Category: Fiction

How To Make Chicken Adobo While Revisiting Grief

Originally published in Squelch #1

This is the point: a mother fills the bellies of two children for a small cost. Tonight, however, I’m cooking alone, missing those not around.

Two flies zip around under the dim overhead light of my apartment kitchen, jet-fast and aimless. I turn the front stove burner knob to a metronome click until the spark electrode ignites the gas, blue flames puffing up to a steady medium blaze. Wok over the fire, I splash in a little extra-virgin olive oil and let it heat to a lower viscosity.

It’s an easy, cheap meal. Just your standard, no-frills chicken parts from the local grocery store, some Kikkomon soy sauce, and a little generic distilled white vinegar, the yin and yang of adobong manok.

The first thing I toss into the wok are sliced red onions and chopped garlic. I let them sauté in hot oil, and as they soften, I stir in memories of my mother with a long wooden spoon, the thoughts melting and bestowing an umami flavor.

In go the chicken parts, all thighs, drumsticks, and wings. They begin to braise, the fat rendering and releasing, and I stir in a memory of my mother taking me clothes shopping at K-mart. She buys me t-shirts a couple sizes too big and tells me I’ll grow into them because she can’t afford to buy a drawer full of new shirts every year.

I toss the heap with a bit of playful showmanship and respect. I’m immersed in it, entranced. It’s a veritable dance of deliciousness, the chicken parts hitting the wok with a drum fill of thuds without a single hunk of meat, drop of oil, or recollection hitting the floor.

I let the chicken sit on heat as the fat seeps out from the dark meat mixed in with precious memories of my mother smiling, cutting my hair in the backyard, and those humid nights rolling Hot Wheels cars over the floor while she played cards with her friends for hours, faint memories sinking into what kept us close: a home cooked meal.

In goes the soy sauce, some water, salt, peppercorns, chopped chilis, and aromatics, all adding to the complex flavor, and I give the wok full of food a few more tosses, another quick dance of spice and sauce, the peppercorns flying, bay leaves swimming in the flip and shuffle.

In goes a memory of my sister and me sitting at the bottom of the stairs, crying and listening to my mother and father scream at each other about money and blame.

In goes a memory of my mother and me admiring magnolias.

I set the wok on the burner, let the soy sauce reduce, thicken, and soak into the braised chicken parts, all that tender meat stewing and absorbing the flavor and memories, and I let the scents of soy sauce and chicken meat drift up into my face.

Emptying the wok of all content and separating meat from sauce, I dump the chicken back in over high heat and sear it to tightly lock in the flavor, chicken tumbling in another round of light tosses that are more amusing than necessary, then I re-introduce the sauce. The rice cooker clicks off as I add the vinegar to the adobo, the last ingredient, with a little more water, stir the heap of meat and memories, and let it reduce further, a starchy miasma filling the air as I uncover the rice.

I step back, light a cigarette, and remember sitting on the couch in the blue light of a television, my sister on one side of my mom and myself on the other as she tells us that she’d teach us to speak Tagalog when we grew older.

Pacing patiently under the dim overhead light, exhaling gray smoke, I shudder a bit when I think of her convulsing in a hospice bed.

I smash out my cigarette in an ashtray on a table in the living room I use for dining that’s meant for a back porch. I’ve spooned out rice and laid the finished chicken adobo over it, dark brown resting over warm white, placing the bowl in front of me at the metal grate tabletop. I tear into the chicken with fork and spoon, filling my mouth, and as slowly chew, I taste the umami flavor of the adobo sauce locked into dark meat, the vinegar somehow subtle and punchy at the same time.

Savoring every bite with my eyes closed, I can almost feel her running her fingers through my hair.

