FICTION
GRACIE SCHWENK
CHICORY
Ma scours flour lightly across the table. The powder sticks to her hands, making them more pale and wrinkled than before. I don’t know how she can stand that dry feeling. I want to open the door and tell her to stick her hands in the snow. To let the dust soak into the blue drift that keeps on growing. Instead, she rubs her hands on her apron, covering the flower she stitched with white soot.
What kind of flower is that?
What flower?
On your apron.
Ma sets the dough on the table before glancing down at her belly.
Chicory.
Does it grow around here?
Yes.
Where?
Anywhere you step on a good year. There’s a good patch on the hill behind the Blodgett place. I sometimes roast the roots and will drink that instead of coffee.
Can I try?
Pick your own chicory roots and I’ll show you how to make it.
Ma kneads the dough with her fist. Squeezing it again and again. I imagine what Pa would say if he found me sitting in the kitchen sipping my own chicory coffee. He’d get all bothered, thinking I was drinking his coffee. His bushy brows would sink and get close together like they do. His upper lip would get thin above his pouting jaw. He’d grow red with fury, stomp across the room, and tell me to put the mug down. I’d say to hell with him. This is my chicory coffee and I’m going to drink it. I might even add a bit of whiskey.
When does chicory bloom?
Late spring.
She hands me the rolling pin and silently orders me to work. I pick up where she left off. Trying not to let the dough stick to my hands. Ma sets a new pile of dough on the table and starts kneading it. Her belly bounces against the side, knocking all the dough off her apron. The blue flower is visible again. I imagine stumbling on a patch of them blooming in full force. A sea of chicories that would make the ocean jealous. I’m going to find them when all this snow melts and the blue sky returns. I’m going to climb the hill behind the Blodgett place and pick all the chicories I can fit in my arms. I’m going to bring them here, chop off the roots, and start boiling them while Pa sleeps. The coffee should be ready by the time he wakes.
What kind of flower is that?
What flower?
On your apron.
Ma sets the dough on the table before glancing down at her belly.
Chicory.
Does it grow around here?
Yes.
Where?
Anywhere you step on a good year. There’s a good patch on the hill behind the Blodgett place. I sometimes roast the roots and will drink that instead of coffee.
Can I try?
Pick your own chicory roots and I’ll show you how to make it.
Ma kneads the dough with her fist. Squeezing it again and again. I imagine what Pa would say if he found me sitting in the kitchen sipping my own chicory coffee. He’d get all bothered, thinking I was drinking his coffee. His bushy brows would sink and get close together like they do. His upper lip would get thin above his pouting jaw. He’d grow red with fury, stomp across the room, and tell me to put the mug down. I’d say to hell with him. This is my chicory coffee and I’m going to drink it. I might even add a bit of whiskey.
When does chicory bloom?
Late spring.
She hands me the rolling pin and silently orders me to work. I pick up where she left off. Trying not to let the dough stick to my hands. Ma sets a new pile of dough on the table and starts kneading it. Her belly bounces against the side, knocking all the dough off her apron. The blue flower is visible again. I imagine stumbling on a patch of them blooming in full force. A sea of chicories that would make the ocean jealous. I’m going to find them when all this snow melts and the blue sky returns. I’m going to climb the hill behind the Blodgett place and pick all the chicories I can fit in my arms. I’m going to bring them here, chop off the roots, and start boiling them while Pa sleeps. The coffee should be ready by the time he wakes.
Grace Schwenk is a writer from the Bitterroot Valley of Montana. When not writing, she can be found getting lost in the mountains with her pack of hiking chihuahuas.
