SUCCOUR by Salvatore Difalco
On a pure day in late August, sunlight dazzling the windows, summer winding down, I am sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, watching her make gnocchi. She had asked me what I wanted for my birthday pranzo, and I requested gnocchi with tomato sauce, my favourite meal. I turned 30 today. I am overeducated, underemployed and single, living day-to-day, hand to mouth, head in ass, with no long-range plans, few prospects, and zero motivation. My mother worries about me. A good mother always will, particularly when her beloved child turns out to be a total fuck up.
She’s wearing a red-and-white striped apron with the words BEST CHEF emblazoned on in thick black letters. When I gave it to her last Mother’s Day she seemed unimpressed. She enjoys cooking, but only on her terms. She wants no one to think that she cooks because…
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