Lick Your Neighbor Read Free

from the table. “I made a whole pot.”
    “Nope.”
    “It’s Golden Monkey.”
    Andie took a deep whiff of the steam rising from her cup and let out a long ahhhhh.
    “Handpicked every spring in the Fujian province of China.”
    “Oh yeah? Well this is Lipton,” Dale said. “God knows how it’s picked, where it’s from, or if it’s actually cremated human remains instead of tea leaves. But I know where it’s going. Down the hatch.”
    Dale took a big gulp, swishing it around like mouthwash, and swallowed dramatically, finishing with a theatrical sigh of satisfaction.
    “Why would you rather drink those powdery dregs?” Andie asked, “And don’t say it’s a slippery slope from drinking fine tea to getting so fat that a deranged serial killer makes you eat so much spaghetti your stomach bursts. I’m so sick of hearing that.”
    “Then I won’t say it.” Dale checked his reflection in the microwave window. One hair was sticking up from his now combed hair. Dale licked his finger and plastered the renegade hair down. “But it’s still true.”
    Dale opened the fridge and was greeted by the site of a whole salted duck hanging from a rope. The rope was tied around the duck’s breast and fastened to the fridge on a hook. Everything else in the fridge had been packed into the bottom two shelves to make room for the deep purple bird, which rocked slowly back and forth.
    Dale sighed. “Something you want to tell me, Andie?”
    “What? I’m making duck prosciutto.”
    “You’re curing meat in our fridge?”
    “Where else am I going to cure it?”
    “What about my milk?”
    “What about it?”
    “It’s going to taste like duck now.”
    “And that’s bad because…”
    “Because I don’t want fucking Frosted Duckflakes for breakfast!”
    Dale slammed the fridge shut. He took a step toward the kitchen table and almost tripped when his foot hit a small metal stand on the floor. “Ow! What the hell is that?”
    “Oh, I forgot I put that there. It’s the base for the deep-fryer. It’s for tomorrow.” Andie took a sip of her tea. “You know, for the turkey. This whole oven-roasted bullshit just isn’t working out, no matter how much extra fat I use. The last turkey that came out of the oven was covered in so much pork fat it was practically oinking, and it was still dry. I mean the skin was crispy and delicious, but the meat? Blek. Meat should be moist and delicious. Like bacon. Hmmmmm. Maybe I’m going about this backwards. Maybe I should get a pig…and wrap it in turkey skin.”
    “A carcass hanging in the fridge. Covering one animal in the skin of a totally different animal. You’re a serial killer aren’t you? Is there a pit in the basement I should know about, Andie? Is that where you’re keeping all these poor ducks, pigs and turkeys? Lowering them basting butter in a basket?”
    “Fine. I’ll stick with the fryer.”
    “You’re seriously planning on deep-frying our Thanksgiving turkey?”
    Doing her best impression of a bobble head, Andie nodded her head enthusiastically.
    “No!” Dale slammed his fist on the table, setting off a small tsunami in Andie’s tea cup. “No, no, no. No, damn you!”
    “It’s supposed to be delicious.”
    “I don’t care. And what is this thing?” Dale held up a syringe the size of a trombone. “Are we supporting an elephant’s drug habit?”
    “It’s a flavor injector. For the turkey.”
    “What are you going to inject it with?”
    “Blue cheese.”
    “For the love of Baby Jesus.”
    “And maybe some duck fat.”
    “Okay you know what,” Dale said, “this is out of control. It’s a foodpocalypse in this house! And what exactly is Tommy eating?”
    Andie glanced at her son at the other side of the kitchen table. “A pumpkin spice gingersnap cupcake with maple cream cheese frosting and cinnamon pudding center. Did you have one? They’re pretty damn good.”
    “For breakfast , Andie? Why don’t you just get a funnel and shove