Mouthwatering Patience

Mouthwatering Patience

By JJ Jorgensen

A bead of something moist appeared. It slowly crawled down along the outside pathway that runs from scalp to eyebrow to cheek. It was extremely hot that day. I could only imagine what was going through his mind. My role was simple prep and deliver. I had taken the time to grill the steak to an absolutely perfect medium rare, with juices sparking the flames higher. The smell was delicious. I knew he could smell that grill from inside because proximity mattered. There was no other way to deliver a beautiful steak of art from too far. The temperature and time from grill to plate to table were key. Still, I could feel myself melting between grill and outdoor temperature.

Earlier that morning I was busier than a one-legged man in a dance contest on ice, uphill! Fresh veggies cleaned and prepped for a scrumptious salad, check. Potatoes baking slowly in the oven, check. Milk, holy cow, I needed fresh milk. I turned off the oven (safety first) and bolted to the store a mile or so down the road. That was the fastest I ever drove to a store and back. Tires squealed as I stopped short of hitting the garage door and shifted to park. I almost broke the shift knob. Sheesh. Stress was not my favorite element and usually I didn’t have so much.

It was cool that I got awarded the contract to provide meals the way I do, but this was an extraordinary situation, and the meal was meant to be everything the man could imagine it would be. There is no doubt that I wouldn’t trade places, no way. But the food being readied was absolute killer. So delicious were the aromas from the baking, veggies, and now the grill that I heard my own stomach bark like a hungry Rottweiler. Did I forget to eat myself? Maybe, but there was so little time to make something that required mouthwatering patience.

The fresh milk went into my batter, and the pan was practically smiling on its way into the oven. In minutes, the smell was heavenly. That smell is about as close to heaven as a living man can get. Another thirty minutes passed, my sweet frosting was applied and cooled. All the goodies were loaded into the car, including the portable Weber grill for the steak to be finalized.

Here I was outside looking in. The wheeled cart was ready, the tray was stable, and the beef was cooked to perfection. On the tray was that yummy steak, a heaping helping of creamy mashed potatoes, which swirled with a touch of golden butter, and the biggest slice of chocolate cake I could manage to plate without a crack or a crumb falling off.

The escort service arrived at the main entrance, and I wheeled in the smells and sights that made anyone crave a meal. I saw him there at the end of the corridor, he was seated and smiling. He wasn’t looking at me but was nodding his head and saying thanks. The priest walked out to make room for the cart. The escort service, stiff uniforms on each, backed up a touch and I was allowed to introduce the man to his last meal. He looked at me only once, then forked his way through the Black Angus and placed it in his mouth. He cried. It shook me hard when I saw the tears.

He finished everything except the slice of chocolate cake. Then he looked at me again. He placed a fork of cake in his mouth while staring at me through the bars. He was delighted. All I heard were moans of hmmn, hmmn. He was delighted. All in all, I was glad to have a hand in sending him to his maker with a satisfying meal in his belly. Although it had been years, this was my redemption too. I forgave him for their deaths and was relieved to see the meal was worthy. The rest was up to God.