She gets up from the recliner. She’s wearing her old robe and pink sweatpants. I fix her a plate, pull out a chair for her. She sits down and starts to eat like she’s starving. I know better than to ask when she ate last.
The stove is a disaster. Beneath the towel, charred patties congeal in an inch of greasy water. The whole stove smells rancid, caked with ashy spatters. The calendar on the wall–December 1981, when Pop died–is singed at the corners.
I feel my anger rise. “You’re just lucky you didn’t burn down the fucking house.”
I could smell the rancid air and feel the grease permeating the air. A well painted scene. On the other hand…whatever.
Well … there’s a lot there that needs some ‘cleaning’ than the oven …
A lot of history told in just a few words, with mom as the living aftermath of death. Excellent writing.
Lots of vinegar needed to clean up, you painted an interesting scenario
Grimly descriptive. Not a kitchen I’d wish to enter.
Rosey invited me to lunch!
There is a story behind the story, actually a history. You are telling less than what is in your mind.
So well described… I could just smell the stench.
Oh my, not a kitchen I’d want to sit down in never mind eat something. Great descriptions.
https://authorshutterbug.wordpress.com/2019/06/13/fridayfictioneers-the-fortuneteller/
Lots of pent up emotion in that kitchen.
The description, the smells, the whole atmosphere, is very clearly drawn and shows a woman who has burrowed deeply into her grief. Well written.