The Battlefield Where the Girls Say I Love You



That's just the thing: we will never tell you we love you. In fact, we're here only to hold hands across state lines and yell at the world. We're here to try to touch you across this chasm of flown things. Not even that. At most, I will teach you how to make a gin smoothie when there's nothing left in the house. Hannah can teach you several languages and what to do when your car breaks up with you. Thanks for coming out.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Dinner with the Morgan-Abramses

We are the perfect picture of domesticity, of happy marriage. I, at the kitchen island writing. Mamie, at the stove. She's cooking us dinner (read: we're both broke). It's her dinner, the one she knows how to make. So what if tonight she's forgotten a few ingredients? So what if what she thought were snow peas are really edamame? Music spills, life is glorious, we are basking in the perfection of our lives.
'Would you like some more wine?' I ask, tenderly.
She starts the risotto, and a few moments later furrows her face. 'It doesn't look right,' she tells me.
We inspect it. The risotto, usually golden with saffron is a deep mud color. We decide the butter has burned. The color is scary, is clearly saying, Don't eat me. But we're optimistic. I go back to writing--struggling with 'clothed' versus 'dressed.' Mame says, 'Who the hell says clothed?' I frown at her. Notice that she is marinating the swordfish in something that looks like barbecue sauce. I vaguely remember language like 'something different.' The oil in the pan is smoking. At this point, I could say something. Prevent the collapse. I take one look at her face--that forbidding, no one talk to me look.
The swordfish goes in, the sugary sauce burns, the smoke begins. My eyes are tearing. It's hard to make out her shape a few feet away from me. The house is a solid wall of smoke. The whole place reeks of barbecue and fish.
The best part of this is that Mamie's roommate (her real one) has put in a ten thousand dollar alarm system. It is now shouting, FIRE ONE, FIRE TWO, FIRE THREE...
Mamie swirls around irritably. 'What is HAPPENING?' she demands.
I peer through the smoke, bat my hands at the air in front of my face. 'We need to act,' I tell her. 'Grab a towel, wave them at the detectors, open the windows!'
'But where,' she snaps, 'is it COMING FROM?' Behind her the pan is on fire. Literally. Flames are leaping up around it.
FIRE FOUR.... 'Jesus, what if the sprinklers come on?' I bellow stupidly over the alarm.
'FIX IT!' she screams. We've both lost our head. I'm jumping up and down waving Mamie's bathrobe at the detector: 'HELP ME!' I'm bewildered--where IS she? From a distance, I hear her. Something about not being able to leave the fish. Fuck the fish. The police will come. I keep thinking of sprinklers. Nothing will make the smoke disperse, not the fan, not the towel not anything. In the kitchen, I hear the wet slap of swordfish as it hits the floor. 'Shit,' I hear her say before she walks over with a broom and dismantles the detectors. She turns to me--we're both sweaty, shaking--says 'You fix this' and walks outside. And yes, we ate the dinner.

11 comments:

hannah said...

never use the word "tenderly" again. not on my watch, abrams. it's not even cute. we sound like partners. not that we're not...

whatever. you fix this.

hannah said...

hate you. because we post as one person, we sound schizophrenic. not that we're not...

Unknown said...

My stomach is in cramps right now. You girls crack me up to no end. I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall when this happened.

T. said...

You silly girls and your electronics. You need to create two authors for your blog so we know when it's hannah and when it's mamie. I mean, I know we'll all KNOW (not sure what that's supposed to mean), but it would be more visually pleasing.

I hope you don't hold back on this. I think the both of you could be in court in no time if you play your cards right.

hannah said...

t. i have no idea how to do that. right now, mamie is me. i am mamie. deal. love, hannah

eric said...

To add authors:
Click on 'settings' then 'Permissions' then 'Add Authors'

hannah said...

i DID that. mamie, this is somehow yr fault. i re-invited you. FIX IT. MOOOOOVE.

Jessica said...

hi lovely ladies! Mamie, I haven't seen you in SO LONG. Hey, I live here now. And i bought a house and everything. Which I am currently spending all night every night painting and priming and sanding and plastering amongst the fumes. But after I emerge from that, and you are no longer smoky, we should see each other, don't you think? And Hannah....dear Hannah who i just met, somewhat inexplicably, on the night of Duck's homemade wine and Sweet Caroline. You too. We should all meet and eat things.

hannah said...

beaufort: thanks. am glad there were no witnesses. at the time is was awful. and smelly. but to mames' credit, she's made this meal before and it was stunning.

jessica: absolutely. except mamie's never coming back here. it's always teaching blahblahblah restaurant...

daisy said...

It's not really fair. Your blog. It makes me wish my life weren't all talking about vibrators during interviews. That I had insane moments that were also somehow poetic, instead of pathetic.

Sigh. Move to SF? And burn food in my kitchen? Pretty please? It'll be prettier if you guys do it.

Aubrey said...

I agree with Daisy - move to SF. You can even cook in MY kitchen...after all, I have a microwave and can heat up the dropped fish whereas Daisy, oh, Daisy just has a lot of wine.

Hmm. Actually, I think she wins. We all know that wine trumps microwave rays ANY day.