An Eggplant Sandwich from St. Lawrence Market

This piece was originally written by Misia Robins in 2011 for an English assignment that was on our comfort food. Our grade 11 English teacher declared it to be the best piece in our class, and as a prize she was supposed to receive the eggplant sandwich that she wrote about. She has yet to receive it. 

I told her ‘No.’ I told her ‘Not tonight. I can’t take it.’ And the next morning I took a bus to Heathrow and hopped a plane back home.  Airplane food sucks. Besides, I don’t have much of an appetite. I’m uncomfortable and unhappy with the way I’ve left things. Planes don’t serve the kind of food I need. Planes, by definition, cannot serve comfort food. Comfort food is something familiar and consistent. A dish that reminds me of home and family. When eating becomes a safety net, comfort food is something I can fall back on. It is not the pre-wrapped, dried-out, reheated rice and chickpea dish offered to me by a friendly flight attendant. Airplane food sucks.

So, when on my sixteenth birthday I get off the plane at Terminal 3 and there is no one there to meet me, I take the airport shuttle to the subway, and the subway to King station. I walk the four blocks East to St. Lawrence Market, still carrying all my possessions on my back. I fish through my wallet’s contents – euros and pounds and train ticket stubs – for the purple bill I’d carried with me all summer.

“One eggplant sandwich please. On foccacia. Thanks.”

An eggplant sandwich… the ultimate comfort food. I know exactly what to expect when I peel back that tinfoil wrapper. The well-known smell of oregano, tomatoes, garlic, onion, fried eggplant – It’s the smell of my father’s kitchen. I breathe the smell in and out. It’s good. I haven’t breathed in a while. I manage to claim a seat in the busy market eating space. I take off my big red backpack with a sigh of relief and, sitting down, I rest my feet on it. I take a big sloppy bite of my sandwich.

An eggplant sandwich reminds me of home. I dread moving out of Toronto for fear of inferior eggplant sandwiches. When we lived in university housing my parents would take us to the market almost every Saturday. We’d buy apple cider and fresh produce and listen to the busker who looks like Ray Charles playing Twinkle Twinkle or Frere Jaques on the saxophone. Then we’d cross the street to the bustle of the weekday market. If we’d been good (or rather, if my dad was in a good mood and there was enough money left over after groceries), we’d split an eggplant sandwich. One sandwich is a substantial meal, even for three small people. My brother and I would sit still and strain our ears to hear my father’s paraphrased versions of Don Quixote and Dante’s Inferno. But we have outgrown the stories, the weekly market trips, and these memories have been captured and condensed into the taste of an eggplant sandwich.

The market basement is cozy. Tunes from buskers’  jazz guitars and saxophones find my ears over the white noise of the crowd. This bombardment of the senses leaves no room for regrets. I am tired; travel can be exhausting. I am still so annoyed at myself for leaving Britain without saying a proper good-bye. We both knew my ticket was for today. I should have made some sort of resolution. Screw it. I manage (with some difficulty) to get my jaw around a thick chunk of foccaccia and tear it off. I chew.

Going further back, home is New Jersey. My parents, brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles are all down there right now, enjoying eggplant-parmesan hoagies from Hoagie Haven. There’s this blend of American and Italian foods that I find such reassurance in, and it’s embodied here; the blend of lettuce, onions, peppers, eggplant and tomato sauce sandwiched between two thick slices of foccaccia bread is so satisfying. And it’s the same taste, same ingredients, same ratio each time – unlike girls, eggplant sandwiches are totally reliable. An eggplant sandwich is there for me when I need it.

With each bite the excitement of Europe and Summer seem further away. My situation is controllable. I’ll deal with her later. Right now I need to celebrate my birthday and homecoming with a gift to myself… As birthday presents go, an eggplant sandwich isn’t too bad.

Kiss Me Kate

“Kiss me,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She said.

They were together in the living room. In daylight, the room would’ve been bright, but now deep in the night, it is pitch-black and neither he nor she could see a thing. But this was of little concern to them.

“Why not?” He asked impatiently. “You’ve kissed me before.”

