
information here and there, brought to a pre-boil.
Simmer
over a low fire.
*
After
setting up the tent, he hangs the poyke from a hook – forged in his shop – fills
it with filtered water brought from home, and builds a fire under it.
The
children play; they are young enough to see this as an adventure, not the
momentous change brewing.
The
woman watches as he carries the cooler from the van and removes the beef
marinade cubes, pre-basted and thawed in advance, according to the recipe for
“cowboy stew”:
Place
thawed beef cubes in a bag with marinade made from sweet red wine, sugar, soy
sauce, half a head of garlic and the herbs.
Refrigerate
overnight.
Unfrozen
in time. He has always been well-organized, his recipe for life, planning in
advance, always.
Everything
in place and time: responsible, knowing, and accommodating.
She
is restless, prone to boiling over, wanting to say “fuck it” to timetables and
other recipes designed to keep her shut up. But she knows the shift will change
all that.
He
carefully drops the beef cubes, olive oil, lamb fat, soy sauce, and sugar into the
water.
As
he waits for the water to come to a simmer, he spreads out an oil cloth on the
picnic table, carries the basket holding the other ingredients from the van,
and organizes them in neat rows, according to first in, to down the line, to
last in.
Measuring spoons and cups
Long spoons
Root vegetables, pre-cut and diced: onions,
carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, celery root, and garlic cloves
Spices: chili powder, sweet paprika, thyme,
rosemary, parsley, pepper, and salt.
A bottle of dry red wine, to be added
at the last minute...
Wine: the glue holding us
together...
At
the bottom of the basket, he finds...
Basil?
A rogue ingredient
sneaked in, a cryptic message?
He
taps the Basil packet on his open palm and considers adding it anyway but
decides against it: too unpredictable. He slips the packet into his pocket.
This
stew must be perfect.
One
by one, and in precise order, he adds the ingredients to the simmering water
and stirs continually.
Once
the water has reached its optimum simmering point, he stirs occasionally and
adds wood to the fire as needed.
As
the stew simmers, the man and the children play badminton.
The
woman is sprawled out on a blanket on the ground, reading The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver.
Her
third attempt at trying to break through this novel – but now she’s determined
to solve the mysteries of the Price family.
*
Five
hours later, the stew has been eaten, the leftovers saved, the poyke washed and
put away.
It’s
just after sundown. The man, the woman, and the three children – two boys and a
girl – sit around the fire, now a crackling bonfire, warming their hands.
The
children are in their pajamas, fuzzy against the nip in the air.
The
woman tosses in another log; the flames sizzle and dance.
The
man rubs his hands together and says, “Your mother and I have something
important to tell you.”
The
girl, a bright child of nine years, jumps up. “Are you guys getting a divorce?”
The
woman shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t speak.
The
man chuckles with unease. “Nothing like that, sweetheart. Just some changes...”
The
woman jumps up, suddenly animated. “I’m going to become a cowboy!”
The
children laugh.
The
man cringes. “What your mother is trying to say, well, she will be making some
changes on how she dresses.”
“But
you’re not going away?” the older boy, ten years old, asks his mother.
“I
assure you, no...” the man says.
“No
one’s going anywhere. I’ll always be your parent, right here for you, alongside
your dad.”
“That’s
right.”
“I’m
changing my name, too, but you can still call me ‘Mom,’ at least for a little
while.”
Oh,
boy!” the youngest boy, age five, says, dancing a bit too close to the fire. “A
brand-new name! I wish I could change my name!”
The
man grabs the boy’s tee-shirt and pulls him away from the fire. “You already
have a fine name, young man.”
“Soon,
you will hear others calling me ‘Basil.’ But don’t be afraid.”
The
man winces and touches the pocket where he has placed the packet.
“But
that’s a boy’s name,” the girl says.
“Yes,”
the man says.
The
three children grow quiet and still, their wide eyes glowing from the fire.
“Yes,”
the woman echoes.
The
man stands up and tosses another log on the fire. He brushes invisible dust
from his pant legs and claps his hands. “Well, kids, time for bed. A big day
tomorrow.”
Like
zombies, the children rise and file into the tent, question marks dancing in
the wind.
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