Victory


Electra was magnanimous in victory. I might even say ‘giddy.’

She had no use for the ‘no cooking’ coupons, so she gave one to Mom and one to me. Dad grumbled but acknowledged the debt. So he had four nights to cook this week. I expected either deli sandwiches or lots of pizza.

Electra had me open the phone book so she could start planning Saturday.

“OOOh! Indian! And they deliver!” she’d squeal. “Mark this page, cook caddy!”

“Yes, miss Electra.”

“Caribbean?” she asked, one foot on a delivery ad. “What do they serve?”

“Jerk chicken,” was the first thing I thought of, and instantly said. Her eyes snapped around to look skeptically at me.

“Say what now?”

“I did not mean to imply that they serve chicken to jerks, Electra,” I said. “It’s jerk chicken, a hot dish, habanero chilis, usually. Lots of other spices. Burnt, kinda like tandoori chicken.”

She still stared suspiciously at me. I turned to the hallway leading to the living room. “MOOOOOOM! Tell my sylph I didn’t make up jerk chicken!”

“Please,” Electra said, quick but quiet.

“PLEASE!” I added.

“It’s Caribbean cuisine,” Mom shouted back. “Barbecued with lots of spices. Painfully hot.”

“Why is it called jerk?” Electra asked. I repeated her question to the distant parents.

“It’s from the marinade,” Dad said, walking into the kitchen. “A way of flavoring the meat, probably related to the original method of making jerky.”

“Thanks,” my pet told my dad. She looked at me. “I never heard of it, but I like spicy.”

“Painfully spicy,” I quoted Mom.

“Oh, I think your Electra can handle it,” Dad said.

“That means he’s daring you to try it,” I said, “as he’s still smarting from the whipping you gave him at Clue.”

“She whipped you, too!” he protested.

“Yes, but you notice that Conrad never looked surprised,” Electra gloated. She stared pacing the length of the ad. “We need to acquire a menu before Saturday. See to it, minion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Dad went back to the living room.

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They had six flavors of their home recipe for jerk chicken: Wimp, Mild, Medium, Brave, Stupid and Lost The Bet.

I quite literally Wimped out. Mom went with Medium.

Electra made sure Dad could hear her state that she was going to order Brave, so he had to order Stupid.

My sylph never forgets any time someone insults her intelligence. And to Electra, ‘smart enough’ was an insult.

I honestly don’t remember what dinner tasted like. Mom ate her dinner happily but I was concentrating on the other two.

Electra made a big deal of eating her dish with visible and audible relish.

Dad matched her bite for bite. And they both started sweating immediately.

“You should have gotten the good stuff, Electra,” he choked out.

“I think I did get the good stuff,” she wheezed.

“I kinda like having flavor,” Mom said, “instead of nerve damage.”

“Naw,” Dad insisted, clenched fist pounding his thigh. “This is really…” He fished for a word.

“Stupid,” I said. He glared. “Dad, it’s what’s written ON THE CARTON!”

“Ha!” Electra barked.

“Sez you,” I said. I leaned down close to where she was shoveling a second helping onto her little plate. “Before you got halopenos, had you considered how much you depend on other people to get to one of your toilets in a timely manner?”

She paled. Mom smiled. Dad barked a laugh, then accidentally gargled his food, burning the back of his throat.

Mom announced that she had purchased a gallon of French Vanilla ice cream and was prepared to serve it to anyone who could act like a responsible adult or a grateful adolescent.

“Thanks?” Dad guessed.

Electra followed with, “Thank you, Mrs. Loudon.”

I saw that the ‘responsible adult’ billet was wide open. “I’ll get bowls and spoons,” I said, rising.



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Index

7. Clue

9. Chip