“Yeah – when we were having sex.” She said.

“What makes this any different?”

“Why do you want to kiss me anyway?” She ignored his question.

He was just going to tell her to answer his question first – something she always tells him to do whenever they had an argument – but he relented. Instead, he responded by saying, “I love you.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “I love you, too.”

Now he was annoyed. “Then why won’t you kiss me?”

“Lovers have to kiss? Why?” – he knew this was a rhetorical question, but still he answered. “Everyone else who is in love do.”

“And are we like everyone else?” She asked. “Are we?”

“No.” He said quietly.

“Exactly.” Unlike all of their previous arguments, there wasn’t the usual tone of victory in her voice, nor was there a sense of relief. They waited together in the dark. “But why don’t you want to kiss?”

It was now her time to pause. “I just dislike it as an expression of love.”

“Why?”

“Why do you love me?” She was doing it again. But once again, he answered. “You are a funny and charming person.” He whispered. “And you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

That made her chuckle. “So you are saying that you don’t love me because of my ‘golden complexion?’ Or because of my ‘sweet breath?’”

He protested, but she stopped him. “If you love me for what I say, then listen. You don’t have to kiss me.” She paused. “Now, let’s talk about something a little bit more pleasant, like Owner’s…”

He wasn’t ready to let it go. “That’s not the only reason. I know it isn’t. Tell me.”

Before she could answer, a loud thud came from the bedroom at the end of the hallway. They waited for the sound to pass, before she sighed and said: “You are right. There is another reason. I” – she faltered – “I don’t want to lose myself.”

“What?”

“What did you have for breakfast today?” There she goes again.

“Scrambled eggs.” He said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“If I were to kiss you,” she ignored the question, “then wouldn’t I taste that scrambled egg?”

That made him chuckle. “Only if we do it for a really long time.”

“Not only would I taste what you ate,” she continued, “I would also taste the cigarettes you smoked behind my back. The mouthwash you used to hide the fact that you smoked. And the beer you drank after we had an argument about you and the cigarettes.

He was confused. “So?”

“Don’t you get it? I will be overwhelmed by all those tastes, all those flavours. The flavours of your life. At the same time, you would be tasting the flavours of my life. Now I love you.” He was at lost for what to do. “I love you so much. But if we kiss all the time, one day my mouth will have the stench of cigarettes, and I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”

As she said those words, he could almost detect a hint of a sob or two, but he couldn’t be sure because the room was dark. He wanted to hold her, but he couldn’t.

The next day, a scruffy man and the girl he picked up at the bar last night exited the bedroom.

“Nice living room you’ve got there.” The girl giggled.

“I know right,” The man couldn’t contain his gloating smile as he opened the pantry. “So want do you want for breakfast, Justine?”

“It’s Kate.” The girl walked over to where he and she were looking at each other. “Ooh… cool paintings!” The girl picked her up. “This girl was drawn with such clear lines.”

“You want it?” He was desperate for a second date.

“Sure!” She quickly unhanged the painting from the wall. “I especially love the way her mouth is drawn.”

Peek-a-Boo

It was a bright and sunny day.
I strolled on without a care.
Keeping the debtors at my bay,
was not an easy fare.
I stopped pushing the baby in the carriage
in the crisp and clean air.
She smiled at me. Gently I stooped low, letting
my lush red hair fall to
her thin thistle of golden hair. Lovingly,
Quietly, with my own pair
of scab-filled hands I covered her eyes
and then her nose. Mouthing “peak-a-boo,”
it took me little strength to push down
until she breathed no more. But the rosy complexion of the baby’s cheeks
do remain. I thought that
she looked like an angel.
Nearby a bird squawked within the leaves
but no one could hear.
Alas no one could hear.

Hercules’ Hunt for the Hydra

What Hercules noticed at first on his way to slay the Hydra was the stone statues that littered on his way there. They were mostly of shoppers, which made sense, since he was inside a shopping mall right now. Some of the shoppers that were walking beside him possessed handbags. Some of them possessed screaming balls of fury. And some of them had a facial expression that told Hercules that they had unfortunately urinated just before their petrification. Hercules even saw a statue of a bodybuilder that had a similar physique as him and was flexing. As he stood near the statue to admire the body, he suddenly heard a hiss behind him.

