November 16, noon.
I can’t say I’m a good cook but I’ve definitely mastered some meals over the course of my life. But I haven’t cooked even a sandwich ever since I moved in with Dave. I know, I know - it’s not something to complain about but it’s so weird. He’s great at it, though - if he owned a restaurant, it would have gotten a Michelin Star or something.
November 23, evening.
Today I wanted to show Dave he doesn’t need to put in so much work into it: he’s always making fresh food, never keeps anything refrigerated for more than a day. That makes it cooking 3-4 meals a day which is a lot of effort, you know? I love his cooking but I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful. So, I’ve been busy making a romantic dinner, I really tried my best… He went ballistic when he came home. I know I’m not as good as he is but come on. Sometimes you just need to appreciate the effort, not throw everything away and act like a dick.
December 1, evening.
Recently I found out that Dave does not buy the meat in the supermarket like a normal person. We were at the store buying fruits and veggies and I suggested we buy minced meat so he could make pasta or something. He hesitated but eventually told me he never does that. Where do you get it then, I wondered. Dave said he knows a couple of farmers who sell meat to him. What the fuck, I wondered. He explained that he is all for healthy meat or whatever and he doesn’t believe that store meat is good enough, and the farmers take good care of their cattle or some shit like that. My friend Julie thinks he’s mental and that he has other skeletons in the closet because this is not normal.
December 10, morning.
Dave came home after another one of his visits to the farmers with his jeans covered with blood. I felt unsettled and asked him what happened. He calmly put down the bag of fresh and OH-SO-HEALTHY meat and explained that he doesn’t just buy the meat, he always wants to be sure that he gets the exact product he asked for so the farmers FUCKING KILL AND CUT THEM IN FRONT OF HIM. I yelled at him that he’s nuts. There’s so much weirdness about his behavior, I don’t know what to think about it. I’m not sure I trust him completely…
December 19, evening.
We settled things, more or less. I told Dave I don’t really want to know any more about his food-related whereabouts. Despite his odd food fetish he’s a fine and kind guy, and I know he cares about me. He just told me his family invited us for Christmas dinner but he doesn’t want to come. I became upset cause I think it’s time I meet his parents, you know. After a while he agreed; I only sighed when he said we’ll be bringing our own food there. I expect his family knows about this… peculiarity, so they won’t be surprised even a bit, will they?
December 25, morning.
We’re getting ready. By this, I mean that I am already ready and Dave is finishing with desserts. I don’t understand why he has to go through so much trouble. Do his parents cook so bad? In fact, when I come to think about it, we’ve never eaten out in restaurants or cafes… Never outside his house, never the food he hasn’t cooked himself. Maybe I’d get the chance to ask his parents if he’s always been like this.
December 25, evening.
When we arrived at Dave’s parents’ house with our own food in the bag, he whispered that I’m not supposed to eat anything else. I patiently agreed. His parents seemed to be a nice, extremely rich and elegant old couple, and soon enough I was ashamed of declining their meals time and time again. With some wine flowing in my system, I thought - oh fuck Dave and his weird rules, I don’t want to be rude. So I picked a moment when he left to use the bathroom and, smiling, put some of their food onto my plate, encouraged by his parents. I also took some ham - probably the supermarket one, I thought to myself and giggled, - and asked them how long Dave had these weird food habits. They looked at me sympathetically and nodded; it happened when he was still a teen, they said. All of a sudden he started acting as though someone was trying to poison his food or whatever (sorry, I’ve had a lot of wine by this point, haha, but if I recall correctly, they think it had something to do with the disappearance of their housemaid, maybe he thought she was doing it and then ran away, maybe that’s when his phobia started to progress?). He then stopped eating together with his family, started cooking his own half-assed meals. I assured them he’s better at it now. They insisted that I secretly take some of the food from their fridge home to have something else to eat for a change.
December 26, noon.
As Dave left the house, I immediately rushed to the lasagna I’ve been given yesterday. I’ve been craving to eat something once my hangover started to pass, and now was the time. I waited impatiently for the microwave to ding, unpaused the movie I’ve been watching, and enjoyed my meal. Not for long, though. Soon enough I stared at my plate in horror and disbelief, cause there was… a pinkie. A human, fucking, pinkie.
January 10, morning.
We went to the farmers together with Dave. I made sure that I witnessed the whole process of slaughtering. But you know what, maybe I will stop eating meat altogether, I haven’t eaten any since the day after Christmas. That day, when Dave came home and found me vomiting in the bathroom he just sighed. No, no, actually he said one more thing. He made a guess that his parents’ meat mincer must have failed again.