Photograph by Kathryn
_____________________________
He sat alone at the table, his calloused hands folded in his lap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fine meal. Perhaps never.
Footsteps echoed off the walls and he sat up straighter, fidgeted a bit. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses, wanting to savour this moment, burn the memory in his mind.
The smell assaulted him first. His mouth watered in Pavlovian reflex and he swallowed thickly, greedily licking his chapped lips. Aroma wrapped around him, caressed him like a familiar lover who promised to fulfill every perverted desire. The plate gently touched the table before him and he waited until the footsteps faded away.
Alone again, though he knew he was watched, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the feast before him: an enormous piece of prime rib—rare—garnished with a large dollop of strong horse radish. Arranged around it in homage to the succulent meat were parisienne potatoes, crisp asparagus and fried mushrooms.
He slowly cut into the tender meat then placed a small sliver on his tongue, relished the juices as they filled his mouth. The small morsel all but melted. The crisp outer shell of the potatoes housed a tender white interior. A mushroom cloud of steam erupted when he split them open. The asparagus, steamed to perfection, lay in a pool of melted butter next to over-sized seasoned portabellas.
His contented sighs punctuated the silence as he steadily ate through the meal, laying down his utensils after each mouthful, delaying the end as long as possible.
Crème brullée was the final indulgence. He tapped the crust gently, watched as the fault undulated across the golden scab, exposing the vulnerable richness beneath. Each spoonful was sheer joy.
The utensils now lay across the empty plate, meticulously lined up. He wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin and gently lay it atop the china. His eyes closed briefly as he sent silent thanks to the god he was convinced had long since turned away. He would remember that banquet as long as he lived.
He smirked as, once again, the footsteps approached, confirmation that he was watched. How else would they know he was done?
“Ready?” The question was asked, as though he had a choice. He merely nodded in reply, rose awkwardly and shuffled towards the door. With one final glance at the barren room, he followed the uniformed fellow out the door.
As he hobbled down the long corridor, the chains around his ankles clinked ominously, barely heard above the bellowed “Dead man walking!”
Monica Manning
One week after the photo or picture is posted I will pick one offering to put beneath the image. This is a way of celebrating exceptional creativity. Any and all posts are available for your creative mind to make an offering at any time (even ones where a writing has been placed on the front page like this one). If you are new here and want to offer to every image here, feel free. We are writers, WRITE! If this is your exceptional writing posted here on the Front Page Pictures, Poetry & Prose invites you to include the Exceptional Writing Award Button on your blog. Visit the Exceptional Writing Award post for the details and the button to download.
6 comments:
Hi, your my blog of the week, award over on my site if you want it, Just copy the blog of the week image.
Ladle the green beans and quartered potatoes onto the plate. Mash the potatoes lightly with a fork. Add a pat of butter in the middle. Spoon on more miso broth from the pan. The smell of the miso rises into your nose, tickling your palate and appetite with its salty yet mellow richness. The butter is melting now, yellow tendrils spiraling through the broth and across the potatoes. Shake on a little more salt. Carry it to the table, and sit down. Lift the fork and separate a section of potatoes with your fork. Lift them to your mouth, savoring the miso, the thickness of the potatoes dissolving into more miso in your mouth, contrasted with the fibrous green beans.
Flat long noodles tangled on a plate
Dark thin meat cut into strips
Soaked in even darker sauce
Thin paper-like slices of garlic sprinkled atop
The sauce stains the noodles, tinting them darker, richer
Stab and twirl the utensil between my fingers
Collecting each part perfectly portioned on the prongs
Slip it within my teeth and
Awe
The sensations thrill
Ginger, Tang, Sweet yet Salty, Garlic bites and my teeth slice the firm yet soft noodles and tender meat as I savor every flavor in its intensity. The slivers of garlic are chip-like. The richness envelopes me as I play with the flavors, tossing them across my senses with my tongue.
Heavenly.
Once it's gone, I cannot contain myself as I await another bite.
Hoisen Pork Tenderloin...
He sat alone at the table, his calloused hands folded in his lap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fine meal. Perhaps never.
Footsteps echoed off the walls and he sat up straighter, fidgeted a bit. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses, wanting to savour this moment, burn the memory in his mind.
The smell assaulted him first. His mouth watered in Pavlovian reflex and he swallowed thickly, greedily licking his chapped lips. Aroma wrapped around him, caressed him like a familiar lover who promised to fulfill every perverted desire. The plate gently touched the table before him and he waited until the footsteps faded away.
Alone again, though he knew he was watched, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the feast before him: an enormous piece of prime rib—rare—garnished with a large dollop of strong horse radish. Arranged around it in homage to the succulent meat were parisienne potatoes, crisp asparagus and fried mushrooms.
He slowly cut into the tender meat then placed a small sliver on his tongue, relished the juices as they filled his mouth. The small morsel all but melted. The crisp outer shell of the potatoes housed a tender white interior. A mushroom cloud of steam erupted when he split them open. The asparagus, steamed to perfection, lay in a pool of melted butter next to over-sized seasoned portabellas.
His contented sighs punctuated the silence as he steadily ate through the meal, laying down his utensils after each mouthful, delaying the end as long as possible.
Crème brullée was the final indulgence. He tapped the crust gently, watched as the fault undulated across the golden scab, exposing the vulnerable richness beneath. Each spoonful was sheer joy.
The utensils now lay across the empty plate, meticulously lined up. He wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin and gently lay it atop the china. His eyes closed briefly as he sent silent thanks to the god he was convinced had long since turned away. He would remember that banquet as long as he lived.
He smirked as, once again, the footsteps approached, confirmation that he was watched. How else would they know he was done?
“Ready?” The question was asked, as though he had a choice. He merely nodded in reply, rose awkwardly and shuffled towards the door. With one final glance at the barren room, he followed the uniformed fellow out the door.
As he hobbled down the long corridor, the chains around his ankles clinked ominously, barely heard above the bellowed “Dead man walking!”
I haven't been on this site in a while--sorry! And here is the delicious salad nicoise we had for dinner one night several years ago. It is one of our standard summertime meals--so delicious and nutritious! You have to make it with leftover grilled tuna, not canned. That makes it even better than Julia Child's version.
The house smells of cinnamon and apples and pasta as I walk in the door. A perfect end to a terrible day.
Golden brown pierogis, topped with carmelized onions and sauteed mushrooms. A dollop of rick sour cream sits in the middle. Green beans are stacked high and the butter is still melting on top. Chunky homemade applesauce warms my throat as I take the first bite...
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