“Stop staring at him. Just because he was an ex-boyfriend doesn’t mean that I don’t have any feelings for him.”

Hercules turned around and then immediately began to scream. The person now standing in front of him continued. “I just had to get out, you know? He was getting too heavy on me, you know? Every time I wanted to do something adventurous, he just kept on crushing my dreams.” She – it was a female – walked over to the biceps of the bodybuilder. “Well, I guess he’s much heavier now, considering that his body is now composed of stone. What a shame. He was so keen on being fit.”

Hercules was still screaming. The other shoppers looked at him briefly, before quickly resuming to their shopping lists and their plastic-filled purses and their screaming balls of fury. The woman who was speaking to him was wearing a pair of extremely tacky sunglasses: the round rimmed ones with the tinted shades. In fact, all her clothes made her look like that she just came back from the seventies. She also had snakes on her head where normal people had hair.

Hercules paused his screaming for a little bit to catch his breathe. Just as he was ready to resume his screaming, the woman yelled at him. “Excuse me! These sunglasses belonged to Prince at the height of his fame. You have no right to laugh at me. Look at what you’re wearing. The Hipster look is hardly any better.”

Hercules suddenly became very self-conscious about his cigarette pants and his thick-rimmed glasses. He stopped tapping the floor with his Oxfords, and he crossed his arms to hide the V-neck slope of his shirt. He tried to hide his iPhone 5 and pull the earplugs out of his ears. But Medusa was quick to catch him.

“And what were you listening to? Arcade Fire? Really now? Their songs are shit.” The snakes on her head hissed in agreement.

Hercules nervously looked around him. The shoppers walking around him still paid no attention to him. They also didn’t pay attention to the snake-haired woman. Instead, their minds seemed to be focusing on the stores with their flashy displays and their too impeccably dressed mannequins. Hercules gulped in fear as two middle-aged women carried around their flabby wrists bags and bags of Abercrombie and Fitch (with the half-naked male models) clothes towards him. A young boy, no older than ten, walked behind them. He was wearing a pair of baggy jeans that were too big for his age, and he had in his hands an ice cream cone with sprinkles on top. As he walked past Hercules, he looked at his V-neck T-shirt and snickered.     

Almost like karma, the ice cream flied out of the boy`s hands and landed on Medusa’s jewel-embedded platform shoes. Hercules immediately covered his eyes as Medusa removed her sunglasses. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the boy standing there. Only that he was a statue. Hercules quickly scrambled for the sword app on his iPhone, but Medusa impatiently waved him down.

“This is the wrong myth – you’re here to kill the Hydra, right? It’s over there at the food court.” She scanned Hercules contemptuously for one last time before turning around. “It’s also naked – showing that it has a better sense of fashion than you. Farewell.”

The sound her platform shoes made with the floor echoed in the shopping mall for a second, and then disappeared as she dissolved in the crowd. It took Hercules quite some time before he could find the food court; the signs confused him. When he arrived there however, nobody was there. The lights were all off. The chairs were tumbled over, and there is a trail of oil leading into the McDonald’s kitchen. Hercules took out his iPhone, and pressed play for “Party Rock Anthem.”

Roar. The Hydra came running outside the kitchen, with its reptilian body and all its nine heads. But Hercules was ready. He immediately pressed the sword app. A light saber extended out of the tip of the iPhone. He quickly cut off one of the Hydra’s heads. But as soon as it fell, a new head grew out.

Hercules smiled. He had known about this since last night, when he went on Wikipedia to research on the Hydra. Yahoo! Answers also showed him what he was about to do next. He dashed inside the McDonald’s kitchen, following his nose. Sure enough, he saw what he needed. There was still an ample amount of oil inside the deep fryer. He quickly grabbed a coke cup – the supersize one – and filled it with the golden liquid. He rushed outside. The Hydra came running at him. Hercules again sliced one of the heads off. As it was about to regenerate, he poured the oil on it. The Hydra emitted a terrible scream, and its long slender neck remained a stub.

