Things That Probably Explain Why I Write Crime

My dad never cooked half-ashed.

The Chicken Was Done When It Became a Mineral ...

My mom was a great cook.

My dad could wield salad fixings like no one’s business.

But chicken?

We learned early that chicken was his forte.

It didn’t melt in our mouths.

Toxic briquette ash disintegrated in our mouths, and we thought it was awesome.

And because we oohed and ah’d through every bite, right down to the burnt bone, friends and neighbors followed along.

By the end of the meal, we looked like we had black ink stains on our teeth. Every smile looked medieval.

And we thought this was good.

No ... excellente.

Because we didn’t know any better.

Friends and neighbors probably did. Oh, the stories they could tell.

It was my early foray into forensics: examining the blackened bones, studying the remains ...

Years later, as an adult, I finally realized what we had actually been eating.

A cremated chicken.

It was just the beginning ...

NO, NOT ARSON!