"I Hate Meatloaf"

- First sentence given by Jordan Wilson-Kennedy. The story itself is semi-autobiographical.

          “I hate meatloaf. I hate the taste of it. I hate the texture of it in my mouth. I hate the smell of it. I hate the touch of my fork when I know that on the other end is a disgusting piece of meatloaf. I hate the look of it, the brownish, poop-looking glob that sits on my plate with a smearing of disgusting red lipstick that really isn’t lipstick at all, but is really dried, smeared ketchup that has been in the oven too long. I hate the watery brown grease that is left on the bottom of my plate like a Scottish bog with little gnats drowning in it, and it smells like it anyways.” He stabbed, furtively, hopelessly, at the still steaming mass of overcooked, cheap, animal meat loaded with little bits of heaven-knows-what of leftover animal parts, peanut factory shavings, and expired vegetables. He stared at it, glumly. The storm was gathering—he could feel his mother’s anger exhaling and inhaling as she tried to collect herself. However, she ignored his rant.

He was being selfish, and he knew it. But he just hated meatloaf so much. He hated it more than the cranberry pudding that Grandma would make at Thanksgiving, that sweet, glutinous glob that stuck in his throat and inspired his gag reflexes into immediate reaction. He hated it more than the peppermint candy cane chocolates that Aunt Thelma would send for Christmas and which tasted like he was trying to eat his toothpaste. Once, he accidentally swallowed a fairly large amount of toothpaste while brushing his teeth, and he’d heard from somewhere that the fluoride from toothpaste was poisonous. He spent the rest of the day a nervous and emotional wreck, thinking he was going to die from his accidental overdose of dental hygiene. Since then, he hated any type of mint, as it reminded him of that fateful day when he almost died. He could barely bring himself to brush his teeth anymore, but then he would see that look in his mother’s eyes and back down.

                But still, he hated meatloaf more than that. More than the vomit-inducing cranberries and more than the mortal taste of mint. Meatloaf was inimical to his life. But even more threatening to his life was that gaze of his mother, that strong-willed woman who sat on the other side of the table and who could produce inspire feelings more potent than the most over-cooked, non-meat filled meatloaf. He gulped. He gulped again, delaying the inevitable. His mother hadn’t even looked at him. He was sure, however, that she had eyes in the back of her head, and probably the sides, too. At least, that’s what she told him all the time. And, he believed it. That motherly sense knew things that bewildered and bedeviled him. Caught between meatloaf and his mother, sweat dripped down his brow. She stirred slightly, and he panicked. Wincing, he shoved the whole of his meatloaf in his mouth, a more terrible disaster averted. He chewed slowly, gagging, and swallowed.  A narrow victory had been managed. 

-James Juchau