Day 4: The Food Of Love

I consider today's theme a bit of a misstep. I mean surely it's more suited to February the 14th. The theme of today is love, in case you hadn't guessed. I sort of tackled that theme a few days ago so I wanted to try something different, again. I went with a monologue because a good, dramatic monologue can be utterly captivating if performed well, and more importantly it seemed to fit the story I had in mind. Being the cynical bugger I am I of course went for a different type of love, although not a cynical "love stinks" theme either. Enjoy!

                                                                 The Food Of Love

                                                                  By Jeremy Linnell

Sadie: Do abusive people know they’re abusive? That’s what I always wondered. Well. Once I stopped asking myself if I really did deserve it, what I’d done to make him so angry. He was always so particular about things, you see. So when he did hurt me it seemed sensible that it was my fault. Had I forgotten to iron his shirt? Did I put enough sugar in his tea? Was his underwear folded just so? You know, basic things like that. If I made a mistake it made sense I should be punished, how else was I going to learn?

Bruises? No, no. He was clever in that petty, sadistic way some men can be. My father was the same. Always seem to know where to hit so it doesn't mark. But it hurts. Oh you bet your backside it hurts, pardon my French. Sharp with words too, when they needed them to hurt. Simple the rest of the time though. <she giggles> oh if he could hear me say that!

You never saw him get angry did you? I didn't think so. That, well I saw this documentary once, they called it “lizard brain”, do you know what that means? No dearie, I’m not trying to be patronising. I didn't know what it meant when I heard it, that’s all. So yes, he had that animal cunning. In public, at our restaurant, he was all smiles. The genial host, ever gracious with our stream of honoured guests. Didn't matter if you were a regular or just stopping in on your way through town. He treated you like his best friend. See, he did have his good points. It’s why I loved, well, love him. If I’m being honest with myself.

I loved that restaurant. It was the one place I felt free. He’d never hurt me there, as I said. It was special. He was an old fashioned man at heart, you see. Believed women belonged in the kitchen. Wouldn't have a head chef who was a man, thought they were all poofters. Is that word still ok to say? I just can’t keep up these days. My son is always telling me, not like his father did mind, he’s a good boy…where was I? Oh yes, the restaurant. I think that’s why he married me actually. The restaurant was his father’s. A failure, but all the same it was his, and by extension Robert’s, pride and joy. So Robert’s had to make it work.

Courting was different in my day. We didn't “go on the pull” as my son insists on calling it. We had discos, they were nice. But I never had much money growing up so I couldn't really afford to go out much. Didn't have time either. After my mother died it was up to me to keep the house in order. Get up. Make my bed. Then father’s. Make breakfast. Make and pack his lunch. See him off with a kiss. Wash myself. Clean and dust. Have my lunch. Do the errands. Prepare dinner. Make father’s drink. Give it to him. Serve him tea. Eat mine. Clean up from tea. Run father’s bath. See him to bed. Then off myself. So as you can see going out wasn't really an option.

I always loved food. Even back then. It was my little holiday every day. My time to rest. Not that I slacked off and took long lunches. But something about eating is so…restorative. And putting it all together in the kitchen, creating order out of chaos, making something others will enjoy. Nothing beats it. Only time I ever got a kind word was when my cooking was “on form”. So I made sure to be “on form” every day. I practiced. I learned. Experimented with flavours. I could take myself on the most magnificent journeys with food. Father started to notice, saw a chance to impress this new friend he made. Young chap, my Robert. Invited him round for tea. It was love at first sight.  Ah.

Robert had already taken over his father’s restaurant by then, and when he tasted what I could do in our meagre kitchen he knew I was perfect. Father wasn't too keen on the idea, but Robert talked him round. Promised he’d take good care of me. They spoke the same language, my father understood. So there I was suddenly head chef…well when I started it wasn't a place you’d have chefs. We were cooks. But I turned it around with my cooking. Yes I did. Robert was so pleased. I think that’s what made him fall in love. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach don’t they? I suppose making him a lot of money helps too.

Regret? Not really. I made people happy doing what I loved and if the price to pay was a bit of pain now and again I could take it. Women are strong. We’re made to take pain. Have you ever given birth? No, I imagine not. You look more like a “career” type. You can have both you know dear. So no, no regrets. Oh. You mean for killing him? Can’t say I do. It wasn't because he hit me you see. It’s the recession, it hit the restaurant business hard. People can’t really afford to eat out any more. I understood. Not Robert though. He didn't want to be “a failure like his father”. Started to blame my cooking. Insult my cooking. Well. I couldn't have that now could I? I love my cooking.

I suppose I feel bad for the customers though. I always do when they have a bad meal. Now I know they say a poor workman blames his tools but it really was a case of low quality ingredients. It seemed wasteful to just…throw him away. And he was lovely and tender after all those years of good food and wine. In retrospect though I can see why it tasted bad. He always was a piece of shit.