|Jane Reidy, circa 1966|
|Stupid Liddle Kiddle|
|Deus Ex Meat-Grinder|
One of my earliest home-cooked food memories:
"Goddammit, Jane, don't tell me you can't even clean spinach!" he bellows.
Tears immediately pop from the corners of my mother's light blue eyes, and her hand, wrapped around the fork, trembles.
"You're a useless excuse for a woman. For a wife. Let alone a mother. Feeding us garbage."
When my father speaks it's like he's spitting the words out in chopped, wet bursts, and I think of the cartoon bubbles I see in his New York Times. I can't read them yet, but I like the fat striped cat who lounges while the talky people run in and out of the picture box.
"I never should have married you."
"Henry..." her voice breaks into a trillion pieces.