It took me a while to figure it out too. Just click the ‘Reply’ button after the original post by Chris Brennan, and write in the little box that pops up - just like you did when you posted your request 
1 Like
Thank you Sharynlodge. Much appreciated.
1 Like
Cinnamon Sugar.
“Hi, Joseph how have you been” were the first words he said to his friend as he opened the door to his community housing unit. Joseph was a Chinese man who had Parkinson’s Disease, he had been a leading chef when he was younger and traveled the world with a major hotel company. He had also been a spy for the Chinese Government. He had once been in charge of large numbers of staff and had opened his own restaurants where he served the most delicious variety of plates of seafood. He said his market was in the sea, but it was what he could do with a fish, a lobster, a crab, or any other item from the sea that he had become famous for. Joseph knew so many secret things to do with seafood that your mouth drooled just thinking about it, they were his and his alone, except when his friend had offered to take care of him when his illness got too bad and he had started to lose his ability to walk and take care of himself he enlisted his friends to help in the kitchen. It was his speech that seem to be deteriorating the most, his usual Chinese accent, mixed with English had become very difficult to understand except for his good friend that patiently waited for him to repeat what he was trying to say until they both understood what he was asking. He couldn’t write anymore because his illness had also affected his hands and at times it was impossible for him to remember what he wanted to write. Communicating with Joseph was like unwrapping some of the delicious meals he had prepared in the past, slowly and patiently and at times with great anticipation.
His friend was not Chinese but together they walked the daily needs that were dictated by Joseph’s illness, his NDIS meetings with managers, coordinators, and workers, his medical appointments, and his therapy sessions, but what Joseph and his friend loved most of all was his fishing trips. Joseph loved the food of the sea; he loved the hunt and he loved the cooking of his hunter-gathering. There were pictures of Joseph in the local newspaper of the two times he had been washed off rocks while he was fishing in the same place. Sometimes he spoke about his past but very rarely about his work as a spy. He had a picture hanging on his wall in his navy uniform when he was a young naval officer, he looked so young and so proud to be serving his country. He had explained that his training as a chef came as part of his spy training, with a job like that he could be sent to many countries to listen in on conversations and make contacts at very high levels usually at political gatherings and dinners. It amazed him how the serving staff and chef were invisible to parliamentary officials from other countries the perfect way to gather information then sending it back to his headquarters. He was from one of the most prestigious families in China, with a long history going back to the beginning of imperial rule, the other members of his family had very high official positions in China. He emigrated away from his home and was advised that he could not return because the risk was too high, no one who leaves China is ever allowed back.
Joseph loved to cook for others, anytime he could volunteer his wonderful skills to help someone else he was delighted to serve, today he and his friend would travel to a rehabilitation centre for ex-jail residents. It would be a long drive but he was cheerful and happy to be able to share his skills in preparing a luncheon for the thirty residents of the centre. He couldn’t see very well, he stumbled as he walked and now leaned forward in an awkward stance, his speech was not clear and he knew that others could not understand what he was asking. This did not matter, he was back in his kitchen again, preparing vegetables, sauces, seafood, and meat with noodles, oysters, and prawns, including seaweed and herbs and spices. Joseph had packed everything he needed for this wonderful feast. His friend’s wife loved Joseph’s Chinese hotpot, especially the dipping sauces and the variety of raw sliced meats, prawns, squid, bock Choy and greens, she wasn’t too sure about the chicken blood or some of the sausages and she definitely could not eat chili but the beauty of this dish was she could pick what she wanted from the banquet of foods. So, after feeding the thirty or so starving men at the rehab, he spent time preparing a special dish for his friends’ wife, just for her he reminded his friend.
It was sad for his friends to see how Joseph was slowly losing all of his amazing skills, he could do anything, fix his car, build anything, repair electrics, and tackle any problem that presented itself to him. He fought his disease with unrelenting enthusiasm and forced himself to walk each day, do exercises, and go to therapy but it was clear that the disease was winning, slowly but still winning. He was in a foreign country, his friends of the past had passed or no longer made contact, his current wife had abandoned him and gone to live in another city to look after her daughter, his children were finding it hard to visit him, but his one friend stayed loyal adding flavor to his life, like cinnamon sugar in coffee.
