The other day I decided I would give Mrs. Chicken a small surprise and start dinner while she was out with her friends doing whatever wives do when they get together.
“What should I make?” I asked myself.
I grabbed some of my cookbooks and started leafing through them. Nothing seemed to strike me. Oh sure, there were pork chops and turkey burgers, but I wanted something different.
I dug around in the freezer and found a package of frozen pork loin. On the wrapper it said I could make it Cuban style.
Wow. That sounded exotic.
Maybe I could ply Mrs. Chicken with a few rum drinks and then amaze her with this dish. I guess my hopes were building right alongside my dreams.
I got out the ingredients listed on the package.
But wait.
I need sugar.
“Where does she keep the sugar?”
I looked high and low. There was nothing to be found anywhere.
No sugar in the house.
I was halfway through the prep and couldn’t stop now.
I grabbed a measuring cup and headed out the door. I figured my new neighbor could help, and it would be a great way to introduce myself.
As I approached the house, I rehearsed what I’d say.
“Knock-knock! I’m from next door…”
No. Terrible.
“I’m Chainsaw, your neighbor…”
Pitiful.
“Excuse me, I am in great need of your assistance!”
Yes. Use the emergency approach.
Suddenly, I heard a voice.
“Are you speaking to me?”
The neighbor wife stood beside the porch, holding a watering can and looking amused.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“Sounds like you have a problem. I might be able to help with that.”
She took control of the conversation immediately.
“Please come in. Let’s see what I can do to help you.”
“Thank you. I’m your neighbor—”
She cut me off.
“Yes. You’re Chainsaw Chicken. My husband and I used to read your stuff all the time.”
Her head tilted slightly, introspectively.
“Used to? Why’d you stop?” I asked.
She paused briefly, then turned and walked toward the living room. When she came back, she was holding two drinks in one hand.
“You see… before we separated, we loved your posts. But then you did the one about DTF St. Louis on HBO. I agreed with it. He didn’t.”
She handed me a glass.
“It became an awful argument. Then a worse one. Then he left and never came back.”
She sat across from me.
“So now I’m here in this new home… by myself.”
She glanced at my drink.
“How is it?”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m so sorry that I might have been the cause of your problems. It was never intended to create distrust or issues for anyone. It was about me and the Mrs… and our own problems.”
That was weak, but I had to say something.
So I took a long drink of the cocktail she had made for me.
It was strong.
Very strong.
The room softened around the edges.
She leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“You know, Chainsaw… it gets very lonely over here.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“I understand. Living alone must make it difficult to organize pantry items.”
She blinked twice.
“Yes… pantry items.”
“And morale,” I added. “A person can become discouraged without proper ingredients.”
She moved closer on the couch.
“I’ve missed having someone around.”
“That’s natural,” I said. “Have you considered a parakeet?”
Her smile faded, then returned in a more determined form.
“No, Chainsaw. I mean company.”
I looked around the room.
“Well, your furniture seems pleasant enough.”
She placed her hand gently on my arm.
For a moment, I thought she might be checking my pulse.
Then suddenly it hit me.
The pork.
I stood straight up.
“My dinner!”
She sighed softly.
“You really should come back sometime.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I still need that sugar.”
I hurried toward the door.
“And your measuring cup,” she called after me.
I stopped.
“My measuring cup?”
“It’s still on the coffee table.”
There it was, sitting beside a candle and what I now realized had not been an ordinary atmosphere.
I grabbed it quickly.
“Thank you for safeguarding my equipment.”
She walked me to the door slowly.
“If you ever need anything…” she said, letting the sentence hang in the air like perfume.
“I certainly do,” I replied. “One cup of sugar.”
I left before she could answer.
When I opened my front door, smoke rolled out like a warning from the old world.
The kitchen was a disaster.
A pan hissed on the stove. Something blackened in the oven. A spoon had somehow fused to the burner. I still don’t know how.
And there stood Mrs. Chicken.
She looked at the kitchen.
Then at me.
Then at the measuring cup.
“Would you care to explain?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I was attempting Cuban pork. Which, I now understand, is more complex than the packaging suggested.”
She continued staring.
“I needed sugar,” I added. “So I went next door to introduce myself in a spirit of neighborly cooperation.”
She folded her arms.
“And?”
“Well… there was a beverage discussion. Some emotional history. Possibly candle activity.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Chainsaw.”
“I remained focused on dinner.”
She looked around at the smoking wreckage.
“This is what focused looks like?”
I had no defense.
After a long silence, she exhaled.
“Fine. Go ahead and finish dinner.”
I felt hope return.
Then a terrible truth surfaced.
I lowered my head.
“There is… one remaining obstacle.”
“What now?”
I held up the empty measuring cup.
“I forgot to ask for the sugar.”
Mrs. Chicken closed her eyes.
“And this?”
“I also left the measuring cup there first.”
Another silence.
Then she pointed toward the door.
“Go.”
“You mean back to the neighbor’s?”
“No. To the store.”
And that is how I ended up buying sugar at 8:40 p.m. wearing an apron that said Kiss the Cook and smelling faintly of someone else’s perfume.