Mr. Slow-Boil — How He Lost the Pasta Tongs

Lyrics

[Intro]
The steam from the chafing dish rises.
St. Jude's Annual Parish Dinner.
November twelfth.
The air smells of garlic bread and goodwill.

[Verse 1]
He’d brought the baked ziti. His own dish.
And his own tongs.
The good ones. From his mother's kitchen, 1978.
Walnut handles, worn smooth as a river stone.
A perfect, balanced heft. A satisfying scissor-action.
He gets to the pasta station, his station.
And they aren't there.
In their place, a flimsy stainless steel thing from Target.
A stranger in his house.
His eyes do a slow scan of the buffet line.
Nothing.

[Chorus]
And the temperature in the hall drops three degrees.
No one saw the thermostat move.
But the ladies in the kitchen, they felt it.
They knew the signs.
Mr. Slow-Boil had been lit.
Wrath isn't a shout.
It's a pilot light you can't see.
It's a kettle that never, ever whistles.

[Verse 2]
He takes a small portion with the inferior tongs.
Sits at table seven, with the Martins.
Carol asks about his week.
"Fine," he says.
And places his fork on the plate with the quiet, deliberate thud of a closing door.
His gaze goes to the wood paneling on the far wall.
He studies the grain, the knots, the varnish.
He is gone from the table.
He is gone from the room.
He is now a statue of mild disappointment.
And everyone feels the chill.

[Chorus]
And the temperature in his corner drops five degrees.
No one saw the thermostat move.
But Carol Martin, she felt it.
She knew the signs.
Mr. Slow-Boil had been lit.
Wrath isn't a shout.
It's a pilot light you can't see.
It's a kettle that never, ever whistles.

[Bridge]
You don't need a raised voice to take a room hostage.
You just have to withdraw all the warmth.
Make them ask. Make them guess.
Make them sift through the last ten minutes, wondering what they did wrong.
The tongs were never the point.
The point is the weight of the silence he creates.
The power in a meal uneaten.

[Outro]
Later, in the kitchen.
He sees them.
His tongs.
In the soapy water of the deep sink, tangled with a ladle.
Someone used them for the meatballs.
He just looks.
His hands in his pockets.
He turns around.
And walks out into the cold November night.