His teeth had been gone for months. He’d been slurping jook. Which got tiring, which meant the food choices at home had emptied. He grew cranky and from the bedroom yelled out for dishes concocted in his head. Grandma had stashed her sacred kitchen somewhere else secular. The ginger went uncrushed, the spicy sauces unslurried. Onto the counters marched fast food apple pies: crazy crisp encasing syrup softened morsels. Fresh. What’s more, there was ice cream. And chocolate. Raisins. The cleaver lay cool, sharp, yielding to spin of blender. Candied soup, his leftovers emptied into thick bowls, while costumed kids bunched at the door, and called us over for treats.
