Crime Blotter Poems | The Chef’s Confession | Sliders by Jenene Ravesloot

Chef Crime Scene poem

Crime Blotter #8-The Chef’s Confession

Salt-baked leg of lamb cooking in the oven.

Nesting in cut glass salad bowls: ¼ cup of

finely chopped fennel fronds along with one

bunch of sliced pink radishes, two cucumbers

finely diced and massaged in sea salt, lemon

juice, Lunigiana olive oil.

Dinner won’t be ready for another half-hour.

I like to linger in the kitchen, savor a glass

of Sauvignon Blanc. That’s when I do my best

thinking, just before I sit down with mother.

I hear the laughter of the kids next door.

They are in their backyard and they’re

horsing around in the inflatable swimming

pool, the kind of pool you can buy anywhere.

Mother walks into the kitchen. She’s saying,

“This damn heat” and that really annoys me.

She’s always complaining about something

and I say so, which doesn’t make matters

any better. Before long we are yelling at

each other. I guess I get sort of carried away.

It’s not that I don’t love her. I’ve always loved

her, and I am a good son. But, it is like loving

a damaged dog, loving it in spite of bad breath

and bad habits.

Put up with it, that’s what I do. Put up with her.

I mean I am a good son. I do everything. I tell

her that too. She takes a swing at me, and I take

a swing at her. She doesn’t flinch. No excuses.

I do it. I’ve had enough. Afterwards I eat some

of the pink radishes right out of the bowl with

my fingers. Then I call the police.






 Crime Blotter#4-Sliders      

The female mark is telling me “I guess I was too distracted,
this being the Fourth. You know, all the noise, and the fact  
that I’m in a hurry, and on my cell describing the fireworks
I just saw at the Pier to my girlfriend. Anyway, I pull into
the gas station, talking all the time. I begin to fill ‘er up.
A car slips in next to mine. Needless to say, I’m not paying
much attention. However, I do notice two guys, and I’m
supposing they’re about to fill ‘er up too, just like me.
Apparently not! Who would guess one of them would slide
across and open the passenger door just enough to get my
purse. Sneaky! He must have practically crawled on his hands
and knees while I was pumping and talking. But, like I said,
I didn’t notice a thing until I got back into my car. My purse
is gone, and I’m thinking, Where is it? Am I crazy or what?
Then it hits me. I’ve been robbed. So I say to my girlfriend,
one of the guys in the next car must have swiped my purse
before they drove away. That’s when she tells me that in
Atlanta the cops call these guys, sliders. She should know.
She’s from there. Sliders! Don’t you love it?”

Jenene Ravesloot