The inside of the house was just as cozy and warm as the outside had implicated. Off-white walls made cream with the soft yellow of end-table lamps and crystal fixtures that dangled delicately from the ceiling.
The soft rugs without traffic wear that Hazel had politely taken his shoes off before walking on.
And the kitchen, a crowning glory of stainless steel and clean white surfaces. The greatest tragedy of his young life was realizing it had barley ever been used. The microwave looked as if it had gotten the most use.
But now the smells rose like soft perfumes and spread through the house, swirling around the freshly lit candles on the dining room table and danced along with the music.
He had gone through the music for the correct ambiance, and was delighted to find something from his own collection, though it came from sound bites and lacked the hisses and pops of his record player.
Bach’s Goldberg Variations.
In the kitchen he fired up his burners and began with a goodly knob of Charante butter in his copper fait-tout saucepan, swirling the melting butter and browning the butterfat to make beurre-noisette. When it was the brown of hazenut, he added shallots to his hot browned butter and the instant their perfume rose, he put in minced caper berries. He grated fresh black truffle into his sauce and finished it with a squeeze of lemon juice.
Hazel proudly took this to the dining room and sat it by the guest of honor.
She was tied into her chair, and murmured stupidly, drooling ever so slightly onto the embroidered napkin he had hung from her collar. She had been prepared for the evening earlier while she slept.
She just about knocked over the wine he had poured, he supposed she was acting out movements by instinct. Wine with dinner. He caught the glass and slid it to the side.
“We always wait for wine, mother” Hazel explained with kind patience, “it is to add to the pallet, not overwhelm it.” He finished setting the plates out, and tossed a flick of oil into a pan set on a hotplate to make sure it was hot enough.
He only stopped a moment to look at her hair again, at least what strands remained under the line where the flesh had been peeled back to expose the skull. A neat precise line circled the bone.
"In classic cuisine, brains are soaked and then pressed and chilled overnight to firm them.” Hazel continued, lifting the top of the skull like a cap to reveal the organ under it,”In dealing with the item absolutely fresh, the challenge is to prevent the material from disintegration into a handful of lumpy gelatin." The woman muttered some sound of possibly feigned interest. He was sure that was a hardwired skill as well.
Very carefully, with a scalpel set out on the table like a dinner knife, he procured the meat of the meal, putting it quickly in the pan and browned it. Another piece, browned, and they were put on the plates, sauce drizzled over them.
He had to put the knife and fork into her hands and direct her, all he did gently and thoughtfully, and looked pleasant when it appeared she enjoyed his cooking.
There was no malice or hatred in that home that night.
Hazel experienced every moment with placid serenity. Absorbing the feelings, smells, sounds, tastes. Painting a picture with them he would keep forever. Savoring moments as pleasantly as bites of his food. The notes of music intertwined with tinks of silver on china. The smell of the warm home laced with a warmer meal, and the slightest hints of iron in the air like Ghost Notes of a symphony.
The woman, if it could be said she experienced anything at all, enjoyed a very nice meal.
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