Oil

Frybread had a sorrowful origin. Mealy flour, and rancid lard were the only rations our “beloved” government gave my aunts, uncles, grandparents of the past. Mixing a spoonful of the rotting fat into the mealy flour, along with water and scavenged salt to form a fluffy dough. Using the rest of the fat, they melted it down, rendering out some of the rot, dropping in neat little slabs that puff and fill. Despite being made of mealy flour, hazardously laced with weevil larvae and rancid lard, gritty from forming mold and a slippery cloy, it was food. It was something to stave off the pinch of a begging stomach. It filled my aunts and uncles' bellies, soothe the twisting ache of hunger in the babies before being abducted and “civilized” by missionaries and nuns. It was a staple. A trademark that had a disgusting, horrid history. But today, it brings stability, union, and joy.

~~~~~~

I made the fluffy, sweetish bread that became a trademark for my family, topping it with ground deer meat seasoned with my own blend of spices, and tri-colored cheese, along with broiled beans and diced tomatoes. Dozens of pieces of this fluffy bread line a box that itself was lined with paper towels, slowly being depleted as greedy children snagged bits of bread to stuff in their giggling, ravenous little mouths. I occasionally fed a small crunchy piece to begging dogs, their fluffy rumps wriggling with excitement.

I was waiting for the oil to cool, all the frying done for the night, before carefully draining the dark gold liquid into an old milk jug full of past oils from previous cooking. Near the bottom of the jug, sat a sticky looking film, from fat and grains fried in the past. Today’s flavor of cheap oil was canola.

I was slowly pouring the oil into the jug, using a funnel bought specifically for this task, when a tiny hand tugged the hem of my flour covered and oil stained shirt. Looking down, I smiled. It was Darrel.

“I want.” my son asked, doe brown eyes wide with begging. Don’t fall for it. It’s a trick. His large, cherubic eyes focused on the oil jug. I chuckled.

“It’s not a drink. I’ll get you juice in a minute.”

“I want!” he demanded.

“It is not juice. You won’t like it.” I try to tell him. He scowled at me.

“I want.” he demanded again, attempting to stomp his tiny, sock covered foot.

“...Alright then.” I grabbed a cup from the shelf and let him watch as I poured a small amount of oil into the cup. It ran sluggishly and viscous, making me crinkle my nose from the dusty, cloying smell.

My son took the cup and smiled, acting like he won a desperate, high demanding prize. I smiled back, waiting for the inevitable. He took a big drink, and the joy slipped from his face. I threw back head and laughed, a loud cackle that echoed in my small apartment.

Spitting and giggling, he handed the cup back. He was smiling, like it was a playful prank and not a bout of childish stupidity.

“I told you.” He then bounced on his heels, still spitting and made the funniest of faces as he grabbed a wet wipe to scrub his tongue.

I gave him a glass of pineapple juice. His favorite.

He didn’t ask to drink from the jug again.