tooth soup

photo credit: Alexandra Moss

When all the

ingredients had been accounted for, Dave dragged the body of Frederick into his bedroom, washed his hands, and began to cook. High quality stainless steel pots and pans magically appeared from the depths of cupboards, chopping boards and whisper-sharp knives emerged from drawers. Vegetables were chopped and meat was carved as Dave went about preparing the monstrous meal that would enable the conversion of his fridge from chiller to casket. It wasn’t a simple task, but Dave had the timing of an expert and the quick hands to match. Into the poky little oven went one dish, off the hobs came another. He moved between courses with the grace of a ballroom dancer. The room gradually filled with the rich aroma and subtle weight of a hearty meal being prepared. Even Charley was lulled into a warm place, getting the closest to dozing that a bar stool could before Dave looked up from his drink at the final, timed ping! of the oven and declared dinner ready.

The spread was enormous. The entrees alone took up almost half the table and spanned most of the continents; they ranged from prosciutto and red pepper topped Bruschetta to potted cheese soufflé. The mains were even more exotic. The chicken clutched spinach and ricotta tightly to its breast in tight spirals, while the glistening, ruby-red steaks lay slathered in peppercorn sauce. Even the token Caesar salad (‘Must have at least a bit of green to balance the table,’ explained Dave) contained the most preciously coddled eggs and the lightest of Italian olive oils. Side dishes of potatoes and asparagus were glazed in a white truffle sauce, while bowls of anchovies, olives and sun-dried tomatoes lay in wait for a full stomach to indulge in. And for dessert a batch of simple trifles and pies to utilise the remaining fruit, while within the fridge stood a tower of pomegranate sorbet.

As Dave surveyed his creation and saw that it was good, the smells from the completed dinner were worming their way through the cracks in his ceiling. The occupant of the apartment upstairs was one Ms. Angelica Duncan. Ms. Duncan had been living above Dave for what was going on a few years now. She was of a reasonable vintage, and spent most of her days traveling to her daughter’s unit to look after the ‘three Gs’: garden, ganja and grand-kids. At night she retired to her settee, emptied a bottle of wine, and watched her soaps. Her favourite one, Acquaintances, was on right now, and despite the tension of the episode’s build up towards revealing which of fifteen different possible father’s could have produced Sharon’s baby, she was distracted by the waft of Dave’s cooking that squeezed up through the carpet. ‘Oh my sweet Lord,’ she said. She flicked the record button on the remote so she could catch up later, and threw on her dressing gown and slippers. Out the door and down the stairs she clattered, ending up breathless but full of the smell of Dave’s feast that was emanating at full strength out of the gaps in his door.

Dave was about to plunge his knife into his fourth chicken scroll when he heard the knock at the door. He ignored it, and licked his lips as he spilled green-white guts over his dinner plate. The knocking persisted, and with an exasperated sigh Dave paused in his quest to digest and moved to the door. ‘Oi!’ whispered Charley, ‘Don’t you think you might want to do something about that body in your bedroom first?’

Dave blanched. ‘Quite right,’  he whispered back. He shouted a quick ‘Just a minute!’ to the waiting Ms. Duncan and crept back to his bedroom where he propped up Frederick’s body behind the door and shut it behind him, so that quite a bit of strength would be required if anyone wished to shift it and get inside the room. With that out of the way, he moved back to the door, opened it a crack and peered outside.

To be continued next Friday!

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