3 Likes
Everything is lava today. No one sees it. Well, I do.
Once, I see a lava monster stomp straight through it (lava monsters can do that because they have to get ready for work.) He doesn’t know he is a monster, so I tell him so.
“Oh, am I?” he asks.
“Of course” I just told you so. “And I’m a lava explorer.”
“And what does a lava explorer do?” he asks.
“Explore lava.” I thought that was obvious.
Another time, I warn an innocent villager that she is surrounded by dangerous magma.
“That game is for babies,” she says.
I tell her that she’s on fire.
When the monster is at work and the villager at school, I jump from pillow rock to pillow rock, exploring the hidden cushions deep inside the volcano.
“Are you hungry for lunch?” Another monster calls to me.
I think it through and update my job description.
Lava explorers—number one: explore lava—and number two: eat lunch.
I stomp through the lava. (I can do that because jumping is not safe to do in the kitchen.)
I forget that my mom is a lava monster as she puts jars on the counter and gives me a table knife.
I take two slices of soft, spongy bread and put them on a yellow teddy bear plate. (It is the best plate because it is yellow and has a teddy bear.)
With my little hand, I pull a splat of peanut butter out of the jar—I can do this part myself now. I put the splat on the bread and spread it around until it is gooey and smooth. (Well, smoothish.) I sniff it, and it gets on my nose, but it is peanut-y and not buttery, but called butter anyway.
I wipe my nose and scrape the knife off and dip the knife into the jelly. Jelly is hard. Jelly comes out in glops that don’t spread. They just jiggle and slide around. But I can do this part by myself too.
Glop, glop, glop. The little pieces of purple sit like dark clouds over the top of the sandwich.
One more bread.
Bread is the easiest part.
I push the sandwich down to make sure everything will stick together and give the knife to my mother. I can’t do the cutting part myself.
“How do you want it cut?” She asks.
“Triangles!” An idea suddenly comes to me.
Two cuts later, four triangles are carved out of my magnificent creation. And my mom has a surprise.
Cheetos! Real Cheetos— with the Sunglasses Cat on the bag and everything. Mom shakes a handful onto my plate beside my sandwich and brings it to the table.
I could eat lunch, but not yet. With sticky hands now turning orange, I stack the triangle pieces into a tilty pyramid. I beam with pride and grab the Cheetos (I eat two by accident) and place them on top of my pile, and then spread them all around.
It’s a glorious explosion of orange! An eruption! A volcano sandwich.
“Oh, it’s lava!” Mom says.
I beam. Everything is lava today, and she sees it.
9 Likes
Did you know cheeseburgers bounce? They do, if prepared properly. In the buffet style of a long cafeteria line, feeding hundreds of thousands of children. My meals were free, but the lunch ladies always acted like I paid so I didn’t stand out.
Today we get cheeseburgers and vegetable soup. My favorite meal. You wouldn’t think they go together, the tomato based broth of the soup teetering between sweet and bitter with the miscellaneous vegetables tossed in, but the salty savoriness of the cheeseburger dunked once, twice, three times creates the perfect sogginess to the bread.
I rip my small cheeseburger into pieces and dunk it in my soup. The way the bread absorbs the hot liquid almost instantly is fascinating, and the juices would dribble down my chin if I let them.
A loud noise echoes around the cafeteria and trays clatter all around me as people react. Someone had dropped their food in the middle of the line again, and as their lunch hit the floor, so did mine.
But my cheeseburger bounced. Not high, not enough to come back up, but enough for me to notice it didn’t fall flat to the floor.
It didn’t make any sense. Bread is not a particularly bouncy substance, and neither is meat, but when these two ingredients were put together, with cheese in between, they bounced.
An abandoned half of burger laid untouched on my friend’s tray.
