sprang from the helicopter like all the cameras in the world were focused on him, waving and beaming, wearing the biggest pair of aviator sunglasses I had ever seen and a bomber jacket that looked big enough for two of him.
He stood there giving us a stadium wave, and we waved back even though the helicopter blades kicked up a wall of stinging dust.
Security surrounded him, a circle of men in gray jumpsuits, and escorted him into the enveloping privacy of the Lair, his sanctum sanctorum.
Now that Monster had been back for a few weeks, the pressure of the job was no longer busywork, my need to appear useful even if it was a demonstration for nobody but myself.
Monster discovered my number and kept me on my toes by being demanding in this odd, jellyfish-like way. He didnât complain, didnât fire me, nothing obvious, but I felt myself being weighed down by the oddness of his needs.
For some reason he took an interest in the time the garlic was picked. Before dawn was the best, but heâd accept the hour after dusk. He needed to see my logs for substantiation. It was that important to him. That was only the beginning. Soon I was keeping extensive notes on all the herbs and vegetables I picked in the various gardens. I didnât need to know why, really. It was all about keeping everything right for Monster.
But I knew it had to do with some new age mysticism, homeopathy.
Then I realized that food to him was more like the Eucharist was for me as a child, mysterious and symbolic. Monster wanted food to transform him into something better. He needed me to be the high priest of his stomach. But then he changed up on me, wanting more variety. I guess all that juice gave him the runs.
I had to be inventive with my menus. Every now and then another note from Monster would mysteriously appear, taped onto the refrigerator by hidden kitchen operatives. Thatâs how I received the directive to expand the Living Food menu, and for it to taste better, throwing down an impossible challenge, like imagining a five-sided square. He also pointed out how important it was for me to keep Rita from backsliding. Since she was carrying their baby, he wanted her to benefit fully from his eating regimen. Rita had spent a few days showing me the various ways to sign how much she hated the stuff. She passionately conveyed in writing how she refused to eat uncooked spaghetti squash. I agreed, and rededicated myself to making it easier on her, to break new ground with semiliving cuisine. I wanted to get to the point that sheâd feel good about swallowing it, but I doubted that she would if she wanted much more than salads and cold soups. Monster liked the idea of sunbaked breads and rices for philosophical reasons. Itâs so unadulterated! he wrote in his last note.
I purchased a solar-powered glass oven that worked very well on sunny days, but on overcast days Iâd just toss everything into the brick oven.
I prepared lunches for the staff too, but other than Thugâs fresh steak, nothing that bled was allowed anywhere near the kitchen. I grilled on a little hibachi on a worktable near the toolshed, where I kept a small refrigerator stocked with my meats. I ate a lot of bacon, probably too much, and steak. Maybe I wanted the stink of it to annoy Monsterâs True Believer employees, who were happy to sustain themselves on carrot juice, ground chickpeas, and heaping teaspoons of sawdust. They wanted to be as much like Monster as possible.
I worried about Rita.
She needed a diet that wouldnât starve the baby. I read that the first thing thatâs affected by malnourishment is brain size. Seemed to me that any child of Monsterâs would need all of its faculties to have a shot at a normal life. Luckily, Santa Ynez had more kinds of goat cheese than anywhere else in California. Cheese-filled dumplings, cheese breads, and rice cheese soufflé, I made it all for her because Rita needed those calories that
He stood there giving us a stadium wave, and we waved back even though the helicopter blades kicked up a wall of stinging dust.
Security surrounded him, a circle of men in gray jumpsuits, and escorted him into the enveloping privacy of the Lair, his sanctum sanctorum.
Now that Monster had been back for a few weeks, the pressure of the job was no longer busywork, my need to appear useful even if it was a demonstration for nobody but myself.
Monster discovered my number and kept me on my toes by being demanding in this odd, jellyfish-like way. He didnât complain, didnât fire me, nothing obvious, but I felt myself being weighed down by the oddness of his needs.
For some reason he took an interest in the time the garlic was picked. Before dawn was the best, but heâd accept the hour after dusk. He needed to see my logs for substantiation. It was that important to him. That was only the beginning. Soon I was keeping extensive notes on all the herbs and vegetables I picked in the various gardens. I didnât need to know why, really. It was all about keeping everything right for Monster.
But I knew it had to do with some new age mysticism, homeopathy.
Then I realized that food to him was more like the Eucharist was for me as a child, mysterious and symbolic. Monster wanted food to transform him into something better. He needed me to be the high priest of his stomach. But then he changed up on me, wanting more variety. I guess all that juice gave him the runs.
I had to be inventive with my menus. Every now and then another note from Monster would mysteriously appear, taped onto the refrigerator by hidden kitchen operatives. Thatâs how I received the directive to expand the Living Food menu, and for it to taste better, throwing down an impossible challenge, like imagining a five-sided square. He also pointed out how important it was for me to keep Rita from backsliding. Since she was carrying their baby, he wanted her to benefit fully from his eating regimen. Rita had spent a few days showing me the various ways to sign how much she hated the stuff. She passionately conveyed in writing how she refused to eat uncooked spaghetti squash. I agreed, and rededicated myself to making it easier on her, to break new ground with semiliving cuisine. I wanted to get to the point that sheâd feel good about swallowing it, but I doubted that she would if she wanted much more than salads and cold soups. Monster liked the idea of sunbaked breads and rices for philosophical reasons. Itâs so unadulterated! he wrote in his last note.
I purchased a solar-powered glass oven that worked very well on sunny days, but on overcast days Iâd just toss everything into the brick oven.
I prepared lunches for the staff too, but other than Thugâs fresh steak, nothing that bled was allowed anywhere near the kitchen. I grilled on a little hibachi on a worktable near the toolshed, where I kept a small refrigerator stocked with my meats. I ate a lot of bacon, probably too much, and steak. Maybe I wanted the stink of it to annoy Monsterâs True Believer employees, who were happy to sustain themselves on carrot juice, ground chickpeas, and heaping teaspoons of sawdust. They wanted to be as much like Monster as possible.
I worried about Rita.
She needed a diet that wouldnât starve the baby. I read that the first thing thatâs affected by malnourishment is brain size. Seemed to me that any child of Monsterâs would need all of its faculties to have a shot at a normal life. Luckily, Santa Ynez had more kinds of goat cheese than anywhere else in California. Cheese-filled dumplings, cheese breads, and rice cheese soufflé, I made it all for her because Rita needed those calories that
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