Elizabeth Kerlikowske on “Any Way You Slice It” and “Suburban Garnish”
My grandparents blessed me with boredom.
Growing up, my sister and I were taken from our city life and removed to a cottage on a lake in northern Michigan. It was us and old people. They liked to go on rides to obscure (The Nook in the Woods, surely you’ve heard of it?) destinations, eat lunch, drive back to the cottage, Gran and her sisters or her friend Merle. Sis and I in the back seat, me reading, Sis biting her nails. Every so often, Gran would turn around and yell, “Put that book down and look out the window!” Nancy Drew slammed shut, and I put my nose to the glass.
When it rained, I discovered rain drop wars, where individual drops blown against the window at 55 mph joined other drops, became rivers, invaded other pools and dissolution ensued. It is a short step from that to understanding that all objects have a voice, and if you look and listen, you can discover them. A healthy relationship with personification helps.
In “Any Way You Slice It,” the toaster is a substitute for the wife, watching her husband go crazy, stuck in the kitchen, secretly glad all this bad stuff is happening to him. I don’t know that when I’m writing, though. It really is just a toaster. When he turns his violence to the toaster and she sails for the first time in her life, it’s a little like the end of Thelma and Louise: this moment of release, never mind what comes after. Because the toaster has a good landing, there’s hope for a better life, that someone walking past just needs a toaster!
Even as a kid, I thought houses looked ridiculous in bows. They are the height of “Suburban Garnish.” Lights are okay. Maybe candles in the window, which can also be kind of spooky. I wondered how the house felt about it. Neighbors decorating their houses the way you would dress up a dog or a kid, who then exhibit this passive yet slightly hostile patience. Because neither the toaster nor the house go anywhere, there is a sense of stability to them both I find comforting.
I became serious about writing when I was sixteen. My junior year, I wrote a story for my English class that I thought my super-Christian teacher would love. He called me out into the hallway. Instead of praise, he said, “You should see a psychiatrist.” That was when I understood the power of writing. I did not see a psychiatrist until 20 years later.