Eggplant Parm

Jim would be home in an hour. Margaret stood at the granite island, and began cutting an eggplant down the side into little disks. Eggplant parmesan was the first meal she had ever cooked for him, when they were both twenty-two. Her mother made comments about her technique the entire time, popping in and out of the kitchen from the living room. She never offered to help. “This is your meal, not mine,” she said. “I’ve done my time.” Her dad said any guy would be lucky to have a girl like her. Margaret was tempted to say something about how technically that didn’t mean that any guy would be lucky to have her specifically. Her dad was suggesting she was the Form of Good Girlfriend, and all the other girls she'd run into at Club Coconuts were mere instantiations. Unfortunately, the Forms are not directly accessible in our material world, and so maybe Jim would hate the eggplant. These were her thoughts then, with the sound of the television bleeding in from the next room. 

            Now, running a blade through the soft purple flesh, her thoughts were depressingly similar. Her shoulders did not fall. She did not sigh, or shed a lone tear. Depressing thoughts do not always manifest themselves in such easily identifiable and digestible ways. She simply stood there, staring down at an eggplant, trying to siphon any possible therapy from slowly slicing the vegetable with a newly cleaned stainless silver blade. That first night she made this dish, Jim got sick in her bathroom. When he stepped out of the bathroom to tell her he thought he’d better leave, he was immediately seized by the sickness again, and almost vomited on her family room hardwood floor. He assured her as he walked to his car that it wasn’t the food. He must’ve been already sick. The timing was simply off. When she got back inside, her dad said it was a good thing they tore the carpet up last year, because that poor son of a bitch was ready to upchuck right here, and it would’ve stained. Her mom scolded him. Margaret told her mom not to pretend like she even cared, and her mom responded that she had never made any boy sick, so if Margaret wanted to be mad, she should be mad at herself. Margaret screamed at her that dad was green in the face every time he had to be in the same room as her. Her dad turned up the T.V. 

            Margaret was no longer afraid of making Jim sick. Many evenings after the initial eggplant, she was terrified of it, and washed her hands after even opening the refrigerator to prevent it from happening again. Excessive drunkenness aside, that night in her parents’ house was the last time Jim had ever puked. Margaret knew there were now things more precious to be lost than the contents of Jim’s guts. She also knew the power of an excellent meal in preserving those things. Many Sundays when she was in school she’d set the table with the good gold forks and nice glasses at her mother’s command. Dad will be home today, her mother would say. He’s had to stay very late at work, but he’s coming home. And when he’d walk through the door, the three of them would deliver greetings as though scripted. But once dinner was served—often it was pot roast, her dad’s favorite—he’d tell her mother how good it was, and she’d say oh, thank you. By the time pie came out, things were fine again.

            Long before her Bachelor of Arts in philosophy, Margaret knew this little game was problematic. And so she chided herself now, twelve years later, for putting on her mother’s mask, standing in the kitchen and hoping her husband would like the meal she’d been planning for two days. The eggplant was cut. She set down the knife, turned to the stove, picked up a large silver spoon with a black rubber handle, and stirred the big sauce pot which rested on the back right burner. She was jealous of the glorified tomato soup, so warm and comfortable in the pot, with no one to bother it, no one for it to have to please. She stood there stirring it for some time, until she realized she was zoning out. Jim would be in home forty minutes.

            When you feel overwhelmed, try and break your worries into little chunks. That way they’ll be more manageable, and easier to tackle. Margaret had been devouring self-help books from the library. She hid them under their bed, and did not let Jim see she had them. She knew what he’d say: it was all bullshit, what did she need that for, she was in her head too much. Relax baby, come here. Jim’s attempts at relaxing his wife typically resulted in his orgasm. As she opened the fridge and stared at the cartons of milk, she tried to apply her readings from earlier that day. If Jim didn’t like the eggplant, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Her thinking it would was catastrophizing. It didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t just up and do that because the eggplant was soggy, or the sauce was bland. And, if he did want to, even the best meal on earth would not change his mind. Maggie, she told herself, you are using magical thinking. There is no connection between this dinner and that. She opened the refrigerator drawer, took out a chunk of mozzarella, and began cutting it into neat little slices.

            And besides, what right did he have to threaten something and hold it over her head, and lord it over as if she was terrified of it every waking minute? As if it wouldn’t hit him way worse? As if anyone else would put up with his pettiness, with his bullshit—she stopped herself. Z…Y…X. Saying the alphabet was a good calming technique when you feel your Angry Elf start to rise. Plus, it’s good practice for if you ever get pulled over drunk! Good one, Dr. Wertz, you fucking—V…U….T…

            Margaret salted and peppered the eggplant disks. She took out a handful of eggs from the fridge, cracked them in a bowl already out on the island, and dipped the disks in the yellow, one by one. Then she plopped them down in a tin sheet of flour, making sure each disk was sufficiently covered. The oven had of course been pre-heating. It was nearing 400. Margaret rinsed her hands off, dried them with the towel that was hanging from the oven door, and then grabbed olive oil from the pantry. She’d already put a pan on the stove earlier. She cranked up the stove to seven, and then, when it was good and hot, she poured in the olive oil. She dropped the eggplant into the scalding oil, and felt more jealous of each disk, hearing them sizzle, than she had of the sauce before. 

            Redirecting her negative thoughts into positive was growing to be a real pain in the ass. Margaret realized that even thinking this was a negative thought that she had to force into positive. A fat juicy red pimple from which she had to squeeze that positive white pus. The thought of it made her want to throw her face into the oil. Ope, there’s another negative one for ya. She threw her head back and groaned. It reminded her of being in kindergarten, which was not a wholly happy time for her. But it sure beat now. Or did it?

            At least now she had the liberty to be able to drive off for hours whenever she felt like groaning so loud that all the dinosaur bones in all the museums in the world would quiver and fall over. She thought of how large her carbon footprint was, and it made her feel worse. Too big to ever fit into high heels, and hear the satisfying click on the floor that she’d loved since youth. But, at least now she could tell someone what was happening at home, and they would believe her and wouldn’t make her life worse by getting her in bigger trouble. But then again, she had to pay that someone one-hundred and ten dollars every other week. And, he did, much like Mr. Cardo, the elementary school principal, occasionally look at her slightly bemused, leaning back in his chair, with just the faintest intimation of a mischievous grin painted on his face, as though she were spinning an elaborate yarn he’d only begun to entangle, and her grief was nothing but a way to cope with boredom. The pan kept sizzling. A speck of grease jumped up and smacked Margaret on the arm. She did not notice. When she again realized where she was, she looked down to the pan. The disks of eggplant were black and smoking. She had nothing now but a Circ du Soleil of crazily crackling olive oil, and what looked like charred pieces of paper helpless in the middle of the show. She shut off the stove. The hand that moved the dial twitched at her side. Jim would be home in twenty minutes.