The Café Crowd

I’m at a cafe listening to some people in chairs having a passionately belligerent political debate involving many obscure economic facts that I can’t repeat because I don’t remember. One guy spoke angrily over the others about the reality of these facts, how there are too many idiots who don’t care about empirical data, which is pragmatically more important than belief or tradition, and his friend agreed, then he walked away confident and proud as if he just had great sex, and that the release of tension is the only thing that matters and makes everything okay and nobody’s all that afraid. He swaggered and smiled and said hi to a hyper little girl holding a dead bird and walked into the cafe to maybe use the restroom or something

then these two girls walk in and almost bump into another child. They’re tall and leggy and wearing giant heels and one is wearing these shorts that let her ass hang out. They sit down and the one with the ass starts talking business, about what sounds like PR stuff, and the other fills out paperwork, then the one with the ass starts telling the other to not let anyone touch her for any reason and to have a backup name in case her clients don’t believe her first one and that she has her number so she should call if she has any questions, and I realize that this is a job interview for a position as a stripper

and so this old man is pounding on the bathroom door, cranking the doorknob as if it’s stuck, and the person in there is probably a little scared. I think this girl sitting by the counter keeps flipping her hair so she can turn her head towards me to make eye contact, but I might be wrong and I couldn’t believe her smile which left me sinking, fading, vacant and I wish this kid standing too close to me would stop pouring packets of sugar in his mouth

and somehow I’m surrounded and alone at the same time and when I look forward to death I can’t tell if I’m energized or exhausted

Untitled Story Sketch

It was as hot as it was going to get late in the afternoon even though there was some wind and the sky looked white, almost grey. The flies were lively and sirens tore through the heavy air somewhere far from the gas station downtown, where Mark and Lauren were standing outside.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” she kept telling him. “Don’t worry.”

Mark furrowed his eyebrows and scratched the skin under the thin new hairs on his face. Everyone he saw driving by bit his or her nails. They did not smile or sing along to the radio.

Lauren held one of her arms close to her chest out of habit, which made Mark feel nostalgic. She’d been doing that ever since he knew her, but for all she knew she never did this. She pushed her sunglasses up her nose which made his right leg shake a little bit and he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“Is your leg shaking?” she said.

“Why didn’t you call someone else?” he said. “I don’t want to do this.”

“No one else answered my calls,” she said.

“Sure,” he said.

“You’ve bought cigarettes before. It should be easy. It’s all about confidence. My confidence gets me a lot of things. Don’t you want to feel like you can get what you want?”

He didn’t say anything.

“My confidence gets me a lot of things,” she said again. Mark waited for her to list her benefits like money and power and respect and sex but she didn’t say anything else. “Is your leg shaking?” she said, finally.

“No,” he said.

“It looks like it is. Try hard to stop doing that,” she said. She kept thinking about how he’d bought cigarettes before, how the cashier couldn’t tell how young he was because of his facial hair, how it can’t be any different. He just had to attract respect when he walked.

“It’s not easy,” he said and the fact that she doesn’t understand this brought his eyebrows down.

Lauren kept cracking her knuckles, each one individually over and over again as Mark pushed against the door but it did not budge so he pulled it open and walked inside.

Mark shuffled his feet in the middle aisle of the store while sucking his teeth. The sirens rang outside as he scratched his beard. It smelled cold in there. He picked up and replaced several different items, feeling the smooth plastic of the packaged snack foods, noticing how much was inside each bag. Finally his attention landed on a bag of pork rinds.

He glanced out the glass doors to see Lauren looking in, cracking her knuckles. There was no way he was leaving. He heard footsteps from costumers that he couldn’t find and someone quietly speaking German around the corner.

Mark looked around for the general manager. He was a balding man that wanted to be able to look at you in the eyes and the floor shook when he walked by, but Mark didn’t see him around anywhere.

Instead, he watched a man standing in front of the cashier slam his palm against the counter. “Talk to me,” he said.

“You’re unavailable,” the cashier said. She backed away from the register.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, or are you telling me nothing?” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “There really wasn’t anything ever promised. Considering that you owe me you’re in control. What I gave you is gone. Considering that you have nothing, I can’t take anything from you. And I am not one to fight.”

A chorus of ambulances outside and the howl of a train passing through.

“If you’re so smart, why don’t you know that?” said the cashier.

Mark walked up to the counter and stood next to the man. He looked out at Lauren one last time.

“Get out of here,” the man said. “The store’s closed!”

“You can’t do that,” the cashier said. “You can’t turn away our customers.” Tires squealed in the parking lot outside. Mark paused. “I just need some…a pack of Marlboro’s,” he said.

