I never intend it to end like this, but it invariably does.
First, the bird - steaming from the oven, skin glistening with its chosen glaze - honey, perhaps, or lemon and basil - and settling into the tray for its post cooking rest.
Then the carving, an act of near ritual significance in many households, and often performed by the alpha male, or a person who believes he holds that role. It amuses me to watch the true head of a household allow some lesser person his delusions, in order to get dinner served with the minimum of fuss.
These days Watson carves, lending the task a distinct surgical air. I cannot take my eyes off it while she works. The precision. The care she takes with her tools. Her slender fingers peeling away a breast, or firmly separating a leg joint from its socket.
The bird is left perfectly divided, and arranged on a plate, wanting only an oxygen mask to complete the ghoulish spectacle.
Watson is unaware that she does this. She believes she is serving dinner, not exercising nostalgia. This bothers me. But watching her carve a chicken, this I would miss if she stopped, and so I have yet to tackle it with her.
Then, the table. There are vegetables, nominated by me for their balance of minerals and vitamins, and prepared by Watson. She can make even a cabbage more than nutritionally relevant.
We put chicken on our plates, plus vegetables, and start to eat, as is the custom in the Western world when seated at a dining table, with knives and forks.
We eat and Watson tries to make conversation, somewhat fruitlessly as I focus on refuelling my body in order to support my mind in its deductive efforts. I occasionally throw her a metaphorical bone...a snippet of anecdote, or a nod of non committal acknowledgement.
Then we reach the real chicken bones, and everything changes.
Down goes the cutlery.
We did it without thinking, the first time. Having finished the breast, I reached for a leg from the central platter.
The thing was already in my hand. It was pure instinct to lift it to my lips and tear off a chunk of rich brown meat with my teeth. My mouth flooded with saliva as I tasted the bird's tender flesh, and I licked my fingertips for the salty fat from the skin.
It penetrated my mind that I had somewhat abandoned the social niceties of the formal dinner table.
I looked up and saw Joan with chicken juice dribbling down her chin and her fingers around the bird's other leg.
Our eyes met, locked.
Dignity was cast to the winds. There was a scramble for the wings and then the scraps left on the carcass, which we rather tore to pieces.
Afterwards we lay back on the couch, licking our fingers, replete.
No word was spoken. I watched the ceiling for a long time and Joan measured strands of her silky black hair.
That was the first time. These days Joan makes a show of getting out the knives and forks, and I make a show of using them, but we both know the truth.
A mark of a true breakdown of pointless social barriers within a household is when you can lick each other's fingers clean without embrassment or hesitation.
It is getting towards evening now. The oven is on. My tongue is tingling, and Joan is roasting a chicken tonight.
...
Xxxx
...
Author's note: This started out meaning to be funny, and came out rather laden, even riddled, with innuendo. So I just went for it. It's a bit silly but I like it. Sorry.
