In this sequel to TC, Key Lime Man, a small-town teenage chef is visited by Jesus of Mexico, whose English is limited to kitschy marketing slogans gleaned from product labels at Wal-Mart.
Excerpt:
“There’s a duck in my sink.”
“I know,” said Stevie.
“And?”
“And you might want to check your right shoe. I think you just stepped in something.”
I grabbed my knife off the counter. “Get over here and get this duck before he becomes tonight’s special.”
Stevie shuffled across the kitchen and lifted Zork out of the sink. “I checked the board. It says the special’s prime rib.” He set the duck down right next to my foot.
“Ducks have ribs.” I nudged the bird with my toe.
“No they don’t. And don’t kick my duck.”
“What do you think? He’s stuffed with fiber fill like that ratty old bear you still sleep with?”
“What the heck is fiber fill?” asked Stevie. “Same stuff your brain’s made out of.”
“Oh yeah? Well I’m not the one who just stepped in duck crap.”
I grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped off my shoe, then I held the wad out to Stevie. “Throw this away.”
“No way.”
“Come on, Stevie. I’m in the middle of something here. Besides, you’re the one who says it smells like roses.” Which is true, in a way. My brother feeds his duck rose petals every morning. When they come out the other end, you can detect a faint flowery aroma in his poop. But only if you get really close to it, which is not something I’m in the habit of doing. Either way it smells like crap.
I washed my hands for an extra long time. I sang the Happy Birthday song at least three times while I scrubbed them. That’s longer than most doctors scrub before surgery, which explains why so many people get infections in the hospital.
“Why don’t you take your duck and waddle on over to the French Gourmet and get me some kirsch?” I was at a crucial place in my cherry torte when I discovered the duck in my sink. Right before that I discovered someone had been nipping at my cooking alcohol.
that would do to the smell of his crap.
“What the heck is kirsch?” asked Stevie.
“A type of brandy,” I said. The nipper was probably Dad. Not that he’s an alcoholic or anything. Just a nipper.
“Who’s going to sell me a bottle of brandy? I’m twelve, or have you forgotten?”
Details.
“Too bad they closed the off-track betting parlor. They’d have sold it to you.” Before this place was turned into a swanky strip mall with shops like Le French Gourmet, it was a crummy downtown neighborhood with a seedy hotel and a sleazy off-track betting parlor.
Back then it was a lot easier for a teenage chef to get his liquor. You know, for my recipes.
“Ask Dad to get it,” said Stevie.