As Mark fished through his wallet for the right amount of money, he listened to his heart beating. He listened to everyone’s hearts as they beat faster. He swallowed and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his bare forearm and pulled a ten dollar bill out of his wallet. He wasn’t shaking, but he wiped the sweat from his forehead again. He handed the cashier the money and she paused, staring at him for what he believed was far too long. She was a petite girl. She had a very coy look in her eyes despite the bruise under the left. She handed him his change and he took it, immediately scratching his beard.

“Thanks.” His nonchalance cracked a little and so did his voice.

He walked out the door like everyone else because it was easier to move through the motions than not to. He saw Lauren waiting outside, a semblance of a smirk on her face, and beyond her was a guy and a girl standing on a sidewalk holding each other tightly.

Pulling Yourself Together

Listen, you need to focus! Stop pacing aimlessly in your kitchen. Stop talking to yourself. You must find your wallet, your cigarettes, and your cell phone. You need to find a lighter. Get money fast. If there isn’t any money in your wallet, use your bank card at the ATM. Don’t worry about overdrawing if your account is low in funds; you can pay it back later when you get hired somewhere after submitting those job applications to the several restaurants around the city like you’ve been meaning to do. There is also a phone number on a strip of paper lying around for a bike messenger job that you ripped off the bulletin board at the Laundromat. Relax. Maybe the Laundromat is hiring.

Your wallet is probably under all the trash on the coffee table. Check under the magazines, ashtrays, and empty cigarette packs. Your cigarettes are probably mixed in with all the empty packs. Shake them all until you hear something rattling inside other than loose scraps of tobacco; search for something solid. There is a chance that you might find a single forgotten cigarette. Nothing? Nevermind. There’s your cell phone, under the photograph of your mother smiling and drinking iced tea on the patio back in California. Put that in a place where you won’t see it. You will not think about your mother. You will not miss her.

Call that guy Pockets. You should have his number. Did you see him a few days ago, or was that last week? Nevermind, because there is his number. He told you he would front you again if you paid him back. He likes you. Don’t ask him for his real name even though you want to because it’s not a good idea to get too personal with people like him and it’s all just business anyway so forget about making friends for now. Just find your wallet.

Search under the couch cushions. Nothing but some pennies and plastic wrappers. Are those your cigarettes? You must feel so relieved. Now, find yourself a lighter. Move the couch and check underneath. Don’t put the cushions back because it’ll add that little bit of weight and you don’t want to strain yourself. You are too tired for that, and you don’t have time. What do you see under there? Nothing but crumpled plastic bags, fast food trash, and cigarette butts. There’s a lighter! Reach for it and test it out. Is it empty? Shake it up. It must be completely dry. Forget it. Just find your wallet.

Look around on the floor. It’s that simple. This place is a mess. Everything you see belongs in the dumpster. And maybe you eat too much fast food. You should take care of yourself. You should vacuum. Make a note to clean yourself up and organize your belongings later. Is that the number for that bike messenger job? What is that tiny piece of red material behind it? It’s a portion of a pill. There must be at least twenty milligrams left. That’s all you need to balance yourself. Once this is in your system you won’t feel sick anymore. You don’t have enough to get high, which would be ideal, but at least you won’t feel this disease and depression that has been dragging the skin on your face down all night and causing your eyes and nose to leak like a sieve. Your bones won’t feel so hollow and fragile. You’ll even be awake enough to begin submitting job applications, and you should probably call your mother.

But you need a dollar bill and something to grind the pill with. First, rub the red casing off with some spit and a tissue. If you can’t find a grinder, find the closest Wal-Mart in your immediate proximity and buy some hose clamps. It works as a miniature grate to grind a pill into a pile of fine white dust. In order to buy these, you need to find your wallet. Buy several hose clamps for when you lose one, because you will lose one. You will lose them all eventually.

Remember: there might be a dollar bill in your wallet. Just relax. All you need to do right now is smoke a cigarette, but your eyelids are falling. Maybe you should make some coffee. You shouldn’t sleep even when you’re tired, when you’re too exhausted to function properly.