All of a sudden, the lights were turned on. A squad of people soon pushed Hercules down and handcuffed him. “Hercules, you are under arrest for poaching an endangered species,” a man dressed in leather said to him. As Hercules looked up, he saw the Hydra being tended to by a group of veterinarians. “We really need to thank that snake-haired woman for calling us here.” He heard the police officer say. “Skinning a poor, innocent animal for fashion? Disgusting.” He glanced at Hercules. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”

 

            

Benedick and The Book of the Courtier

Il Cortegiano – or The Book of the Courtier – was a book written by Baldassare Castiglione in the sixteenth century, and it consists of fictional conversations between various characters within the court of Duke Urbino regarding the qualities a perfect courtier – and the lady of his affection – must possess. The qualities discussed came to define the code of chivalry for its time, (Burke), and Collington and Scott both identified many similarities between characters from The Courtier and characters from Much Ado: Elisabetta Gonzagza and Hero; Emilia Pia and Beatrice; Duke Guidobaldo and Leonato. Scott also points out that the bantering between Lady Emilia and Lord Gaspare “is strongly suggestive of Benedick and Beatrice.” The character Benedick would eventually attain the status of the courtier, as can be seen through his defence of Hero after her slander, especially in the chivalric way he treats Hero and the way he stands up to Don Pedro.

The “chief conditions and qualities in a courtier” (Castiglione) consist of traits in “fields as distant or different as arms, letters, arts, music, conversation, sports, dancing, and telling jokes.” (Saccone) But the two most important qualities that a courtier must possess are concepts known as sprezzatura and grazia. Sprezzatura refers to the act of “conceal[ing] all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.” (Castiglione) Castiglione also wrote that “the Courtier ought to accompany all his doings, gestures, demeanors, finally all his motions with a grace.” This grace, or grazia, “consists of, or rather is obtained through, sprezzatura.” (Saccone) Despite the messenger’s proclamation that he is a man “stuffed with / all honourable virtues,” _(1.1.52-53) it can be seen that initially Benedick is neither skilled in the art of sprezzatura, nor does he possess grazia. His aversion and misogynistic attitudes toward women are not at all “gentle, sober, meek, lowly, modest, serviceable, comely, merry, not biting or laundering with jests.” (Castiglione) He “hath every month / a new sworn brother,” _(1.1.66-67) and he “hang upon him like a disease.” _(1.1.79) One of the characters from The Courtier comments “that a man must in his protestation and counterfeiting take heed that he be not like commune jesters and parasites, and such as with fond matters move men to laugh.” When he first enters the play, he jokes of Leonato being a cuckold, directly disobeying one of Castiglione’s principles, to “not to be overseen in speaking words otherwhile that may offend where he meant it not,” leading Beatrice to say to him, “nobody marks you.” _(1.1.109) As Beatrice observes, he “always end with a jade’s trick.” _(1.1.136) after she insults him. At the dance, she further describes him as “the Prince’s jester, a very dull fool,” _(2.1.123) and that other men “laugh at him and beat him.” _(2.1.127­) Later on, Benedick’s rant to Don Pedro about her and the fact that he cannot come up with a comeback implies that there is some truth to what she has said. Much later on in the play, the way Claudio and Don Pedro treats Benedick’s challenge supports what Beatrice has said: Cladio says that he will accept Benedick’s challenge so that “he may have good cheer,” while Don Pedro cries “what, a feast, a feast?” _{(5.1.147-148)}

