Are Henry and I the next Grey Gardens?
The latest in my Husbands and Wives Series.
Lately, Henry’s been cooking mushy, formless, tasteless chicken.
“Can you please add spices to the chicken?” I query.
“Like, what kind of spices do you mean?”
“Like, anything that my taste buds can detect that come from the corporeal world and not the world where we’re dead and worms are eating our guts.”
A resentful silence.
“What is that mushy white stuff?” I trepidatiously whisper.
“That’s mashed celery root, also known as celeraic.”
“I thought celeriac was something you take so you won’t have a stroke?”
“Ha ha. That’s Coumadin.”
“Well, did you sprinkle a little coumadin in this celeriac, because I don’t detect any little specs of flavor or color, except for the pasty white pallor a Zombie’s face has before he eats your brains.”
Another resentful silence.
I watch Henry taste his mashed celeriac. Suddenly, I can see what he’ll look like when I’m bent over with osteoporosis; my dental bridge slipping out of my salubrious mouth, while I attempt to change his Depends, as he gums his mush.
Instantly, I get online to order a crate of Bolivian white, six bottles of Mescal, an ex-Chippendales prostitute and a barrel of lube.