by Diane Nantais
(750 words)
There was something about the ritual of cooking that Kate Winters found deeply gratifying. The careful selection and preparation of ingredients, the specific weights and measurements and instructions, the indulgent results; the whole process soothed something inside of her.
Tonight, that sentiment felt particularly true. It was her first real Thanksgiving and she had spent days pouring through cookbooks, searching for ingredients, even procuring a few new kitchen implements, all in pursuit of the perfect menu.
Holidays as a child were never celebratory; they were spent hiding from her mother’s alcohol-induced vitriol and her father’s wandering hands. As an adult she was determined to reclaim those lost days. Alone or not, she had vowed to make holidays special again.
Kate hummed cheerfully to herself as she sipped her favourite shiraz and began mixing the ingredients for the perfect flaky, buttery pie crust. Tourtiére was certainly an unorthodox choice for Thanksgiving, but it was exactly right for her. This was a personal celebration, her own version of self-care, and she’d always felt that turkey was overrated.
Of course, her foster parents—she had managed to escape her birth parents in high school—celebrated holidays and made a genuine attempt to include her, but she never felt the sense of closeness and camaraderie that she assumed came with being a blood relative.
Later, much later, Kate realized it had nothing to do with the lack of biological connection; she simply couldn’t feel those things. In fact, she didn’t feel much of anything besides anger and the occasional vague sense of contentment. Not happiness, she didn’t think, maybe just the absence of unhappiness.
Like when she was cooking. Adding the perfect blend of spices to the simmering pie filling gave her a profound sense of satisfaction. However, a quick taste of the mixture produced a grimace—needs more salt, and more time. She dutifully stirred in a generous palmful of kosher salt, the way she’d read about in Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat. This meal had to be perfect.
Two weeks ago, some drunk asshole careened into an oncoming lane of traffic and killed her foster parents. In the briefest of moments, the only two good people in her world were snuffed out of existence. Kate assumed normal people would be devastated, heartbroken, and a slew of other adjectives that had little meaning to her. Instead, her perpetual, slow-burning anger exploded into a raging inferno. Adding fuel to that fire was the fact that the drunk asshole had also died at the scene, effectively escaping justice.
Kate couldn’t assuage her fury by seeking vengeance for her foster parents, but she could pursue her own revenge. She had spent years daydreaming about retribution, planning each minute detail of an infinite number of ways to repay her birth parents for her shattered childhood. Respect for her foster family was the only thing that had stopped her from enacting those daydreams; she was reasonably certain that homicide would upset them.
But now they were beyond the veil, untouchable by the cluckings and misdeeds of the living.
Kate poured her perfectly seasoned filling into the waiting pie shell and placed the top crust with an affectionate gesture, sealing the edges with a delicate but firm touch. For a festive flourish, she cut out a simple pumpkin design in the top. Almost ready.
Killing her birth parents had been disappointingly anticlimactic, even unremarkable. They’d never left her childhood home and spent so much time drinking that overpowering them had been child’s play.
Fortunately, an unexpected challenge had risen and returned the entire endeavour to an experience worthy of all her planning and preparation. She’d had a general understanding of dismemberment, having taken advantage of the world’s obsession with true crime, but she hadn’t a clue which pieces would produce the best meat to be ground for her tourtiére. She was a chef, not a butcher, and although they had discussed meat in its various forms and cuts in culinary school, human meat hadn’t been touched upon.
The kitchen timer resounded, bringing Kate back to the present and prompting her to remove the meat pie from the oven. In the end she had chosen thigh muscle, given that it was the most abundant. Judging by the mouth-watering aroma wafting out of the oven, she had chosen correctly.
Kate cut herself a hefty serving and refilled her wine glass, a smile playing upon her lips. She finally had her perfect holiday, family and all.
END
Diane Nantais is a Canadian ICU nurse that spends her free time writing horror fiction and arguing with her cats. (They started it!) Find her on Twitter @NantaisWriter.