Food to Live By
by Debra Bliss Saenger
She molded the bread dough with
her hands, lifting the mass of flour, butter, milk, and yeast into the air, flipping
it, and dropping it back onto the counter. Continuing to knead, she integrated
three freshly laid eggs into the mixture, repeating the rhythms of bread making.
As she worked the dough, she added snippets of delicious amendments—raisins,
bits of chopped nuts, and touches of cinnamon and other spices.
Digging her calloused fingers
into the sides of the mass, she was careful not to overwork this baking
masterpiece. Every holiday, she served her legacy dish on a wooden platter with
softened honey butter and a serrated knife to slice into the warm bread. The
steaming vapors of cinnamon, cardamom, and a touch of honey enveloped the
senses of those who sat nearby.
A vat of wine stood in the
corner of the small kitchen. Dipping a ladle into the deep red brew, the woman
filled a large carafe. She set the food and the pitcher of wine on the table
and sat in her designated place at the end of the table. Folding her hands in
her lap, her knuckles swollen with the hard work of farm life, she dutifully
bowed to those who gathered at the table. It was a hungry horde of family, with
extended members from just one side of the couple, the husband’s. She married
into this annual tradition and had no say in the event.
Her husband hovered at the other
end of the wooden table. A piece of lumber atop a workhorse used for his
woodworking trade extended the dining space, seating over ten relatives. Tucked
alongside the table, assorted chairs gathered from the modest home stood. In
the husband’s left hand, a gleam from the room’s low light revealed a larger
knife, honed on the outside grinder. In front of him, a large side of lamb
pulled from the outside cooking pit and cut into rough segments filled a metal
tray with its size. Its savory smell overwhelmed the bread’s aroma from the
opposite end of the table.
Raising a glass brimming with
red wine in his other hand, the husband toasted the gathering and the occasion
of this event. He took care to look each guest in the eye as he welcomed them
and praised them by name. All except his wife at the opposite end of the table,
who he ignored. She bowed her head until her eyes bore through the fabric of
her long dress, a garment she especially sewed for this once-a-year dinner. She
did not partake in the toast with this public shaming.
Her long, brown hair pinned to
the back kept her lustrous hair hidden. One tendril popped from its pinned constraints
and dangled across the curve of her cheek, falling out of sight beneath the
bent face. She felt ashamed and feared that her husband cast aside her
contributions to the meal. Her husband did not acknowledge her and did not
welcome her. Those close to her heard a deep sigh that lifted her shoulders and
chest, expelling in a song of agony.
She had endured many such
moments, mostly in private and out of sight of his relatives. She knew he did
not think she was good enough, that she was a disappointment to him. Whatever
her failings were for that day, that hour, or that moment, she would suffer
consequences for them. She knotted her hands together underneath the table,
unseen by others. The sleeves of her dress fell away, and welts marked her
arms, unseen but felt. She dug her fingernail into her left hand until a bead
of blood surfaced. Her heart raced, and she found her breathing becoming
increasingly erratic. She was afraid. Afraid for her punishment and afraid for
possibly her life.
Silently, she raised her head,
with her left hand still throbbing from the self-inflicted wound of her
fingernail. Stretching from each side of her, the line of his relatives passed
along food from the table, trading barbs and jokes. She noticed the bread, sliced
and distributed, washed down as the guests gustily drank the welcoming toast
from her husband.
Scanning the table, she observed
the looks of surprise on each guest, as their faces revealed a source of
discomfort. A digestive malady that now knotted their stomachs. That distress
quickly progressed into palatable pain. As each guest clenched their hands to
their stomachs, they regarded each other with a rising sense of anxiety, then
dread. Soft cries of agony replaced their boisterous eating.
As a few minutes passed, the
sounds erupted further into sobbing and loud incantations to their god to come
to their rescue and relieve them from this torture. The walls of the room
echoed with their anguished cries, but the walls could not help them. Their god
could not help them. And no doctor was there to administer relief.
One by one, the lines of
relatives that feasted at the wooden table fell from their chairs and stools,
roiling on the dirt floor of the home. Bit by bit, the sounds receded into a
deathly silence where the pain stopped and the souls no longer had to
suffer.
The woman raised her head fully
and saw that her husband, too, had succumbed. His prone figure sprawled across
the roasted lamb, absorbing the juices from the slaughtered animal. In his right
hand, the goblet of wine spilled onto the table. His left hand still clutched
the sharpened knife used to make some of the first cuts into the meat. In
death, the image of the husband holding the knife mocked the one person still
alive in the room. But the knife was no longer a threat and no longer to be
used as a weapon.
The woman stood and finally
could take a deep breath, knowing she was alive and safe. At least for now. The
rat poison she carefully baked into her bread, and the arsenic she introduced to
the wine, had fulfilled their mission. She was the last person standing in the
room.
THE END
