This flash essay, called “Batter,” originally appeared in the online literary magazine Gravel, way back in 2015. Along with “The Infidel Approaches Grace” (Hobart) and “XO” (Split Lip), I think of “Batter” as seminal to the book XO. Gravel folded several years ago, but I remain grateful to their giving “Batter” its original home.
Batter
I.
In a flat-roofed house cobbled together with materials salvaged by my Pep, my Mem raised six children. Famous for her flapjacks, she’ll share the recipe if you ask, her gnarled fingers making measurements: just about this much flour, mixed with just about this much milk, a shake of salt—
Nothing you’d find in a cookbook. Nothing fussy. Nothing exact.
What if I put in too much flour?
Add a bit more milk.
What if I run out of milk?
Use water.
Water?
Don’t forget the salt.
My family held my Mem and Pep’s 50th wedding anniversary at the local VFW. I never saw them touch, remember mostly their bickering, but that night they danced together to “Mr. Bojangles,” my Pep’s favorite song. They almost made it to their 60th. And, in the year that would be their 76th, my Mem will tell you how much she misses him, even if you don’t ask.
II.
What I miss most about S are our moments in the kitchen. Frothing soy lattes for my birthday breakfast or mashing bananas for muffins or peeling potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner or plopping fig jam into vinaigrette and giving the jar a good shake.
I loved the taste of her skin, unblemished and sweet as an apricot; smooth as a child’s, despite her seven years on me.
She didn’t like turnips. Or eggplant. Or fennel. Or vodka. Or fish, in general.
She could eat a jar of pickles in a day, and kept her cereal in the refrigerator.
Before S, I thought settling down equaled death; argued domesticity the worst kind of oppression. I didn’t want intimacy or a household or a mortgage, until it was all I wanted.
Once, I made us sweet potato soup, followed the recipe and everything, but neglected to remove the wrinkled jalapeno before blending it all to the perfect degree of smoothness.
She tried. We tried.
But after a few spoonfuls of fire, we bailed.
III.
He meets me inside the dunes, concealed from view, the grey sky of a just-passed storm heavy as wet wool. We are invisible, scared not of being seen but of our invincibility.
We walk.
This is what we have always done together, link arms and walk away from the lives we are beholden to—partner, wife, children, homes, jobs—to the edge of the world.
Here where the river runs headlong into the sea, where gulls feed and ghost shrimp burrow, where the water is neither fresh nor salt, we stand, bodies pressed ankle to thigh to hip to hand to shoulder. Beneath layers of jean and cotton and fleece and Omni-Tech nylon, our skins ache. All around us, life adapts, makes due, thrives. If someone had snapped a photo, we would have been indistinguishable from the landscape.
This is where I want to remember us. A match made in—
Later, after we fuck, I help myself to a clementine from the box on the floor, eat it naked and cross-legged on the white sheets, peel stacked on my knee. He emerges from the bathroom and I hold up a segment, say, I hope this is okay. He nods, Of course, but does not ask for a bite, and offers me no more.
V.
I am— gay. No, let me try that again: I like women. Let me try that again: lesbian. Once more: I love you. For good measure: [i. love. you.] I am— straight. No, let me try that again: I like men. Let me try that again: normal. Once more: I love you. For good measure: [i. love. you.] I am— bi. No, let me try that again: I like the person. Let me try that again: indefinable. Once more: I loved you both. For good measure: [i. loved. you. both. i. am. sorry. i. am. not. sorry.]
What I know of love is the work of opening the cupboards every morning. When they’re full of everything you need. When they’re bare. When you’d much rather guzzle a cup of coffee and be on your way.
A chemistry experiment.
An educated guess.
A gamble.
A handwritten recipe with no exact measurements.
My gratitude to Ella Heineman on Unsplash for the beautiful pancake photo.