Ink

Every now and then you might find yourself in need of black pigment. Say, for an art project, or even a quirky pasta dish. While some may suggest squid ink or walnut shells for color, I say, burn a whole bag of chickpeas. It’s easy! Just forget they’re on the stove. If you can, first spend a few hours sorting through the legumes and soaking them in hot water. That way they’ll be plump and full of surface area for scorching. Turn the heat to medium-low, then go check on your kids in the yard. While you’re outside, notice that your friend left her baby’s rattle by your gate. Shoot, she lives just down the street, it’s no trouble to return it. Yell “be right back!” to your spouse, who’s got his eye on the kids while he rakes. As you walk, admire the structure of the bare trees—the bulbous skeleton of the maple, and the fan-like form of the oak. Replay the melody of Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” in your mind, which you heard your daughter hum all morning.  Drum each square of sidewalk with two steps. Quicken your pace as the tempo increases. Remember the chickpeas. The chickpeas! Turn and speed walk. Now run! Imagine your kitchen in flames, your children crying. Sprint, pulling off your coat as you scale the steps to the house. Yell “Myself!” when your son asks who you’re racing. Grab the oven mitts and rush the smoking pot out the door. Set it in the gravel, in the same spot as its predecessors from earlier in the year: the dish of charred cheesy toast and three trays of torched pignoli. Think, as you hold the hose over the pot, that this time you’ve really lost it. Mumble prayers of thanks, promises of never-again.  Look at the gravel, then the chickpeas, and wonder which is the tenderer.  Notice that other shoes have come into the frame. “What happened?” the shoes want to know. See your reflection in the pitch-black water. Answer, “We’re going out to dinner. My treat.”