Windmolenkeuken
Photography by Michael Anthony
“Whether new or old, the hearth is often the gathering place.”
Michael Anthony is an American artist and writer. He has published fiction, poetry, illustrations, and photographs in literary journals and commercial magazines. His work may be viewed at: MichaelAnthony.MyPortfolio.com
How to Cook Lamb When All You Can Think Of Is Death
Fiction by Linda M. Bayley
CW: Mention of Death
Don’t think of the lamb as a sacrifice. Don’t remind yourself that the very word lamb means that the sheep was young, never got to grow old, never got to have lambs of its own. Don’t think of all the pastures, green and lush, that stand empty because you’re having guests.
Don’t breathe deeply while the roast is cooking—and make sure to think of it as a roast, not a lamb—and breathe through your mouth, not your nose. Don’t remember the cooked-lamb reek of the stain on your father’s floor where he oozed and melted for a week after a massive heart attack felled him. If you do breathe through your nose, if the smell of the roast cooking takes you back twenty years, make sure your sobs are quiet so as not to interrupt the party.
Scald your tongue when you check to see the gravy’s done, not so much that you wince with every bite, but enough that the taste of decay can’t flood your mouth when you chew. Wash each bite down with a gulp of expensive red wine, even though you won’t be able to taste that, either. Remember not to stick out your burning, red tongue, when your husband points out how slowly you’re eating. Block your ears when your guests praise the lamb, the lamb, such tender lamb. Close your eyes at the strings of meat caught between their teeth when they baa with laughter.
Don’t glance at the photo of your father in your stairwell as you run downstairs to the washroom farthest away from the dining room, where you hope the guests won’t be able to hear you through the vents, the lamb frolicking and gamboling its way back up your throat. Don’t remember him taking you to the petting zoo when you were decades too old for such things. Don’t think of that lamb bleating with pleasure as your father’s rough hands stroked its satin ears.
When the party’s finally over, turn your father’s picture to the wall. Wipe the counters, scrub the oven. Don’t think about scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing at that stain on your father’s floor. Don’t wonder if the smell will ever leave your nose. Don’t think of the leftover containers as caskets, when you bury them in the fridge.
Don’t think of the lamb as a sacrifice. Don’t remind yourself that the very word lamb means that the sheep was young, never got to grow old, never got to have lambs of its own. Don’t think of all the pastures, green and lush, that stand empty because you’re having guests.
Don’t breathe deeply while the roast is cooking—and make sure to think of it as a roast, not a lamb—and breathe through your mouth, not your nose. Don’t remember the cooked-lamb reek of the stain on your father’s floor where he oozed and melted for a week after a massive heart attack felled him. If you do breathe through your nose, if the smell of the roast cooking takes you back twenty years, make sure your sobs are quiet so as not to interrupt the party.
Scald your tongue when you check to see the gravy’s done, not so much that you wince with every bite, but enough that the taste of decay can’t flood your mouth when you chew. Wash each bite down with a gulp of expensive red wine, even though you won’t be able to taste that, either. Remember not to stick out your burning, red tongue, when your husband points out how slowly you’re eating. Block your ears when your guests praise the lamb, the lamb, such tender lamb. Close your eyes at the strings of meat caught between their teeth when they baa with laughter.
Don’t glance at the photo of your father in your stairwell as you run downstairs to the washroom farthest away from the dining room, where you hope the guests won’t be able to hear you through the vents, the lamb frolicking and gamboling its way back up your throat. Don’t remember him taking you to the petting zoo when you were decades too old for such things. Don’t think of that lamb bleating with pleasure as your father’s rough hands stroked its satin ears.
When the party’s finally over, turn your father’s picture to the wall. Wipe the counters, scrub the oven. Don’t think about scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing at that stain on your father’s floor. Don’t wonder if the smell will ever leave your nose. Don’t think of the leftover containers as caskets, when you bury them in the fridge.
Linda M. Bayley is a writer living on the Canadian Shield. Her work has recently appeared in BULL, Does It Have Pockets, Frazzled Lit, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, Stanchion, and Fictive Dream; and was shortlisted for the 2026 Bath Novella-in-Flash Award.
Find her on X: @lmbayley and BS: @lmbayley.bsky.social
Find her on X: @lmbayley and BS: @lmbayley.bsky.social
