Brian the Chef

We sat in silence. I was reading, he was cooking something or other, probably something he learned from Emeril. I closed the book at last, having had enough Irish fiction for one day. Despite his intelligence, Brian had never been a reader, never understood the fascination books held for so many. He read the paper; that was about it.

“Theyre printing books different lately. The pages are thinner.” I reflected, half to myself. I didn’t expect Brian to answer, and sure enough, he kept his eyes on the stove. I picked up my bowl and carried it over to the trash can. Whatever he was making smelled edible, but plain old ezmac was good enough for me, as always. More for the rest of them.

“Does this look like half and half to you? Vegetables and Pasta?” He looked up at me at last, displaying two pans filled with their respective food groups. I nodded, hardly looking at them – they were in vastly different containers, like the types you use to give optical illusions. If he couldn’t tell, how should I? He seemed pleased enough.

“I am such a good cook.”

“Humble, too”

“Toot toot my own horn. Your mother would be proud.”

“Salmon, too?” I said, eyeing the fish soaking in a dark, strong smelling substance. I did have a weakness for fish.

“Mhmm”

“That’s nearer the mark.”

Edit: That's the name of that cartoon guy, too! Hah. He's also my cousin.