Mrs. Winchester V. A Table for One

The dining room. But this dining room. A secret dining room - off the kitchen, and down one and twelve steps to what previously, I believe, was a pantry. A single chair and a small table. For one. For me.

From a very young age, I have thought that eating in company was a rather beastly practice - especially if conversation was involved! I’ve done it of course, and do it, but rarely with pleasure. I have never been able to completely shrug off the self-consciousness that, in front of others, I am… well… ingesting. One true advantage of having lived alone for almost forty years, has been the taking of my meals in solitude. The majority right here, in this private dining room, with its dollhouse window overlooking a distant pasture.

I arranged my single place setting, and served myself these beautiful tamales on a brown ceramic plate. At first, I had some difficulty sawing into the plump things, then realized that they were swaddled in cornhusks meant to be unwrapped, not sawed. When the sweaty treats were liberated, a savory steam rose up, and it seemed like I was smelling the entire history of Mexico.

I took a first bite, and then a second, and then a third. I detected flavor, but sadly, I could not quite taste it. I thought it similar to seeing a very handsome person and feeling no thrum of desire. But I sensed quality, and found myself eating almost as if, indeed, I had appetite.

Then I nearly died. Or felt as if I might. My throat seized up, my face flushed, and my chest burned. I thought I was about to spontaneously combust. I rushed to the kitchen, and rather indecorously began gulping water from the sink faucet. It did no good; I was on fire. I braced myself against every available surface: the butcher block, the spice rack, the service cart, the stovepipe, and somehow returned to my table. I was alone in the house, I couldn’t have screamed if I wanted to, and in any case, no one would have heard me. It was as if I had bit into a beehive, and was suffering the logical outcome. I seemed to perspire from every pore, and had to undo the collar of my dress. In time, the intensity began to subside, but my tongue was swollen, and it was perhaps another twenty minutes before I realized I was not going to die. Not that night.

Then, I did a very odd thing; I lifted my fork and continued to eat. The result was the same. And I put myself through this tortuous cycle four full times, until my plate was empty, and I sat in my chair, undone, like someone ravaged.

My recovery was slow but eventually my pulse and breathing normalized. What I felt, after the experience, was not relief.

It was elation.

That plate of tamales has become one of the most significant meals of my life. It was the occasion to relish not flavor - that would return, somewhat, in time - but sensation.

All night, my body tingled and throbbed as if it were a benumbed limb remembering its nerves.

“Jalapeños”, Mr. Gallegos later told me.

“Jalapeños!” I said, and would repeat the word like a mantra on days when the house was drafty.

That Christmas we had our feast. Tamales of every kind graced the tables of the newly twinned dining rooms - North, savory, South sweet. We had cerveza and tequila, guava punch for the little ones, and with dessert, a hot, thick, bittersweet chocolate drink sharpened by cinnamon.

Myself aside, this house - still modest at the time but with stirrings - was full of appetite.

I did feel hunger but it was a hunger for more sensation. And I would have more - in private. The captain dines last, in quarters, alone, by choice. That Christmas evening, she would enjoy, or shall we say experience, a special plate prepared and put aside by the Gallegos. Tamales de puerco muy picantes.

Thus, to a little pepper of the west, I give thanks. If not for a complete renewal of appetite, then for its counterpart: the craving of a still-living body for heat.

From Mrs. Winchester, or, A Gun in the First Act by Joe Christiano

Next: The Bath