"Christopher Rowe - Seared Scallops and Steamed Green Beans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rowe Christopher)

seared scallops and steamed green beans
by christopher rowe
for gwenda on her 27th birthday


The historian was the only one of the old gang left who played those little head games with me. The rest
had all moved on or moved off тАФ done their damage, mostly, and figured out I wasn't much of a
challenge.

But the historian was marked deep by two markers. Unlike the others, he was petty and he was patient.

So, when he spelled me up I'd forgotten whatever slight I'd offended him with, if there ever was one.
Whatever he imagined I'd done to him, though, it was almost certainly at the card table and it had almost
certainly happened a long time ago.

I remember now that the historian had, some months previous to this, attempted to introduce a counting
system based on random number theory into the spades games we played in Triangle Park. I only
apprehend enough of the higher maths to recognize the historian's vast misapprehension of them, and I
remember discouraging him up to the very limits of table talk. That must have been it. That must have
been how I offended him.

Still playing with randomness, he'd introduced it into the mist he blew in through my kitchen window. I'm
not a big leaguer, but there's nothing in the standard history student's toolbox for me to fear and the
historian knew that. So, he didn't try to grandfather clause me or to whittle my bones with entropy. He'd
done some thinking. His attack was indirect.

I'd gotten a really good price on some scallops at the fish market on Winchester Road. I had some green
beans from the Saturday morning farmer's market, still, and we were dieting just then, so, sear the
scallops over the grill and drizzle with just a little butter, steam the beans and toss them with a bit of
lemon juice and some shaved almonds. The kind of meal my true love loves and, it turns out, a minefield
waiting to be primed by the historian.

My cutting board was cleaned and oiled, my knives were at hand, as were all the ingredients except one.
I reached over and picked up the cardboard canister of rock salt and, and, and...

Blind Marcellus draws the plans on soft clay outside the shaft entrance, pillars here and here
and here. He can feel the strength of the seam with his fingers, then taste its richness. The
cohort is watchful. We are mining their money and the Celts might stream down from the tree
line at any time, with their mad blue faces and gutting bronze spears тАФ

тАФ and dropped it to the floor, grains piling against my feet. In the instant before I doubled over against
the counter, I saw George stir, sniff to confirm that it wasn't cheese or beef I'd dropped, then slump back
to sleep. I reached forward to catch myself, one hand landing in the тАФ

"Butter, wife!" He is worn down with the cares of patriarchy and with all the demands of his
terrible shepherd god. Those golden men resting on their heels outside the tent are from
heaven, he says, and he is rousing the camp, wringing out every bit of hospitality he can find
beneath the oaks of Mamre. I skim cream into the goatskin and roll it back and forth, back and
forth...