Piglet

by Lottie Hazell

She turned on two hobs, flames bursting into life after one, two, three clicks of the gas. She poured boiling water into the saucepan before dipping her fingers into the salt pig, scattering crystals into the steaming liquid below. She held her hand over the surface of the skillet and felt the heat of the gas ring permeate the black cast iron. She unscrewed the cap of the good olive oil and slicked the skillet. She dipped her finger into the swirl of the yellow-green liquid—her manicured fingernail, chipped, sensing the heat beneath—and lifted it to her mouth. The oil was peppery, slippery on her lips. As the oil warmed, becoming loose with heat, she dug her fingers into the garlic, two fat cloves falling to a chopping board below. 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. With a pop, she unscrewed the lid on the anchovies and pinched at the preserved fish, dropping a shoal into the skillet with the garlic. She watched the oil spit as the hot fat bubbled at the edges of the fish until they began to erode, their bones dissolving to nothing. She sprinkled over the chilli flakes; the white garlic freckled red.

Guys this keeps going for many more paragraphs and then the book ends