“Are you going to eat that?” I asked once the commotion had quieted around us.
“Did you not get breakfast again? I am hoping your parents feed you dinner.”
“They do,” I say, for the most part. “I just wanted to test a theory.”
“What theory?”
“Do cheeseburgers bounce?”
My friend burst into laughter, shaking her head. “For the sake of your stomach, I hope it bounces into your mouth.”
“Are you going to eat it or not?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
“Alright, go for it.”
I picked up the burger and tested its weight in my hands before forcefully dropping it on the table. And sure enough, it bounced.
From that day on, whenever we had vegetable soup and cheeseburgers, we would always dip the burger into the soup to soak up the broth, while saving a small bit to pass back and forth, bouncing it lightly on the table.
6 Likes
New Zealand in the late 1950s. A Sunday in winter, just a couple of months after my father died suddenly. My brother, my little sister and I are on the sitting room floor doing a jigsaw puzzle. We can hear our mother out in the kitchen and we can smell the smells of the Sunday roast as they permeate the whole house because our house isn’t very big. The kitchen runs off the sitting room. There is no hallway to break up the delicious aroma of beef, potatoes and pumpkin roasting with Yorkshire puddings in the oven of the coal range, with beans and carrots boiling furiously on the stovetop.
Beneath the aroma of the Sunday roast, though, is the faint whiff of the very best part of the meal, the part for which we will gladly clear our plates of the vegetables we might not be so keen on - our mother’s Bread & Butter Pudding - the bread spread with butter and raspberry jam, sprinkled with sultanas, all soaked in a creamy egg custard, with a delicious topping of meringue.
Outside, the weather has turned cold and wet. Tomorrow, we have to go to school. But right at this moment, inside our house, we are warm and cosy and we don’t have to go anywhere if we don’t want to.
“Lunch is ready!” our mother calls. “Come and get it!”
We jump up, follow our noses out to the kitchen, the jigsaw puzzle forgotten.
Life goes on, even when one life is over. We’re too young to know how tough it is for our mother, who keeps to these mealtime rituals for us, because it’s what we know, what we’re used to, and she knows it helps us to adjust to our new normal.
But we’re too young to realise how our mother might be feeling about that empty chair at the table, about the one less place setting as she serves up what was our father’s favourite meal, about the empty space beside her as she tries to sleep in the double bed she has shared for so long.
She looks up and smiles at us. And then quickly looks away as we all sit down to eat.
5 Likes
Yikes! I have to admit i was reluctant to read this because of the length but as soon as i started reading the first sentence i was hooked. Loved this. Really drew me in and kept my attention to the last, very creepy, line.
1 Like
Thanks for the positive words! As I’m sure you’ll come to discover, most of my stories are horror or thrillers. I’ve done many writing challenges in the past with prompts, and I always seem to find a way to turn them into something scary. Always a concern when I get carried away with the length, but a story is always as many words as it needs to be.
4 Likes
Having finished a two-hour workout at the local gym, Toni was sitting in a window seat of the bar opposite her office. She flicked open her iPad and glanced through a few documents that were waiting for her to deal with, but her mind wasn’t in it. She was looking forward to the large bowl of chips that she had ordered. It was something that she realised was ridiculous after a workout, but she couldn’t help herself. Sipping at her glass of mineral water, dreaming of vodka and coke, she thought back to the crisp, crunchy chips that her dad used to make for her. The Rolling Stones were playing on the bar’s sound system, loud enough to be heard but still quiet enough not to be annoying. Toni’s bowl of chips finally arrived at the table, dumped in front of her by a surly barmaid covered in tattoos, the chips looked limp, under-cooked and unappetising.
“That’ll teach me to order them.” Toni said to herself. “That’s another hour in the gym, tomorrow.”
4 Likes
When I was at high school I always took the packed lunches my mum made for me.
She made them the night before, for my sister, my dad and myself, and stored them in the fridge til morning.
