A Laughing Goddess Rhamnusia

She stood in the kitchen and dried her hands. It was a mechanical gesture before cooking dinner for her and her husband. She did so every evening for 40 years, as long as they had been married. They were not especially beautiful hands, short and fleshy, and firm. Strong hands, she thought while playing with the dry cloth. She then turned towards the kitchen unit and continued her activities while looking with one eye into the unfolded cookbook.

“First, the soaked and skinned sweetbreads will be baked slowly in butter to firm them and to let them give up their juices. Then they will be braised in wine and other flavors. After that, preparation even one day early, they are ready to be served with an accompanying sauce.” She whispered the words slowly in front of her while her dexterous hands did the job.

It was hot in the kitchen, and sweat pearled over her forehead. She cut the carrot, onion, and celery into little pieces and made an herb bouquet of parsley, thyme, and bay leaf.

Thoughts intervened in her work. Suddenly, without warning, there was that pain in her heart. Anguish, as physical as the blows he had given her this morning. Why, why?

She looked up for a second and saw her dim silhouette shine in the kitchen window. The blue spots on her face were barely visible. She knew from experience they would go away eventually anyway, like always. But the pain deep inside remained and was anchored in her body.

Sometimes she would like to scream at him. Don’t, don’t, stop! Sometimes she would want to hit back with clenched fists, pounding his scapula, with ruthless force lash out to that face she knew so well. But she realized what that would mean—more beatings, more forceful anger towards her. Instead, there was this never-ending feeling of helplessness. And she matched her fate. Every day over and over again. Then there was this hope that he would stop one day. That his switch would turn and that he would see that this no longer could continue. That he would make excuses and would swear it was the last time; that she could trust him to it.

It wasn’t always like this. She remembered how happy they were those first years. “You are my sweet,” he had told her then, and he had caressed her cheeks softly. However, somewhere something had changed, and those big hands had turned into weapons to hurt her.

She rubbed the sweetbreads with salt and pepper, laid them into the pan, and threw the butter, the vegetables, and herbs in. The lid went onto the pan to simmer. She uncorked The Chateau Vignol Rouge of 2008. Half a liter went into the dish. She took a glass out of the cupboard, took a sip of wine, and closed her eyes for just a while.

At first glance, that morning was like every other morning. The alarm rang at eight o’clock, and she had stretched arms by her head to her back in an attempt to ease her muscles a bit. A moment like there were many, of freshness, well-being, and even a feeling of happiness. Everything was still possible at that moment. The world at her feet, she still was that beautiful woman. Already middle-aged, certainly, but still with that feeling of possibilities. Today was the day she was ready. Today was her birthday.

The snore in bed next to her made her crunch. And like all the other days, there was that black cloud around her head immediately. Her husband turned again, his thick upper arm touched her shoulder so very lightly, and she felt a bitter taste in her mouth. Her forehead cramped slightly, and the thought began to grit.

Again, she was captured in a hopeless life with a man she hated because she hated him, oh yes, with everything inside her.

“What are you looking at ” he had slung at her with a drowsy voice. One eye open, the other still closed by sleep.

“Nothing, nothing is the matter. I am getting out of bed; go back to sleep.”

Quickly she had pulled the blanket off the bed, and she stood next to the bedstead. Ready to run out of the bedroom, away from him.

She accidentally with a sway bumped down her glass full of water from the nightstand onto the blankets, all wet!

He was wide awake now, and with a swift jump, he stood beside her—one lump of meat, one lump of anger.

“Bitch, why you always, always start in the early morning with your meow,” he had said, his hands clenched into fists, his face cramped in a fury.

And he had hit her, in the face, on the chest, on her breasts, and in her stomach until she panted for breath and had begged him to stop.

With a scowl, he then had hidden in the bathroom to take a shower. She had heard the water running while she still was shivering on the mat by the door. Her arms crossed in front of her body, her cheeks wet with tears.

That morning she had dressed quickly—a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. A feeling as if she was about to choke. Only until the front door slammed, she could breathe again.

She had cleaned the house in a haze; she had done the laundry and swept the floors. There was that sudden panicky feeling doing the groceries, so she ran home, the bag with vegetables dangling in her arms. Inside came the tears; on her way home, she had lost the meat.

He came to the house that afternoon at four o’clock. She had hoped he had bought flowers for her 60th birthday. But he had looked at her as if she was crazy.

At that moment, she knew something had to give.

While he stood with his back to her, she had taken the big butcher's knife. The four thrusts went stupendously easy. When he collapsed without a sound, she had a peaceful feeling. She cleaned the bloody mess off the floor, washed him in the scullery, and towed his naked body back to the kitchen. With all her might, she put him on the big table. Then she took a shower. She was ready to cook now. She smiled, she laughed, and then she cried.

1. Place the raw material ready for use.

2. Place the meat with the crown on the cutting board.

3. Remove with a sharp boning knife, the outer skin of the shoulder.

4. Detach the breastplate by cutting the two meat muscles to the blood vein.

5. Remove the scapula by starting to cut from the head of the shoulder.

6. Cut the shank bone if present.

7. Remove the bone by cutting the meat along the bone.

8. The shoulder can be trussed and used elsewhere.

9. Clean and disinfect all the used materials, tools, and working surfaces.