Chopping Onions

“Pops, you’ve got a package out here,” Bennett called as he shouldered his way into the old man’s small house. It smelled like it always did, like years of cooking and tobacco and laughter. “Want me to bring it in?”

It didn’t look like a regular package, he noted. It was a brown paper package tied up with string, not a regular box all taped up with a label like they usually were these days.

“I want you to leave it be and mind your business,” Pops called as he shuffled in from the back of the house. “I didn’t ask you to be touching anything on the front porch. I don’t like anyone touching my things on the porch.” He gave Bennett a look over the top of his glasses. “That’s a special package, for a special individual.”

Bennett raised his eyebrows and held his fingers up, his thumbs still hooked around the straps of the grocery bags he’d brough, bulging with that day’s supplies “Ok. Just thought I’d offer so you didn’t have to bend over and probably fall down.”

“Hmph,” Pops made a noise in the back of his throat and motioned for Bennett to follow him back to the kitchen. “You’re right on time for lunch. As usual. You’ve got impeccable timing, just like your father.”

Bennett grinned. “I know to follow my nose, Pops. No one cooks like you do.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

The kitchen was old and dingy with years of grease and living. It had been a long time since Pops had allowed anyone to step foot in there to cook besides him, and the last time anyone had cleaned up after him, they’d put things away where he couldn’t find them, so that meant he was also in charge of clean up. He was meticulous with the dishes and the counters, but the places he couldn’t reach easily with his crooked back and gnarled fingers were left to their own devices. Bennett was one of the few people he’d grown to trust to clean, so here he was, pulling on a frilly pink apron and grabbing a sponge while Pops eyed him.

“That backsplash was hand painted, you know,” Pops grunted, as Bennett started to scrub enthusiastically. “My wife did that.”

“It’s great,” Bennett said. “I like the little people.”

“They’re my family.”

“I didn’t know you had a family,” Bennett didn’t look up as he used his fingernail to scrape off a bit of calcified…something.

“I did. Once.” Pops didn’t elaborate as he began to chop onions. Bennett didn’t turn around either. “Watch how I do this. Any dolt should know how to chop onions. If you want a girl, you should know how to chop onions.”

Bennet straightened up and turned, watching as Pops showed him how to chop the onion into a perfect dice, then did it again into a mince.

“Now you.”

“Ok.” Bennett wiped his hands on his apron and took the knife and a second onion out of the bag and started carefully. His chop was much rougher, the pieces large and ungainly, but soon, they got a little smoother. They weren’t anywhere close to the neat, even pieces Pops had made, but they’d get there eventually.

“You practice. Get a bag of onions and practice all the time.”

“That’s a lot of onion,” Bennet commented, grabbing another onion and starting again. “What do you do with all of it?”

Pops looked affronted. “Everything is better with onion. How do you add flavor to food but with onions and garlic? Think? How you gonna get a girl without flavor in your food?”

Bennett kept chopping for a bit in silence. “What if I don’t want a girl?” he asked after a moment.

Pops stared at him for a long moment. “What, you want a dog instead?”

Bennett’s face went pink. “I mean, I like dogs, but…what if I’d rather have a boy?”

“Well, I’m sure a boy would rather have food with flavor in it, too. How you gonna get a boy with terrible food? You got a boy in mind?”

Bennett’s shoulders visibly relaxed as he kept chopping carefully. “I might.”

“And your dad? He doesn’t approve?” Pops looked at Bennet, eagle eyed. He’d known this boy and his father their entire lives.

“Dad doesn’t know.” Bennett reached for another onion.

“Does this boy know?”

A ghost of a smile played across Bennett’s mouth. “Yeah. He knows.”

“And he likes you?”

A red flush creeped up Bennett’s neck. “I…yeah.”

Pops nodded. “So, we need to cook him some good food. Maybe cook a good meal for the whole family and introduce him that way.”

“What if Mom and Dad don’t approve? What if they kick me out?” Bennett looked up then, his hand still chopping.

“You keep your eye on the knife, boy. You can lose a finger, if you look up,” Pops barked.

Bennett looked back down quickly.

“Listen here, if your dad is a damn fool, and doesn’t like it, then you can come here, and clean out that bedroom like I’ve been telling you to, and sleep in there,” Pops grumbled. “But no sleepovers. I don’t care if it is a boy. I don’t believe in them unless you’re married.”

