Page 59 of The Man I Hate

I was as satisfied as I’d been in a long, long time. Something about preparing an impromptu meal with Anna was therapeutic. Beating the shit out of the chicken was an added bonus.

“I’m actually enjoying this,” I said.

“Me, too.” She smiled a cheesy grin. “Are you ready to continue?”

“Sure.”

“Put the two eggs in a bowl and beat them with a fork. Not like you beat the chicken. Beat, as in, whip. You’ve scrambled eggs before, haven’t you?”

“I have.”

“Do that to them,” she said. “Then, get three plates. Dump the flour-spice mixture on one of them, the breadcrumb mixture on the other, and leave the third one clean.”

I gathered the things she’d asked me to. She guided me through the process of coating the chicken in the flour mixture, the beaten eggs, and the breadcrumbs. I then transferred the chicken breast to the plate.

“We’re going to fry that in a skillet at medium high heat for about two minutes a side, and then we’re going to cook it in the oven,” she explained. “While it’s cooking in the oven, we’re going to prepare the salad. Get you skillet and grab the little bottle of oil, okay?”

With Anna’s guidance, I fried the chicken, coated it in the sauce she provided, and then placed the two slices of mozzarella cheese on top.

My past experience with cooking included hamburgers, steaks on the grille, a variety of eggs, and sandwiches. Feeling like an accomplished chef, I placed the rather attractive creation on the mangled cookie sheet and slid it into the oven.

“I feel like I could do this on my own the next time,” I said proudly. “Hell, it was easy.”

“The next step is this…” She pressed her hands into the flour mixture. She presented them to the camera. She then made two white handprints against the otherwise spotless midriff of her dress. She smiled. “Now, it’s your turn.”

“Why would I do that?” I asked.

“Because,” she replied. “It’s fun.”

I had nothing to lose. I reluctantly covered my favorite purple-pink shirt in flour handprints, laughing the entire time. It was the first time in as long as I could remember that I had laughed out loud.

I patted my hands against my shirt, repeatedly. When I stopped, I was covered in flour. So was the island, the floor, and the barstools.

“Are you done?” she asked, trying to catch her breath from laughing, too. “Holy cow. You’re a mess.”

“Done? I think so,” I replied. I looked at the mess I’d made. “I needed that.”

“Wash your hands,” she said. “That flour had raw chicken in it. You don’t want to live through the coronavirus and then get salmonella.”

After washing our hands, we prepared the mozzarella and tomato salad. When the salad was finished, I removed the chicken from the oven.

With a glass of wine and a plate filled with food, I sat at the table and situated the camera in front of me.

“I was raised in the bible belt,” she said. “When I was a kid, we prayed before we ate. It’s been a while, but do you care if I say a prayer? Before we eat?”

Like most people I knew, I prayed when I saw no other alternative. Not having prayed in nearly a decade, I’d now said a dozen prayers in two days. Allowing Anna to say a prayer wasn’t going to hurt matters one bit.

“Go right ahead,” I said.

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Hap.”

“Bow your head,” she said.

I closed my eyes and lowered my head.

“Heavenly father, we come before you on this day to ask your blessing on this food. We also ask that you consider placing your healing hands on Hap Rourke—and on anyone else that’s been stricken by this awful disease—because recovery, at least for some, has been difficult. Lastly, we’d like to ask that you give us the gifts of understanding and of acceptance, because sometimes, understanding your will is difficult. That leaves accepting it equally as difficult. We humbly ask these things in your name, Amen.”