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“I don’t call her Piglet,” Margot said, leaning over her wife.
Yay lesbians
“That sounds like a genital condition.”
“I think until she does the childbearing and the—you know—birthing, I get to win all the arguments.”
She felt his fingers flatten to a palm on her back as he crouched beside her. “Can I help, by the way?” he asked,
Yes get out of the kitchen
She did not know how to drink this coffee: how to fight and accept care, how to hate and how to love.
Piglet felt bereft: the beam of her friend’s attention turning from her.
Margot and Sasha’s cottage—the façade overgrown with ivy, the porch covered in fallen leaves from a red maple, paint peeling from the blue front door
Ugh dream house
“I’m not hungry.” Piglet smiled at him.
A chef who doesn't eat
embarrassed her.
Yeah family can be embarrassing but thats no reason to run from them
“Exercise classes,”
From your mil???? Wild
who seemed to belong to her less and less: someone else’s wife, someone else’s mother.
“That’s how she got her nickname,” her mother piped up. Kit’s fingers tightened on Piglet’s knee. “That’s right.” Her parents nodded at each other before retelling the story of their daughter who ate.
Thats so fucked up to call your DAUGHTER piglet
So, Piglet had bargained: “Promise me you’ll eat at least a quarter at teatime, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Say anything,” he whined.
Eughh
She was proud, in a way, that she could still smile as the delicious life she had been savouring turned maggoty in her mouth.
In the following days he would text her. Are you OK? Are you OK? Are you OK? Piglet would pick up her phone immediately, open the message, but not reply. She would put a timer on for one hour. Yes. Yes. Yes, she’d reply. She was fine. She was managing.
Thats so petty i love it
Why is evolution misogynistic?”
But he had been indignant at her inviting a witness into their fractured coupledom, a betrayal that seemed to parallel his.
Cheating and telling a close friend he cheated are practically the same thing??
She could hear the porridge gasping on the stove. She would have turned the flame down, she would have loosened it with water. But she wasn’t cooking—he was. She was doing whatever it was that he usually did.
“It looks like you’re a hungry little pig,” Kelly said without missing a beat. “Let me guess—you want one of everything? What would your dad say about that?” She affected a Derbyshire accent. “Typical Pig.”
But now Piglet was uncomfortable. Her issues with Kit felt unresolved, their fights unfinished, the ends of their conversations still unspooled across their kitchen floor.
And you're still marrying him?
Piglet remembered the camaraderie of it all, the frothy inevitability of returning to a parent before detaching from them.
She had felt detached from her parents for a long time, although now, when she let herself think about it, she felt adrift, unable to inspect the details of her mooring to Kit for fear she was no longer attached, and instead, at sea, alone.
He was still here. We will always be here for you. Because we’re your family, and you’re our Piglet.
“Dad,” she said, “what do I do?” He shook his head, not ready for the question. “It’s not for me to say, Duck.”
Wrong answer buddy
On the morning of her wedding, Piglet awoke in the dark, curtains closed, to the feeling of Christmas, to the feeling of a funeral.
“Get out!” Piglet shouted. “What?” her mother repeated, her expression changing, hurt. “Get out!” Piglet screamed.
If i ever treat my parents like this, shoot me
“Crock-um-bitches,”
She stared at him, this man, who would later hand her over, entrust her to someone else, and she saw his frustration with her, she saw his disgust.
Wives aren’t supposed to behave like this.”
Ew
On the platter before her there was a bowl of beef bourguignon, the sauce dark with merlot; the corner of dauphinoise potatoes, gruyère-crusted top browned, bubbled with heat; there was a small plate of girolles, black kale, and white beans, scattered with breadcrumbs, mushrooms like trumpets; a sliver of a golden tarte tatin, confit garlic pressed onto the pastry like tear drops; a ramekin of pink-grey pâté, finished with a flurry of chives; there was a slice of fresh baguette that felt steamy to the touch, and a curl of butter imported from Isigny-sur-Mer at Cecelia’s instruction,
...more
Ugh this sounds so delish
Piglet felt so dangerously close to the destruction of herself, of her marriage, it seemed that anyone who came too close to her would also suffer the flying shrapnel of her discontent.
This is the best wedding I’ve ever been to, a guest said as the bride’s ring slipped free, tinkling to the table. What a mess, the guest continued as a murmuring started to break out, followed by a shout. What a beautiful, fucking mess.
“What the actual”—Franny screwed up her eyes—“and I can’t stress this enough—fuck?”
She removed their dry skins before wielding a chef’s knife, slicing the cloves until they splayed out like sycamore seeds. She could smell and feel the stick of allium on her fingertips. She dropped the sliced garlic into the pan, and the oil sizzled, a sweet-savoury scent perfuming the air.
Tasty