Bennett hid a grin as he kept chopping at the onion in front of him. “Ok, Pops.” He blinked his eyes a couple times, then swiped at them with the back of his free hand. “Man, it’s true what they say about onions making your eyes water.”

Pops wiped at his own eyes. “Sure is. That onion juice is getting to me from over here. I should have made you move into the dining room.”

They both looked at the dining room table, covered with stacks of old newspapers and magazines that Bennett had tried in the past to get rid of and Pops “wasn’t done reading yet.”

“Yeah, that seems reasonable. Why don’t you go clear a spot for me, and I’ll do that,” Bennett said dryly. “Since you’re still working on those newspapers from the mid-80’s.”

“There might be some interesting articles in there I haven’t gotten to yet,” Pops protested. “I was busy then.”

“I wasn’t even born yet. You’ve had plenty of time to read those newspapers. This whole place is a fire hazard, Pops,” Bennett laughed, grabbing another onion. His cuts were starting to get a little better, but it would probably be a few more bags before they were anywhere close to good.

Pops narrowed his eyes at Bennett. “I like to have my things where I can see them.”

“Of course.” Bennett glanced over. “But maybe there’s a better way to have them and not be in danger of dying under an avalanche of your things?”

Pops harumphed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe.”

“Maybe after I finish this bag of onions, we can work on that together. Starting with the table.”

Pops gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But not after the onions. After the onions, we’re eating. I made corn chowder, and it’s almost done.” He stirred the big pot on the stove, sending the aroma into the air, and making Bennett’s stomach growl. “The onions are for gumbo tomorrow.”

“All these onions?” Bennett asked with surprise. “That’s a lot.”

“It’s gonna be a big pot.”

“I can tell.”

“After we eat, you’re gonna start dicing up some peppers and celery. The creole holy trinity.”

“Why is it called that?”

“Because it’s not the regular holy trinity, which is celery, onion, and carrots.”

“But why is it the holy trinity at all?” Bennett stopped chopping and looked up, confused.

“Boy, I don’t know. Keep chopping.” Pops looked irritated. “It just is. Do you want to eat, or talk?”

Bennett grinned and went back to chopping. “I mean, I could do both. You could spoon feed me.”

Pops rolled his eyes. “You must be outta your mind.”

“Yeah, with hunger.”

“I’m gonna pop you. Finish up.”

“Last one,” Bennett said, grabbing the final onion and starting on it. He was at least faster now.

While he worked, Pops ladled chowder into two bowls and put a sleeve of crackers onto the counter beside them. Bennet finished and put all the chopped onion into a large bowl Pops had provided, careful not to drop much onto the floor. He’d be sweeping it up later anyway, but the less he had to deal with, the better.

They took their bowls, Bennett carrying the crackers, into the living room, and settled into the comfortable, worn recliners to eat, watching the daytime TV Pops loved, in companionable silence. Bennett blew gently on each bite before swallowing, while Pops simply slurped it down, not bothered by the temperature.

“Soup’s good,” Bennett said, halfway through.

“Of course, it is,” Pops said, affronted. “You think I don’t make good soup?”

Bennett grinned. “No, I’m just offering a compliment. It’s polite.”

Pops grunted, taking a cracker and crumbling it up in the dregs of his bowl. “If you ever want to bring your boy around,” he said after a while, scraping the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, the noise loud in the relative quiet of the room. “I guess that’d be all right.”

Bennett didn’t look away from the TV, his eyes locked on the commercial for shampoo promising to add volume and shine. “Maybe. He likes to cook, too. He might be able to teach you a thing or two.”

Pops huffed in indignation. “I doubt that, but he’d could try.”

Bennett grinned and tipped his bowl to get the last of his soup into his spoon. He stood then and reached for Pops’ bowl. “Seconds?”

“Of course, I want seconds. I’ve been waiting on you to finish your firsts. You eat so slow.”

“I was savoring, Pops. Not everyone feels the need to gulp their food down.”

“I never know what meal is going to be my last and I want to make sure I get it all,” Pops grumbled as Bennett headed back to the kitchen. “Make sure you give me a whole second bowl. None of that half a bowl nonsense,” he called loudly.

“Sure thing, Pops,” Bennett called back. “Anything for you.”