TITLE: Five Senses: Taste
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net.
ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay w/ these headers attached
CLASSIFICATION: VH
SPOILERS: none
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Scully reflects on Mulder's meatloaf. Fourth in a series.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox.
Mulder's meatloaf belongs to me.
NOTE: Fourth in a series of vignettes, although they can more or less be
read in any order. I tried something humorous (hopefully) in this one.
________________
Five Senses: Taste
by Susanne Barringer
Mulder makes a bad meatloaf, and I do not mean that as a compliment. He
believes it is a masterpiece. I cannot bring myself to tell him it is, in fact,
revolting.
Meatloaf is the only dish he can make from scratch, so when he invites me
over for a home-cooked dinner, which luckily isn't too often, it is always
meatloaf. Recently I have tried to avoid his invitations. I make some
excuse for us to eat at my place instead, or I offer to pick up take-out on
the way over. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. "No, I'll make
you my special meatloaf tonight," he says, thinking he is doing something
nice for me. My stomach heaves at the thought.
Mulder's meatloaf is truly paranormal. I think it is some kind of
alien/ground-beef hybrid, engineered by a mysterious cabal to destroy the
planet. Realistically, though, no Reticulan would stake a claim to it. One
gander at Mulder's meatloaf and every alien on the planet would be begging
for a trip home, with a horror story good enough to carry back to the
grandkids.
Mulder, of course, loves his meatloaf. Generally, he seems to have
perfectly functioning tastebuds. I'm not sure why, when it comes to this
one dish, he is unable to distinguish between delectable and disgusting.
I am afraid to find out what is in it. Each time I must endure the meatloaf
horror, I try to catalog the tastes, but it is difficult to pinpoint the individual
ingredients among the repugnant whole. At different times I have thought
it contained curry, cinnamon, cilantro, and once, in what was hopefully a fit
of madness brought on by disgust, Nestle's Quik. I have tried to watch as
he creates it, to get an idea of the "secret" ingredients, but he always shoos
me out of the kitchen.
"Wouldn't want the secret recipe to get out," he explains.
"No," I say, "we wouldn't."
I thought I had it beat one night when I invited him to my house and I
served *my* meatloaf. It was my mother's recipe, passed down from
generation to generation. A true work of culinary art that had survived the
ages. I figured Mulder would love it and ask for the recipe. He damned it
with faint praise, and I had to put up with two of his meatloafs in the next
two weeks as retaliation.
I asked him one day if his famous meatloaf was his mother's recipe,
believing that any mother who served her kids that atrocious thing ought to
be brought up on child abuse charges. No, Mulder assured me, it was his
own special recipe. "I lived on this stuff when I was in college," he tells
me. I think maybe at last I have an explanation for his insanity.
Mulder's meatloaf is his pride and joy. The first time he made it for me, he
brought it out on a silver tray, his face beaming with pride as he made the
sound of a drumroll. He could not wait for me to taste it. Unfortunately, I
was too afraid of hurting his feelings to be honest. Upon the first bite, it
took all my strength to keep from revealing my hand. It was horrid. I
didn't let on because I knew he had worked hard on it. That was my
biggest mistake. Now I cannot tell him because every time I eat it and
pretend I like it, I dig myself deeper into the hole of the lie I have built. To
tell him now would be to destroy him. His meatloaf defines him. It is a
sacrifice I make for love.
And so I suffer. Each time he makes his meatloaf, I decide that this time I
will reveal the truth, I will confess, I will swallow my fear and admit my
disgust. I make that decision now as Mulder once again brings his
meatloaf, trailing streams of glory, to the table. He carries it with pride,
and sets it down carefully, as if it is breakable, which, I know for a fact, it
is not.
Now, it sits in all its vile hideousness, steaming on my plate. Mulder has
served me a slab the size of Canada. "You don't have to eat it all," he says.
Well, there's an offer I will definitely take him up on. I take a breath and
brace myself for the inevitable, cutting off a small piece. I raise it to my
lips. Sure enough, it is the same meatloaf I have come to expect.
Cardboard would be a more welcome delicacy. It sits in my mouth and I
force myself to chew. Its gluey texture coats my tongue and the inside of
my cheeks. I try not to let it touch my tastebuds, but that is an impossible
feat. I swallow too soon, and the lump rumbles down into my wailing
stomach. Despite the struggle, I must maintain my composure; there are
still several dozen bites to go.
"Good?" he asks, shoveling a chunk into his mouth.
"Yes," I lie. I do not have the heart to destroy his delusions of meatloaf
grandeur.
END
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sbarringer@usa.net
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