Sometimes i would stand watching while she made them. It was a chore for her I could tell. She was superfast, no pride or care went into the sandwiches she made. Robot- like in her actions , she wanted this job out of the way asap!
More or less the same dinner was made each day - chicken or ham, and a slice of tomato, perhaps some lettuce but usually not. I watched her thinly spread the butter, slap on some packet meat and a slice of tomato. Then lastly came the roof of the butty, always a white thin slice of bread. Taking some foil to wrap them, she would press our sandwiches down with one hand, yet she did it so hard that she left her small handprint on the bread. I never knew why she had to press so hard. It wasnt like they were bulging with filling and wouldnt fit into the wrapping! I never asked why as she wasnt the type of mum to have her actions questioned.
At school the next day, when i took out my lunch box and opened it, an inedible soggy mass stared sadly back. Where she had pressed so hard had made the tomato juices run into the top slice of bread, so it was soggy and wet. I could actually visibly see where the tomato ring sat underneath!.
I didnt eat any dinners after that. The ice cream van used to park in our playground so my wholesome lunch comprised of fried egg penny sweets and a can of cherryade.
I was scared to tell mum i didn’t eat my dinners so I hid them in my room, which was ok until dad wanted to decorate, and when he cleared the room he found mountains of mouldy sandwiches under my bed.
I make packed lunches for my family now, and god is it a chore!.
My daughter once asked why i dont put tomato on her sandwiches, and a cringy shudder ran right down my spine.
7 Likes
Highly evocative, Orangfeaya. I loved the shock when the egg yolk reminded her of the pool of blood surrounding her dead father. You have set the standard for the rest of us to aim for.
2 Likes
@flparker1941 Oh my goodness I’m so flattered! Thank you for your encouragement!!! So happy you like my writing, as I am a newbie to writing. It’s nervous putting things out there that I have never really showed anyone. Your words mean so much to me! Thank you!
2 Likes
Do you know something? Life can be a pain in the ass at times, but as hard as it can be, I’ve never wanted it to end.
When some white coat-wearing dude looks up at you over his glasses and tells you you’re dying, it makes you reevaluate everything.
For instance, am I wasting my life gaming at all hours?
Should I be exercising more?
Should I be eating less junk food?
The answer to all the above is no!
Burgers rock, and exercise sucks!
The thing is, I love sitting in front of my PC, blowing the heads off aliens and zombies alike.
I know that as a twenty-six-year-old male, I should be out there chasing skirt and getting drunk, but I much prefer being at home in my bedroom playing Doom.
The other thing I love doing also means being alone in my bedroom with the door locked.
I know what you’re thinking, but get your minds out of the gutter! I’m not talking about using my downstairs bits as an amusement park, though I enjoy that sometimes. No, I’m talking about my adventures when travelling to other realms and realities.
I guess I should at least introduce myself before I lay out my coolest secrets to you.
My name is Kevin Jones, and I work as a junior systems analyst. I live in Perth, WA, and share a house with two mates I made in uni, Doug and Sarah. Oh, and I have a dog called D-fa.
Why D-fa?
D-fa-dog. Get it?
No?
D-for-dog. D-fa-dog.
Well, the name made me laugh when I came up with it.
D-fa is a cool little mutt who just gets me. He’s my best mate. It’s like we are identical spirits from different species.
Anyhow, back to me and my superpower.
Apart from working and playing first-person shooters, I do something else that will blow your mind!
I can transport myself to other realms and planets. That’s right!
I know what you’re thinking. Cool upon cool to the tenth degree!
The trouble is, I can’t do it at will, but I know when it’s about to happen. You see, I get a warning first.
About an hour or so before I teleport myself to unknown places, I smell freshly baked cookies. The stronger the smell gets, the closer in time I am to my adventure.
Because I’m an analyst, I can pretty much work from home all the time. So, when I start smelling those divine sugary treats, I prepare myself for my trip to places never before seen by man or woman.
I log off from work, shut down my computer, make myself comfortable and wait for my next adventure to begin.
When the smell of cookies overwhelms me, I leave our planet behind and explore the universe.
