found drama

We’ve been bunkered for days (weeks?) against the plague and the roving hordes.  It’s dangerous out there but we’ve done a decent enough job of fortifying the house.  It’s not my parents’ house but everything started happening we just let ourselves in here, found the keys, and set up camp.  We’re short on provisions though and we have begun to make plans for how to re-supply.  In fact, A. has volunteered herself to go first by sneaking out in the middle of the night, leaving behind only a note to explain that we needed more food (among other things).  It’s all I can do not to self-immolate with worry.

We must distract ourselves from this apocalypse and thus we keep to a strict schedule for family meals.  Everyone helps (in some way) and we spend all day, trapped inside this house, preparing some elaborate feast.  Tonight I have gone overboard.  I had not realized it until too late.  I had my excuses.  With A. gone, I needed to fill my time as much as I could.  There was not enough of any one thing but too much of each component part.  The list could have gone on and on.

I spend all of that time in the kitchen preparing the pork, the chicken, and the lamb.  The pork and chicken go together with the same seasonings, cooking at the same temperature.  The lamb will follow.  Someone in the other room is talking about “the most pierced person in the world”.  Outside of the house, the hordes sound that much closer.  A window breaks; my dad and an uncle (R.?) rush to secure it.  For a house that is not ours, this place is filled with an awful lot of familiar items — a large red casserole dish, the dining room table, that chair in the living room.  Not everyone here is family and there seems no rhyme nor reason to how each person got here.  The secret knock at the back door just as the smoke alarm goes off.  Someone needs to let A. in before They find her; everyone calls my name but I am busy in the kitchen.  And dinner needs to get to the table.

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