A Winter dinner

By: KaLa Keaton

Two young ladies entered a house. It was their house, one they built especially for them.
“That was the best hunt ever, Absinthe! I wanna go again tomorrow!” exclaimed the girl with pigtails.
“We can’t,” said the other, Absinthe.
“You don’t eat enough for us to go hunting two times in one week.” “But Abby,” Polly whined. “It’s so much fun and there’s nothing to do out here!” Ignoring her, Absinthe dropped the heavy grocery bags on the cold, wooden floor before softly turning on the lights. As they flickered above, she reached inside and placed the ingredients on the counter: baby potatoes, carrots, herbs, beef stock. She glanced warily at the last bag on the floor, the one from their hunt.
“Polly, are you sure this will be a good substitute for beef?”
“Of course it will, silly! It’s not like it’s tofu.” Polly answered as she bent down to search for the cutting board and knives.
"Alright,” Absinthe sighed, pulling her long, bone-straight obsidian hair into a ponytail. 


The faucet squeaked under her touch. Absinthe pooled the white, creamy soap in her pale hands and lathered them dry before running them under the stream. Her palms burned as the aroma of vanilla lavender wafted from the steam. She smiled to herself. Vanilla lavender reminded her of her first hunt. Shaking the water from her hands she grabbed the first package of meat. Polly placed the larger cutting board next to the sink for her, along with her favorite knife, and hummed show tunes from across the kitchen, looking at every baby carrot with innocent fascination.
“These carrots are really orange,” she babbled. “I like orange. It’s a sickening color. But red will always be my favorite.” Absinthe scowled. “Polly, stop admiring the potatoes and start washing the vegetables. I’ll start cutting the meat.” “Okay!” Polly skipped over the sink with glee, the bags of potatoes, and carrots in her hands. 


Absinthe unwrapped the transparent, juice-soaked parchment paper from the meat and tossed it aside. The limb was still warm under her fingers, almost as if its open veins were still pumped for a heartbeat. She grabbed the knife with master skill, neatly and delicately tearing into the skin from the top of the open, festering, gushing wound. She held her breath, aware of every droplet of blood bubbling to the top. It trickled down the sides and pooled crimson onto the cutting board. She exhaled, the muscle finally tearing apart. Thick, solid, mushy whites of fat marbled the muscle and blackened cords ran all under the surface. Absinthe separated the two halves, pushing one to the side, and the second she pressed down to cut the meat into cubes, an artery popped. Clank!
“Polly, what have I told you about laughing like that while I’m working with my knife?” Absinthe scolded. Polly’s laughter erupted in high-pitched howls, her wide smile taking up half of her small face.
“I can’t help it! This was just like the first time we went hunting. Do you remember? The same thing happened and you looked so scared! But that was when we were in our first house before we had to move. I miss it there.” 


Absinthe tossed the blood-soaked towels into the empty trash can and continued cutting the meat before changing her shirt.
“The veggies are done, Abby!”
“I told you never to call me that. Put them on the stove with the stock and turn it on, please.”
Two soft clicks and heat radiated from the flat, dark surface. Polly uncapped the beef stock and poured out the smooth, thick liquid like gasoline. The sound of splashing liquid echoed through the quiet house as Polly playfully tossed in one cleaned potato at a time, giggling at every plopping sound. Absinthe pushed her aside and fired up the other stove on high heat. The seasoned meat sizzled and popped and shriveled as the crust browned. Juice and grease mixed together and a low, billowing smoke blanketed the kitchen. Ash and fire burned Absinthe’s nostrils and throat but she choked back her coughs until the meat was finished searing and she could throw it in with the other ingredients. Polly brought the pot to a boil and added the last: the tomato paste, the sauce, and the herbs. She stirred enthusiastically, her eyes shining brightly at every murky, thick bubble and bobbing lump under the broth. As she mixed, the mud-brown ran red from the paste.
“Abby! It’s red!” As the steam filled the room, it got hotter, and hotter, and hotter…
“You can stop stirring, Polly. We’ll taste it in a few hours.” 


The house was consumed by the smell of thyme and bay leaves when Polly turned on the evening news hours later. Absinthe was in the kitchen, making them two bowls of the hot stew.
“Polly?”
“Yes, Absinthe?”
“Should we freeze the rest of the meat? Last time it all rotted… Polly?” Suddenly, the volume of the television filled the room, the polished anchorman talking about two women.
​
“… the two women were released from police custody due to investigators not being able to find the bodies of the victims.” Absinthe handed Polly her bowl, the meat steaming. Polly looked down, and her howling laughing rang over the television, the widest smile in the world on her face. Even Absinthe joined her. “I guess they’ll never know.”