I’ve visited planets where everyone has two heads, each pointing in different directions.
I’ve travelled to a realm where there is no such thing as butter.
I have soared above mountains made of frozen gas in winds that smell of farts.
I’ve seen and done things that make the games I play seem dull.
Or at least, that was what I thought.
You see, the white coat-dude I mentioned is a neurosurgeon, and he just told me I have a tumor the size of a golf ball inside my brain, and it’s killing me.
It turns out the cookies I smelt were just phantom smells before I had seizures. I don’t have superpowers and never travelled any farther than my room.
Apparently, I messed up my bedclothes because I thrashed around during fits. Fits that caused me to hallucinate all sorts of crazy shit.
Surprise-surprise, I’m not a superhero. I’m just some overweight nerd dying of brain cancer!
Anyhow, Mr. white-coat says he can try to cut the tumor out, but I only have a five per cent chance of survival.
Fuck that!
Do you know what I’m going to do instead? I’m going to buy the biggest cookie I can find and eat it as I get drunk with my friends. Hell, I might even see if D-fa wants to get pissed, too.
10 Likes
Ouch, that turn of events got me 
1 Like
Happy Hallowe’en
Like me, you probably heard the stories when you were a child, about the wicked witch and the gingerbread house – how was I supposed to know they might be true?
She certainly didn’t look like a witch that day when she met me outside the supermarket, cursing loudly, which surprised me for such a sweet-looking old lady until I turned and saw that the wheel had fallen off the shopping bag she pulled behind her on its small trolley — a bit like those suitcases you get to take on holiday that have a handle you can slide up on the top.
“Here, let me help you with that. That was my first mistake.”
I blame my parents, they raised me to be nice. Helpful. Polite.
No way am I going to claim that their tuition lasted into adulthood, because several of my friends have told me that I can be quite abrasive, loud, not your typical girly girl, but if any of them tried to give me any stupid names like ‘ladette’, I tended to hurt them.
So, that stopped, pronto.
I regard myself as liberated, with actual equality, not being pushy and trying to get more rights than the men had, or even more money than them, I just wanted the same. That didn’t suit my bosses in a couple of jobs I’ve had, so I simply resigned, but I didn’t go quietly.
More than one of them avoid me in the streets now, crossing to the other pavement when they see me coming, after the suffering I’d subjected them to before I left. Especially the ones who thought they could pat me on the ass, or accidentally rub up against my boobs as they went by in the stockroom.
Anyway, I’m getting distracted.
The little wheel had broken off, and I couldn’t see any easy way to fix it as the part that kept it on the axle seemed to be missing.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “it’s completely busted. You probably need a new one.”
A rich smell of ginger and spices was assaulting my nostrils as I knelt down next to it.
“But I have to get it home, bake cookies for the children, ready for Halloween.” Her rheumy eyes gazed down at me, beginning to fill with tears.
I’m a sucker for a sob story.
“Okay, let’s push the handle down, and I’ll just tuck it under my arm and get it to your car for you.”
“Could you come with me? It’s not far. I won’t be able to get it into the house. I have one of those driveways made out of stones.” There was a tremor in her voice and a tiny smile at the corner of her lips as she appealed to me. “Please. I can run you straight back if it’s too far to walk, but I have to get the cookies started.”
And I fell for it — hook line and sinker.
I admit, the fact that the house looked like something off a gingerbread postcard should have alerted me, but it’s 2022. Witches aren’t real. Everybody knows that.
As soon as we were inside her house, something hits me hard on the back of the head, or neck, I wasn’t sure which. I just remember everything going black.
When I came to, I was trussed up inside a cupboard, and the delicious odour of spices was everywhere. Sugars, gingers — they smelled fresh — and other sweet things, and I seemed to be covered in something very sticky.
I licked my lips. Treacle? Why would someone coat me in that sticky mess?
“Hey, let me out of here.”
“Shush now, dear, we don’t want to disappoint the children do we?”
Okay, she was obviously insane, and even though my head throbbed I actually have amazing powers of recuperation.
