Descriptive Essay - Original Writing
I removed from a cabinet a set of silver: a platter, a plate, and a shiny teacup. Parting gifts from my mother. The cross section of a madam’s thigh sizzled in a Dutch oven. A modified “camper’s Beef Wellington” from my mother’s old cookbook. My home filled with hot air as I prepped my first real meal in years.
It was pepper season in my garden so the gravy would be spiced and summerwine-based. My pepper of choice is a dried De Arbol which will lend the gravy a burnt umber shade. As the gravy bubbled, the telephone rang.
“Jimmy? You there?” My sister.
“How are you? What are you doing?”
“Fine. Making lunch. What is it?”
“It’s the foot.”
The foot was a conversation piece in the Friendly house the same way Reagan or Elvis were. It had been subjected to six surgeries, five specialists, two bone transplants, and one pissed off old man. My father fell from an oak in Lincoln Park while trimming branches for some Polish parade in 1981. His talus, an otherwise unremarkable hinge atop the foot, shattered.
“Have them remove it,” I suggested.
“Amputation? He won’t even go to a hospital, Jimmy. The bone is rejecting again.”
“Will you go talk some sense into him? I couldn’t do it. The house smells like piss. Piss and bleach.”
“I’m making lunch,” I repeated. The…