Fiction

Kitchen Mystic by Paulette Licitra

The Deconstruction by Karen Cantrell

Patisserie de Pakistan by Gregors Johnson

Meals of a Lifetime by Rebecca Keller

Ode to Risotto by Donald Newlove

Fully Committed by Doug Sovern

Biscuits and Gravy by William Blomstedt

Keeping It Tidy by Alan Linton

If I Knew You Were Coming by Alisha Lumea

On Your Only Day Off by Nicole Edwards

Bagpipes and Pan Fried Smelts by Ted Radakovic

Joseph Conrad’s Dark Linguini by Giovanni Berchtold

Missing Something by Jean-Luc Bouchard

We Love You, Mayonnaise! by Alona Martinez

Japanese Food by Esther Cohen

Raw Köfte by Hardy Griffin

Proust's Soup by Giovanni Berchtold

A Sacred Virgin by Paulette Licitra

on a friday evening by Keith Leidner

Ropa Vieja by Raul Palma

Deidre's Last Meal by Esther Cohen

Wired by Alan Linton

Chestnut by Katherine Gleason

The Moon is an Outdoor Sandwich by Patty Houston

Garlicky Greens by Lois Marie Harrod

First the Shell, Musical; Then the Custard, Irrevocable by Sarah Begley

Meals of Choice by Dorian Fox

A Low Table by Christian Aguiar

The Sylvian Fissure by Rosalie Loewen

Two Versions of Eating Potatoes by David Spiering

Conch Salad by Michele Ruby

Hopper by Michael Onofrey

Caution: Coffee is Hot by Gary Scott

The Fairy Part by Alberto Giuseppe

Foie Gras by Judith Edelman

Rosemary and Olive Oil by Gail Gauthier

Mario's Shoes by Natalie Parker-Lawrence

Cake by Marianne Villanueva

Retreat: October on Copper Mountain by M.E. Parker

The Sandwich Diaries by Angus Woodward

But There Was No Star Anise by Andrew Martell

Fruit Route by Susan King

Chestnut

by Katherine Gleason

Note: A story worth rereading. This is from our ninth print issue.

February 2014    

In the kitchen of his Upper West Side apartment, the man leaned over the open oven door and basted the turkey. He wouldn’t have been so mad about the lack of chestnuts if he could have gazed with wonder at the turkey, at its skin crisping in the heat of the oven, instead he saw the missing chestnuts—a mountain of them boiled and peeled. He imagined devouring them, their grainy sweetness, while his wife, who had forgotten them, ate plain stuffing washed down with tap water.

His forgetful wife, the woman whose glossy nut-brown hair fell to the middle of her back, stirred packaged stuffing on the stove top. She greeted each day with a list of what she did not have—a diamond ring, those Italian calf-skin pumps in the shop window on Broadway, a husband who cared about her career, the chestnuts that would have made her husband happy. If she had been less distracted by these lacks, she might have remembered the chestnuts, might not have let the cranberry sauce, which she made for the child, boil over into a fragrant puddle of red syrup.

With a large box of crayons, the child at the table, a hazel-eyed girl of eight, drew the items on her holiday wish list—a pony, a trampoline, a suede vest with fringe. Even though she had little hope that these things would materialize under the tree, she knew how the pony would smell, how high she would fly from the trampoline’s sprung surface, how the vest’s soft fringe would thrum with her movements.

And, using three different shades of brown, she drew a chestnut. She held the drawing of the chestnut out to her father. He hesitated a moment, took the drawing from her hands, pressed it to his chest. He leaned his head on his wife’s shoulder, his cheek against her hair, and she sighed, wrapping one arm around him.



  Katherine Gleason’s most recent book is Anatomy of Steampunk: The Fashion of Victorian Futurism (Race Point Publishing, 2013). Her short stories have appeared in journals such as Cream City Review, Papirmasse, River Styx, and Southeast Review, and online at Camroc Press Review, Mississippi Review online, and Monkeybicyle online. .