“Open this cupboard, untie me now, and I’ll let you live.”
That’s when she cackled. You know they’ve gone too far once they cackle, don’t you? No sane person does that.
There was nothing else for it.
I liked this outfit, it was classy, and I’d managed to keep it whole for quite a while now, but desperate times call for reckless measures.
Reaching down inside my mind I touched that black core that I keep hidden, because I was a nice girl, because my parents had taught me how to control it, because the normals must never find out what I really was, and I’d been successful for years now.
She left me no choice.
I don’t remember much that happened after I transformed, it’s as though the brute part of me takes over. The bonds just snap, the clothes all tear off, my animal twin does its thing and leaves me confused, naked, but alive, and that’s how I found myself afterwards.
Cold, shivering in front of her big black oven, covered in treacle, and blood. The warm metallic taste in my mouth and down my throat, and what I could only assume to be her remains roasting behind the sturdy iron door.
She smelt a lot like schnitzel.
I’d no idea if she was really a witch, or just some kind of underachieving psychopath, but I was hoping she had clothing here that would fit me. I still had to pick up my cat food and fresh pumpkins from the supermarket.
Even a sad, flowery, old lady dress was better than turning up naked, wasn’t it?
Happy Halloween.
6 Likes
Jenny had always been a little unusual as a child, or so she often heard her parents tell the counsellor. As far as Jenny, could recall, her childhood had been normal, but then what was normal ? Was she normal now ? At the mature age of 12, Jenny was absolutely sure she was the normal one, and everyone else was, well - a little strange.
“ha,hummm” John… was his name John ? “Ha,hummm are you with us Miss Jenny” said John ? Jenny stared at him noticing he was actually wearing a name tag ‘David’ ! Oh well, She thought. John was staring right at her, in that unusual way she noticed of late. All the adults and many of her fellow students seemed to have well… changed. One of those changes she recalled was the lack of blinking, well, not a total lack, but it was different. “Miss Jenny - am I disturbing your fantasy” ? Jenny suddenly realized her mind had wandered again “Oh Sorry John”. He smiled one of those weird smiles that never reached his eyes… “Creepy” she thought… Oh shit did I say that out aloud ? John however was seeminly preoccupied with his computer screen now, mumbling “ah’s” and “right” !
Jenny had been in this office every day this week. For the fifth time, she had been caught day dreaming, staring out a window, looking at nothing in particular. In fact, she was struggling to remember anything from the week earlier. She knew she had been at School, her parents were acting normal and laughed when she had told them she could not remember last week “relax, it happens to everyone when we become stressed. Just last week your father misplaced the car for an entire day” her mother Helen had said. Helen… when did she start referring to her mom as ‘Helen’ ?
The loud hall bell rang, indicating that lunch was over. She looked up at John who was by now looking at her in his odd frozen fish eye stare. When he didnt move, She shuffled out of the chair grabbing her backpack in one swift motion and made for the door. She was outside in the hall and still, John the counsellor had said nothing to her. ‘What an unusual man’ she thought, but on reflection - everyone was unusual but she just couldn’t place what exactly was wrong.
The rest of the school day went as usual, droning math teacher writing ancient mysterious script onto the thousand year old backboard with his gaggle of students diligently copying away. Then there was Mr. Mathews teaching spanish, which might as well have been Greek or Sumerian, for Jenny had no recolection of ever learning Spanish. Why was she here ? And that, was why she was in the counsellors office every lunchtime this week. Everyone thought she was “Being difficult”, or “Problem child” or worse yet “Is everything alright at home ?”.
It happened again…
Jenny swore she had been at her locker shuffling books to and from her bag for the nights homework, but now she was lying in her bed, the ‘mickey mouse’ clock on the wall said it was 9:30 at night, and yes, it had hands. Her parents were ‘sticklers’ (Whatever that meant) for “learning to tell the time properly”, a mantra her father had drilled into her like some TV drill sergent. What happened ? She noticed she was wearing her pyjamas, her favourite ones in fact, the think pink ones that made her feel warm and snug (Another of mum’s favourite words). As she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the nightlight reflecting a dim glow off the now faded ‘glow in the dark’ stars, she heard a scream.