In his defense of Hero’s honour, however, Benedick rises. The first aspect of his reaction to Hero’s slander that shows him to be a courtier is his chivalric response to Hero’s suffering. Upon Claudio and Don Pedro’s accusations that Hero is “but the sign and semblance of her honour,” _(4.1.31) Benedick was the only man that employs reason and questions Beatrice regarding Hero’s whereabouts at nights. The usage of reason in a man’s treatment of women is approved by Castiglione, as he writes that a courtier’s love towards women should “not to be sensual or fleshly, but honest and godly, and more ruled with reason, than appetite.” He is also willing to abandon his former friends in favour of challenging Claudio to a duel. The “I jest not” _(5.1.142) in the opening line of his aside to Claudio marks a turning point for his transformation from “the Prince’s jester” to a courtier. After Claudio and Don Pedro mock Hero during the wedding, Benedick admonishes and castigates them for their behaviour during his challenge: “I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades.” _{(5.1.178-180)} As Collington writes, his “willingness to defend a wronged lady’s honor, even to the point of defying his prince, distinguishes him as having achieved the highest level of service outlined in The Courtier.”

Another aspect of Benedick’s response to Hero’s fall is his open defiance to Don Pedro, his prince. This is in contrast to Claudio, who asks for Don Pedro’s permission at every turn, and would only pursue Hero after Don Pedro describes her as “very well worthy.” _(1.1.205) Castiglione asks all courtiers “to become an Instructor and Teacher of his Prince or Lord, inclining him to virtuous practises: and to be frank and free with him.” Furthermore, when he knows that his prince is making a mistake, the courtier has a duty “to be bold to stand with him in it, and to take courage after an honest sort at the favour which he hath gotten him through his good qualities, to dissuade him from every ill purpose, and to set him in the way of virtue.” Benedick fulfills this obligation by challenging Claudio, whose decision to scorn Hero was supported by Don Pedro. His advising towards Don Pedro extends beyond what happened to Hero, as he advises Don Pedro to “get thee a wife, get thee a wife.” _(5.4.120) Through the events that have transpired in the play, Benedick is transformed from a jester to a courtier.

By abandoning the world of men in favour of upholding Hero’s innocence, Benedick manages to stand higher than Claudio and Don Pedro. Through his chivalric defence of Hero’s honour and his ability to oppose Don Pedro when he has made an error, Benedick is able to become the courtier as described by Castigione in The Courtier – and become the primary hero of the play. 

Works Cited

Burke, Peter. The Fortunes of the Courtier: The European Reception of Castiglione’s Cortegiano. University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania University Press, 1996. Print.

Castiglione, Baldassare. The Book of the Courtier. London: University of Oregon Press, 1900. Print.

Collington, Philip. “‘Stuffed with All Honourable Virtues’: Much Ado about Nothing and The Book of the Courtier.” Studies in Philology. 103.3 (2006): 281-312. Print.

Saccone, Eduardo. “The Portrait of the Courtier in Castiglione.” Italica. 64.1 (1987): 1-18. Print.

Scott, Mary. “The Book of the Courtyer: A Possible Source of Benedick and Beatrice.” PMLA. 16.4 (1901): 475-502. Print.

Chicken Feet

Sure I remember.
I remember the smog, the grey sky,
and the soulless eyes.
The loudspeaker, the propaganda,
the fat men eating chicken feet atop the pagoda.
The finger prints on the bill as it was presented
as a bribe.
The heat and pressure that covered and baked and steamed cities only to produce lumps of 小笼包
with decayed meat and dirty shell.
So I don’t understand
why you all seem to love that hell.
You love it; you praise it.
Even when it was scratching you till you bleed;
Even when it was bleeding you dry;
Even when the destitute poor cry
and all the elite –
the “diligent” hard workers that “earned” all they had
sit atop the pagodas eating chicken feet.

Death of a Salaryman

Morris Bloom tried to clean the spilled coffee off of his shirt with his gray linen handkerchief. Beneath him, he could feel the cold pavement against his back. He looked up. The indomitable sky scrapers looked back at him blankly

It was an autumn morning. One minute ago, the bank teller was walking down the street with a cup of coffee, when, of all things, a toilet seat fell from one of the skyscrapers and hit him in the head. Remarkably, the toilet seat managed to land gracefully on the ground without any signs of damage. Morris had no such luck.

A significant crowd has gathered around him. He could hear the snickers, the sighs, the rare sob. Soon, the sound of a siren will soar through it all, and he – his corpse to be more precise – will be hauled away, and it would be as if he had never existed.

