Barnstorm Journal, November 22, 2013

Capetown Breezes

Excerpt:

Mama never cried when she chopped onions. She peeled the rustic encasing from the fleshy orb and with her butcher’s knife slid through the root and crown while cold water ran from the tap. In the chill of the water, her long, knobby fingers turned white. The water shut off, pink rushes to her fingertips while she dried them on a towel.

Then the cutting board brought closer to the edge of the counter. The onion pierced. Thin rings sliced, fanned from the center with her thumb. A tendril of blond slipped from her chignon. She left the rings of watery flesh—the tears of an onion, not Mama.

That morning we picked apples from our tree. Mama selected two and peeled. She left a long, thin curl, telling me of an old wives’ tale: keep the curl intact so that when it dropped to the counter it would reveal the first letter of your true love’s name. Mine was L. Always L. Sure, it could have been a J. Four swift cuts to the cheeks and the apples stood with right angles, revealing slender cores. Mama never liked to waste. And when she diced—neat, tidy cubes.

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