Steam rose into the stovetop light from the boiling water purring over the heat. Jessie grabbed asparagus from the refrigerator, letting the door slam behind him with an insulated thud, condiments on the shelf inside clinking in protest. Rag over his shoulder, he walked up to the speaker on the counter. Music filled the kitchen, playing over the beat laid down by Jessie’s culinary movements. ‘Hurricane Season’ by Trombone Shorty.
He found that jazz was the best music to cook to. It was happy most of the time, excluding the blues, but Jessie didn’t cook to blues songs. He cooked to the type of jazz that makes feet want to step and hips want to swing. And the mood can be felt in the meal. He broke the asparagus stalks to the beat of the drums, head and shoulders bobbing along the way though he kept his hands ever steady. As the horns cried the refrain he turned and poured rice into the boiling pot on the stove. A wooden spoon to stir, making sure every grain hit the water before throwing a lid on top. He left the rice to simmer. Jessie had added a hefty dose of chicken bouillon before setting the water to boil. The rice would soak up the water along with the bouillon flavor, which would pair nicely with the chicken waiting patient on a baking sheet on the countertop.
Jessie inspected his chicken one last time, ensuring there was an even layer of breadcrumbs. He bought thick breasts at the grocery store. That brought the risk of undercooking the meat or overcooking to compensate for the thickness, but that was part of the fun. While perusing the meats at the store Jessie had passed by a woman getting a cold cut platter of arranged deli meats. A meal can feel a mood and those platters never felt anything.
Folded over slices of thin ham, turkey, salami, and beef placed over leafy lettuce not meant to be eaten. Sometimes cheese was tucked in among the meat or crackers. It didn’t matter, they all looked like the same bland mosaic to Jessie. Nothing popping, a tray that felt like a funeral. The kind of trays that had been served at his father’s memorial service. Bland food resting on a table surrounded by mourning people dressed in black. A room devoid of color or smiles.
Heat pressed Jessie’s face as it rushed out of the open oven. He slid his chicken on to the rack, closing the door. The rice could sit until the chicken was ready. Buddy Guy came over the speaker singing about whiskey, beer, and wine. One of those sounded good about then. Jessie dug back into the refrigerator to pull out a light beer. The cracking hiss of the cap coming off felt just as nice as the first sip. Jessie sighed, letting thoughts of catering trays and funerals escape with his breath. He took another long sip.
He dumped the asparagus into a dish then drizzled olive oil over it. Using his hands he mixed the oil and stalks. Jessie rinsed the oil off his hands before transferring the glistening asparagus to a baking sheet where he added some salt, pepper, and grated parmesan. He wiped his fingers on the towel resting on his shoulder while he glanced over his work. Leaning back on the counter he enjoyed his beer as Buddy Guy wrapped up his song. Then he was kissing the heat again, he opened the oven putting the asparagus on the rack below the chicken.
Jessie put the empty beer bottle on the counter and grabbed another from the refrigerator. There was a slight pause before he opened it. He hesitated. This one didn’t feel as good as the first. A song came on that he was unfamiliar with. Upbeat piano dominated the conversation. He wasn’t bobbing now, though.
Cooking and jazz were a perfect pair. That was something his dad had told him. Both are equally complex. In jazz there is any combination of musicians involved in a musical discussion with one another, each taking their turn in the spotlight having their say while the others mutter in the background keeping the tempo. A myriad of moving parts having to connect to create one piece, much like cooking where many separate ingredients come together to create a single dish. With either jazz or cooking if one piece is taken away the remaining whole can remain practically the same or become something entirely different.
Jessie found himself sighing again. He had to call his mom. It was the anniversary, a day she always seemed to struggle through. The oven timer called out the end of its countdown. He took a swig of the sweating beer in his hand and let it sting his tongue for a moment. Heat rose from the trays while they rested on one half of the stovetop. Steam erupted from the pot of rice when Jessie removed the lid. He fluffed it with a fork, taking joy in the yellow tinge the once white grains had taken on. The bouillon had been absorbed.
He took a small portion for himself; he did not feel as hungry as when he started. The rest would be lunch for the week. Jessie sat down at the table, beer and plate resting before him. Elliot Galvin’s ‘Ghosts’ sauntered out of the speaker on the counter. He cut through his chicken breast in languid strokes. Scooping up some rice with his cut piece he chewed at a deliberate pace, feeling the food across his taste buds. The flavor was abundant. He took another forkful into his mouth, it felt sad-happy. Nostalgic. He would call his mom after dinner.
Ryan James is a writer who lives in the Boston area of North America. He is currently studying for his MA in English at Bridgewater State University. He has had work featured in 580 Split. Find Ryan on Twitter as @ryan_the_james
Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash.
