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Now is the winter of ourFriendscontent.
Suddenly, I knew.
It hit melike a couch tumbling down a flight of narrow stairs.
I would makeRachels fucked-up English trifleand force-feed it to the people I loved.
Why, you ask?
The better question: Why not?
Had it been done before, you ask?Absolutely, perhaps thousands of times.
So why would I do it again?
Perhaps I wanted to discover if there was an inherent meaning in the act of repetition.
Perhaps I wanted to know if my family loved me enough to eat whipped cream with meat in it.
Unwittingly, she mixes up the recipes for an English trifle and a shepherds pie.
Its got all of these layers.
Ive got news for you: Youre not going to make custard from scratch, he said.
But I was determined to prove him wrong, especially in the face of death.
Stunned, I insisted she come over the next day to taste the meaty fruits of my labor.
Back in my familys ancestral suburban home, I began whipping up the custard.
My boyfriend left the kitchen immediately, frightened.
I fucked up the custard just as quickly.
Next, I prepared the beef.
He gently placed his hands on both sides of his face in an expression of bone-deep horror and disgust.
The beef taken care of, I moved on to the whipping cream.
My dad came back and stared at me.
This is going to take 60 years, he said, and handed me an electric mixer.
A troubling regret in my life is that I failed to pass this skill set onto you.
Using the mixer turned out to be a meditative experience.
Or was the idea that each person could be slotted frictionlessly into a fictional character … hold that thought.
I feel like one of the observers at the Los Alamos Nuclear Laboratory, he mused.
And when they do, you dont die right away.
You do die, though.
But it will be some time before you die.
Finally, it was time to combine all of the layers.
I checked the custard again.
It seeped gently into the corners of the trifle pan.
I felt like the beloved child of Julia Child and Jackson Pollock.
You look so serene.
My boyfriend returned from his self-imposed exile and suggested I top the whipped cream with additional bananas and raspberries.
I did, and it looked gorgeous and extremely professional.
Do we actually have to do this?
I went first, making sure to get a spoonful of each layer into my mouth.
To my sophisticated palate, it tasted … good?
Sort of like Thanksgiving itself: sweet, salty, rife with controversy and destruction.
I cant believe you just fully did that, said my sister.
My family members stared at each other, sending silent messages of support.
Donna was the first to speak.
I feel like this is good?
What is this sauce?
She dipped her spoon back into the trifle, smiling.
My sister looked at both of us, open-mouthed.
You guys are sociopaths, she said.
My dad went next.
I am only eating it out of respect for you.
Dan was a bit gentler: I want to say … its not horrible.
My boyfriend brilliantly managed to avoid commentary because he offered to film the entire exchange.
If I had not eaten in several days, I would devour this, she said.
But right now … its not doing it for me.
My sister stared at us all like we were out of our minds.
Its awful, she said.
I ate my entire plate.
Later, I felt extremely ill, but also like I had learned something important about life.
Life, I decided, was like an English beef trifle.
Some days are salty, some days are sweet.
Some days are saltyandsweet!
(To paraphrase my high-school rabbi.)
Some days are whipped cream, and some days are beef with whipped cream.
Some days are peas, and some days are peas encased in liquid custard.
And later, when you all feel disgusting, you will connect on that point as well.
So: Why did I make Rachels fucked up trifle?
What price, dignity?
What custard, beef?
