Beautiful brisket

As soon as I opened up the front door on Tuesday night, after getting home from a long day, I knew that it would be a night to remember. Wafting down the stair well and caressing my olfactory core was a smell quite like I’ve never experienced. The Beast had cooked a brisket.

Foodie: Oh my God I can’t believe it! Can you smell that? I’ve never smelled something so good! I’m not even joking! This is, I’m just, I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say. How did you do this? Why did you do this?

Beast: You know what the thing about cooking is? So much of it is just deciding what you’re going to do and to say, “this is what I am going to cook.” And then you just make it.

Foodie: I had no idea it was that simple. And look! You prepared the cabbage for the coleslaw! You used the mandolin, didn’t you. That makes me nervous.

Beast: It took me a really long time.

Foodie: Well, thank you. What are you reading?

Beast: Just the Brook’s Brothers spring catalogue that came today. Do you know that I went on their website and you can custom-build your own shirt? And it’s cheap, too. Plus, you can get a box of three plain hankerchiefs made of pure Irish linen. Excuse me, but I have to remove my brisket from the oven now.

Foodie: Okay, great. I’m just going to run upstairs and change into my joggers. Oh wait, am I even allowed to do that?

Last week the Beast gave me a talking too. Turns out fancy pants is fed up with my frequency of gas expulsion and my comfy home-time outfits. Something about how I should “try harder” to be “a lady” blah blah blah. I just don’t think that’s me, though.

Who am I then?

I am Jason Bourne, capable of spying, running fast and disappearing into a crowd, minus the multilingualism and self defense skills. I am a kindred spirit who wants nothing more to run free in a meadow with a book tucked into my pinafore, like Anne of Green Gables. I am Hawkeye, adopted white son of Uncas in Last of the Mohicans, who can track and kill a wild animal, survive in the wilderness and rescue people I love. I am the flawed Marianne Dashwood from Sense and Sensibility, wearing my heart on my sleeve, sometimes with painful consequences, and saying things I shouldn’t say. I am the kid in Breaking Away and Jimmy from Hoosiers because I have the heart and drive to win. I am an explorer of new worlds, like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind or the Darwinian doctor guy in Master and Commander.

And guess what. They all fart. Even the Queen farts, for chrissake.

So I got into my joggers, came downstairs, and found this waiting for me.

It was the best meal that either of us has ever prepared. And we ended it with Portuguese tarts that I picked up from the College Street’s Golden Wheat Bakery on my home.

Come morning time, the kitchen smelled of something all together different: like the brisket had been distilled overnight inside a dungeon ass.

I am woman. Hear me fart.

Foodie: ***1/2

Beast: ****

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