Brunoise

she lines up the short carrot sticks

guillotines the roots to form tiny dice

a gamble of what can still go right

Chicken noodle soup in her mother’s kitchen. Butter is seven. Her mother
moves silently along the peeling vinyl floor and tosses the lid into the
sink, empties the can with a wet plop into a dented pot on the stove.
Inconvenienced by Butter’s fever and being sent home early from school.
Inconvenienced by the bare minimum it takes to care for someone. Her mother
tilts some soup into a bowl, mostly broth and a few soft bits of carrot,
still cold. Three drops land on the table when the bowl is set down. Her
mother stares at her like she’s searching for another face, walks out
without saying a word. Butter swings her pajama legs back and forth under
her chair too afraid to trouble her mother for a spoon.

Rough chop

she plucks a potato from the bowl

forms a claw with her hand,
FREE
inked like a prayer above her knuckles

the heel of the knife moves up and down in an easy rhythm

wet chunks pile in the wake of her blade

Home fries at the diner. Eleventh grade (the second time), serving the
regulars on a Saturday night but somehow it grows closer to Sunday morning
and the talking to from her mother about consequences. The potatoes, the
men—they are never boys—all vaguely similar but different on her tongue in
their own subtle way, spiced and scented and greased into the weave of her
clothes until she does the wash before her next shift. Another thing her
mother covets, just like the cracked emerald ring Nana gave her before she
died.

Dice

she places a large stalk of celery curved side down on the board

slices along the rib, stacks the long sticks two-by-two

woody-sweet squares cluster in a line

she scoops them into a mound as the head chef shouts the specials

Beef stew in Aunt Margot’s kitchen. Two nights after graduation. Two nights
after she gives Vince that hand job in the back corner of the Russian
Orthodox cemetery, thick as thieves in between rows of three-bar crosses
hewn from granite slabs, telling him to enjoy it since it’ll be the last
one because she doesn’t have time for that anymore. Two nights after her
mother’s card arrives with a wrinkled twenty folded inside, Good job, Bette-Jo scrawled in blue ink at the bottom. Same night
Aunt Margot stirs the mirepoix in the enameled pot and after her third Old
Fashioned lets it slip that Butter has a half-brother somewhere up north
where her mother might be.

Mince

she peels the papery shallot skin

points her knife into the striated purple flesh lengthwise then
crosswise

neat narrow rows become neat little squares clinging together agminate
on her damp board

she wipes her wet eyes with the back of her hand

House vinaigrette at the Chop House. Dijon mustard and cider vinegar like
acetone in her nose. Felisa stands next to her pouring the virgin olive oil
into the wide mouth of a glass jar set between them, holds Butter’s finger
under the last drops to offer a taste. Butter cups bits of shallot and
garlic into a tiny hill before shuttling them over on her glinting blade.
She pinches her fingers into the salt cellar and thinks of her head in
Felisa’s lap the night before, grit on the wood floor grinding into her
knees as Felisa stroked her hair until she fell asleep. First roommates of
circumstance and convenience and shared dreams of becoming famous for steak
au poivre, now something a bit more. Eight brisk shakes of the jar—never
seven, never nine, house rules—and Butter drains the dressing over two
plates of spring greens. She practices her smile for the husband who will
hit on her while his wife is in the bathroom, the one who will stare too
long at her ass but leave enough twenties for her to round out her share of
the rent.

Julienne

she grips the carrot and feels the cold root press into her palm

resists the urge to drag her sleeve across her brow

slows the strike of her blade to even out the ends

Glazed carrots at the nursing home. Butter stops by on the way to the
restaurant because Aunt Margot wants to see her. Their last meal together,
though neither of them knows. Caramelized sugar melts on Butter’s tongue,
last traces finger-cleaned from the edge of the non-slip, hi-lo cafeteria
dish. She swipes her calloused thumb roughly across Aunt Margot’s glossy
chin, tells her about the once-famous actress who comes for the half-price
pot pie on Tuesday nights, tells her Felisa kicked her out, asks again what
Aunt Margot remembers about her mother.

Candles in hot pink frosting

Potato Stix in a dented can

Fingers raked in damp sand

Claw marks from Mr. Jinx

Rails of coke in Jerry’s car

Matches from Hunt’s Tap

Tally marks counting days

Vitals on the toe tag

Sign Here  and Sign Here 

Slice

she pulls another potato from the bowl

cuts away the dingy peel, turns it on its side

her blade sticky with starch

thin circles fall like dominoes

Scalloped potatoes on her half-brother’s back porch. He needs her to sign
some papers. Bedless, possibly jobless, and long past hopeless, she goes
because she’s desperate for company who doesn’t expect anything in return.
When he was appointed administrator of their mother’s feeble estate, Butter
forced herself to find enough in common to make nice for a little while,
those mutual affinities indelibly forged by their mother for things like
gin rummy and rockabilly and Bill Bixby and an unapologetic pig-snort
laugh. Tonight he asks her who gave her the nickname Butter but she doesn’t
tell, saves that part of their mother for herself, that scab she won’t let
heal into a scar. After her second Bordeaux she pulls her lips tight over
the fork coated thick with milk and butter, savors the salt on her tongue
then asks if she can crash on his couch. She doesn’t notice the envelope he
tucked into her purse until she’s halfway to the bistro the next day,
doesn’t notice the heft of inheritance until she reads the note inside: Mom would’ve wanted you to have this.

Chiffonade

she pinches off six almond-shaped leaves of basil

stacks them gently, aligns them with intention, rolls them lengthwise

her blade emancipates their peppery scent

a summer perfume laced with promise

Caprese salad at Felisa’s new apartment. Butter shows up unannounced. A
hunger surges against her sternum as she follows Felisa toward the kitchen
where “Libertango” plays softly from an iPhone docked on the counter. She
watches her drizzle olive oil and balsamic vinegar over a plate of
mozzarella and yellow tomato. With a flick of ribboned basil and a crack of
sea salt, Felisa finally says it: No rompas mi corazón otra vez.
Butter thinks of the barbacks she still wants to kiss after the kitchen
closes, when the smalls of their backs are damp under their black cotton
shirts and their fingers are stained with Madeira. She thumbs the cracked
emerald back and forth over her knuckle, says she can’t promise anything.
They eat in silence. Two forks, one plate, no knives. After the prosecco
runs out, Felisa tells her to stay, says she’ll make eggs Florentine for
breakfast. Butter kisses her on the cheek and takes a metal bowl to the row
of spinach in the garden. When she turns to come back inside, she sees the
bedroom light has been turned on. Felisa’s silhouette is motionless and
black in the window as she watches Butter. Butter pauses at the bottom of
the stairs, steadies herself for this second attempt, the one that will cut
deeper than the first.