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Sunday Supper

September 20, 2013

Timmy whittled away the afternoon. He sat with his brother, Jimmy, on the front porch. “There’s more meat on a human head than you might think,” he stated. Jimmy paused from doing nothing long enough to contemplate just where one would find meat on a human head.

“The face, the jaw, all around the ears and skull,” Timmy guided his brother’s imagination. “Meat everywhere. I bet you could eat well for a week off a single head.” The two entertained simultaneous images of scraping head meat into a frying pan and serving it up with garlic and butter bread. At the height of their imaginary meal, the screen door slammed as their grandfather stepped onto the porch.

“The only problem with head meat,” he said as he ran his thumbs down the inside of his overall straps, “is all the foolish ideas that have run through it taints the meat. Makes it taste awful.” He lifted his leg to rest his boot on the railing, rubbing a spot out with a spittled thumb. “Can you imagine the spoilt flavor of some damn yankee?” He huffed, smiled, and went back inside. “Trust me,” he called from the shadows, “it ain’t good.”

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