Mark Forrester
The Harvest Moon
Bess is 85, give or take a few years—depending on who you ask, and when. She works one night of the week, our busiest night, when the aging businessmen and their wives come into the club for chicken and waffles. When we are busy or short-handed, she will work as much as we need, as many as five nights a week.
As we hustle about in the small kitchen, getting in each other’s way, Bess laughs and tells me each time we bump our butts means another year we’ll be working together. Because I do not have a car, Bess often drives me home after work, late in the evening. Sometimes her daughter, who lost one eye in a hunting accident, will pick Bess up and drop me off on their way out into the country.
Bess wants to show me how much the waffle batter has thickened up since she made it early in the afternoon. She dips in the ladle and slowly pulls it up, letting the batter drip back into the large bowl. “Just like liver,” she says, shaking her head.
first frost— rows of Brussels sprouts in the market
About the Author
Mark Forrester has taught English at the University of Maryland for more than 25 years. He is a high school dropout, a former chef, and a husband, father, and grandfather.