A Celebration

Toward the far end of our property is a small graveyard, hidden behind a fringe of cedars. We bury him there in the spring and celebrate with a bottle of Francois Montand, letting the foam drip onto the dark earth and grass seed. We have no glasses so we take drags from the bottle between drags from our cigarettes as we stare into the dirt. Come high summer only the grasses and Queen Anne’s lace will mark this spot.

“Let’s save the rest for the cheese,” she says and spits on the ground, already turning back toward the house. This is fine enough for me. There’s a thin, biting wind whistling through the trees and I’ve long ago begun to feel uneasy. A light fog is clinging to the hollows of the field and the few surviving patches of snow there and the long blue shadows of the cedars claw at our backs as we scurry away from the woods.

By the time we reach the house it’s dark. I must have been walking far faster than I thought because I’m out of breath as I tumble through the door. I can still feel a low pulse of fear beating in time with my heart but it lessens once we’re both over the threshold. Only a single low lamp is on at the far end of the kitchen, illuminating a fat, bright round of Brillat-Savarin, its rind a pure white haze of mold. She cuts it and the inside is a pale buttery yellow to match our Brut which I have transferred to flutes for the occasion. Unsmiling we toast the victory of our revenge with the sweetness of heavenly decadence.


-- Kyle Volland

Wine: Francois Montand Brut, France
Cheese: Brillat-Savarin, France