Liver & Onions and Other Gross Things
short story by Kim Moes
content/trigger warning: discussions and depictions of social anxiety, illness, child abuse, and aversions to food
The silence on my end of the phone stretches. Oh, the dreaded third date. First dates often revolve around coffee. Second dates involve dinner at a favorite restaurant, maybe a movie. But the third date? Why does it always have to be dinner at someone’s house? I simmer my panic attack and propose other options. Nope. Mike wants to cook for me. And what does a home-cooked meal almost always include? Onions. And I don’t do onions.
As an adult, if I admit my aversion to onions, people often tease me by saying, “Don’t worry, you won’t taste them.” And I always counter by asking why they bothered to put onions in their dish then. They shrug, turn around, and ask someone else over for dinner. What most people don’t know or realize is that onions are dipped in the gravy of my childhood trauma. Liver is too, but thankfully, that would be unusual for a third date.
Pretty sure it was about my fifth trip around the sun when liver and onions were first introduced to my unknowing and unsuspecting mouth. Served on happy little plates with happy little flowers. Why was all the décor in the '70s dripping with orange and yellow? Why did everyone call them cheerful colors when to me they were the saddest crayons in my entire 64-pack? I had sharpened all the variations of yellow and orange until they were little stubs the size of the nail on my baby finger. Cornflower blue was my favorite crayon because on paper, it could be even closer to invisible than sky blue, if you colored softly enough. If I could choose a superpower, it would be invisibility. Unfortunately, both I and a dreaded plate of liver and onions are far from that.
My parents called the onions caramelized. Do not make the same mistake I did and think this term referred to those little Kraft cubes we could buy for pennies at the corner store. No. A better and more fitting term would be slimy-fried. Turned out that closing my eyes, plugging my nose, and swallowing the onions whole took most of the nightmare away. But when my stepdad realized what I was doing, he would bait me with: “Chew your dinner. Don’t you think your mother wishes she could eat like that?” My mom, paralyzed from a car accident when I was four years old, had to be fed by tubes. She’d always be at the dinner table though, in her wheelchair, with her corduroy-brown eyes hovering beneath damp lashes.
The liver, I remember, was hard and unforgiving as it barreled down my throat. No amount of ketchup or steak sauce could cover up the taste, smell, or texture. Liver was always the last to leave my plate, just like I was always the last to leave the table, left there until bedtime because I couldn’t finish my dinner. Squeezing my eyes shut, I would dream of tearing down the flowered kitchen curtains to fly away into the night on my makeshift magic carpet. The stars, I imagined, would give me the strength to take my mom with me on my rescue flight.
There wasn’t a rescue flight then, and there won’t be one now. My mom has since escaped, but I’m still here. I crank the rusty dial on my courage, giving me strength to say yes to dinner.
I arrive and smell the onions from the apartment hallway. Mike’s excitement is contagious, and I smile as he hands me a glass of red wine. He’s made spaghetti and meatballs.
The candles are lit. Some light from the kitchen spills into the dining area, making Mike’s eyes appear almost cornflower blue. He lifts his forkful, waiting for me to join in the first bite. I twirl the spaghetti onto my fork, seeing a few onions clinging to the noodles as they spin around and around. We cheer our forks midair. I pretend to propel an airplane and let the first bite land on my tongue.
The spaghetti is soft enough to chew without letting my teeth fully touch. This helps prevent the onions from grinding between my teeth. A sliver of an onion gropes one of my back teeth. I close my eyes to fight back nausea. I visit an imaginary land. The partially chewed bite slithers down my throat. Opening my eyes, I feign a smile. The engine revs in my stomach, yet I keep the bite down. Success.
As a child, I was no stranger to climbing inside my mind and shutting off all my senses, having mastered the art by the time I was four.
There are far worse things to have in your mouth.