Twenty four minutes ago, on his way to work, he drove past the very ambulance that will be carrying his dead body.

A hand reached down. “I thought you might need a hand.” Morris took the hand and got up. He looked at his watch. “You’re late,” he said to the adolescent girl that stood before him. “Two minutes to be exact.”

“Oh yeah? Kill me.” The girl stuck her tongue out and winked. Morris found her to be unfathomable. She was wearing jeans from Abercrombie and Fitch, a black T-shirt that said “YOU’RE DEAD TO ME,” a black necklace that extended down to her bosom – not that he was staring. But what she is, Morris could not describe if his life had depended on it – not that it ever would now. She had a bored expression on her face. It would make sense, he decided, for Death to be unfathomable.

Eighteen years ago, Morris had first begun working at this city. At that time, he had no family or friends here. So little has changed, he thought.

“Would you mind picking that up?” She pointed to the toilet seat. Morris did as he was told. Blood dripped down from it. Morris found it slightly ironic that the force that is causing the blood to drip is also what caused his death.

“Walk with me.” Death commanded, and Morris followed behind her as she walked past the crowds of people that, Morris presume, could not see them at all. They were each holding a cup of coffee cautiously, afraid to lose even a single drop. Morris often wondered about what made the cups so important. After all, it’s just coffee. Whatever it is, their carriers are absolutely captivated, and their faces are filled with terrified bliss. Like headless salmons, they never bother to look up at the sky that is ready to casts the fishing line at any moment.

“Maybe it’s not coffee.” Death suddenly commented. “Maybe it’s porpoises. Or some beef.”

“I beg your pardon?” Morris held his nose. The aroma from the coffee had combined with the exhaust fumes of the cars to settle into a very unsavoury smell.

“You know? An attraction? Regions and geology?” Seeing Morris’ lack of comprehension, Death sighed. “So,” she pointed to the toilet seat, “how come you were killed by that?”

For a second there, Morris thought that she was joking. When he realized that she wasn’t, and that one of the most powerful gods did not know the most fundamental principles of the universe, he was only able to mutter incoherent chain of words. “Gravity. Terminal velocity. Newton.” The last time Morris took physics, he was in high school. His teacher, a bald and no-nonsense man, had failed him. Death was not very impressed. “That man” – Morris presumed that she was talking about Newton – “was so dumb. Nearly shit his pants when he first saw me.” She smacked her lips. “That boy from Rwanda, on the other hand, was smart.” She closed her eyes. “Too bad the machete went straight for the head.”

Morris did not say a thing. Twenty-four years ago, he had graduated from university. Death fell silent, and they kept on walking. Eventually they passed by a large crowd. Maybe someone else died, Morris thought to himself. But Death grabbed his hand, and squeezed their ways to the front of the crowd. There, Morris saw the attraction. It was a young girl, around the same age as death. She was dancing to an invisible melody. The sound from her feet, her hands, her dress that fluttered around in the wind, pierced through the noisy silence of the streets. The crowd was so mesmerized by her that they had forgotten to sip their coffee. She looked alien, and Morris could not discern where she had come from. The girl suddenly spotted Death, and waved at her. “Come on!” Death yelled, and Morris soon found all three of them dancing in broad daylight. “How can she see us?” Morris asked, but Death was too entranced by her dance, the dance of the dead.

Thirty-five years ago, Morris’ mother had died from a very long illness. Morris had watched her take her last breath.

They danced for a long time. After they stopped, Death made Morris leave behind the toilet seat for the girl. They resumed walking, and they walked until dusk, where they arrived at a beach. Death stopped. She smiled at Morris.

“This is where we part.” She said.

“Umm… so what happens now?” Morris asked.

She shrugged. “How should I know?”

Morris looked out at the horizon where the sea mixes with the sky. A strange thought occurred to him. Salmon migrate to the sea after they are hatched. He chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. “I see,” he said.

Forty-two years ago, in a hospital somewhere, a baby boy was born to a very tired woman. Upon seeing him, she couldn’t help but smile. “I love you so much.” She said to him.

And in a flash he was gone.