the liver deliquesced

It was the porcelain spoons, five of them. Goldilocks waited, her unused hand tucked, in accordance with its training, into the small of her back, as if it were the rule that all non-serving parts of her body must be tidied deferentially from view. Perhaps it was.

Michael peered at the lumps, heat-edged with brown, in their drip of soup.

'What are they?' he asked.

'Foie gras, sautéed in oloroso sherry.'

'Mmm, foie gras,' he enthused, making a hash of the r.

He picked up one of the spoons and tipped it into his mouth. The liver deliquesced.

'Wow, that's fabulous!' He nodded with vigorous sincerity, and a gentle swirly drunken feeling lingered in the movement's echo. He closed his eyes to steady himself.

When he opened them, Goldilocks had gone.

He still held his phone in one hand, and the spoon in the other. The spoon went in his pocket.

Leo Benedictus

The Afterparty (2011)

golden brown with a few little burned parts

I would like to ask her what a person who is seven months pregnant is supposed to do when her husband turns out to be in love with someone else, but the truth is she probably wouldn't have been much help. Even in the old days, my mother was a washout at hard-core mothering; what she was good at were clever remarks that made you feel immensely sophisticated and adult and, if you thought about it at all, foolish for having wanted anything so mundane as some actual nurturing. Had I been able to talk to her at this moment of crisis, she would probably have said something fabulously brittle like 'Take notes.' Then she would have gone into the kitchen and toasted almonds. You melt some butter in a frying pan, add whole blanched almonds, and sauté until they’re golden brown with a few little burned parts. Drain lightly and salt and eat with a nice stiff drink. 'Men are little boys,' she would have said as she lifted her glass. 'Don’t stir or you’ll bruise the ice cubes.'

Nora Ephron

Heartburn (1983)

I wrote about this delicious book here.