Again, the scream ! She sat upright in bed so fast, her pillow went flying onto the floor. She shuffled out of bed (ok Im not the tallest girl in my class), and raced onto the landing, and… silence. The house was mostly dark, but as she stood there listening quietly, she herd the faintest sobs. holding her breath she continued to listen and … ‘is that mum’ ?
Jenny crept along the landing to the foot of the stairs. she could see the kitchen light was on, but the kitchen was out of sight from the top of the stairs. Step by careful step she crept down the stairs. Her breathing sounded like a winter gale in her ears but she was breathing slow and careful. Quietly she reached the base of the stairs, her bare feet cold on the hard tile floor of the hallway. She tiptoed quietly (crack) her knee made a noise like a firework. She stopped still, holding her breath for a dozen heart beats (rather fast heartbeats), but the quiet sobbing continued - she had not been discovered. Hoping that no other part of her body betrayed her, she snuck to the very edge of the doorway, peeking carefully around. She could see her mother, leaning over the kitchen bench, a tray of cookies on top of the stove looking rather burnt. It was then she noticed the smell of burnt sugar, a slight haze in the air… ‘smoke’ she realized !
A movement caught her eye. Something tall, a shadow, moved away from the far corner. Jenny’s blood froze, her breath stuck in her throat, a scream fighting to escape her mouth. The Shadow was a man, but not her father, and not any man she had ever seen. He was so tall, thin like a cartoon, long arms and long legs. A sound issued from the tall figure clearly not a man. It sounded like the wind, then a hiss like when she left the stove on without lighting it. the sound turned into “HELEN” and then a long pause. Jenny realised she had forgotten to breath, and carefully let out a breath, clearly both intrigued and terrified all at once. “You burnt the cookies HELEN - You know the price” ! The tall figure must have heard her because it turned slowly until it was facing her… it was facing her, and she just stood there!
3 Likes
It felt good to be home again. Two weeks away at college had made me miss my family. Plus, dining hall and dorm cooking weren’t as good as my mom’s. Sitting down to dinner with my parents and older brother Mark it felt like almost no time had passed.
I filled my plate with spaghetti and meatballs. Mom still used her family sauce and meat ball recipe. I only took four meat balls because they were big enough to cut. Plus I was planning on taking seconds.
Mom had made sure to cook one of my favorite meals to welcome me home again. Cutting into a meat ball I reminded myself to ask her for at least one leftover meal to take back on Sunday night.
I speared a meatball quarter covered in sauce and twirled a fork full of spaghetti. First bite of my childhood favorite home cooked meal in two weeks.
The smell and taste of the meal brought back so many memories. Begging for extra meat balls growing up. Fighting with Mark over who’d ended up with more, and learning how to make them from mom. She’d taught me how to cook basic meals and some family recipies in High School. By senior year I had been cooking at least one night a weekend.
Dinner was as delicious as always. For a few minutes I almost forgot the craziness of the week. I let myself enjoy dinner with my family. We talked about our weeks. Catching up on the latest news. I heard about my parent’s work weeks. Not to mention Mark’s first week of the final year in his Master’s program. I told them about most of my Orientation Week at Aspire University and first week of classes. There was still something something I didn’t tell them about. Something I wanted to avoid if possible What had happened last weekend.
4 Likes
The solid oak dining table was far too big for the closet my grandmother called the dining room, the chairs wouldn’t fully slide under the antique due the impossible leg configuration, and once sat the occupants are trapped to gaze through the window at Crucan, the Munro that rose up skywards, beckoning my older self to climb one day with Jack running by my side.
However, once us children had been distributed around the table by mother, what ensues will live forever, regurgitated by the smell of fried smokey bacon, grilled tomatoes and steamed mushrooms accompanied by the constant supply of cold brown toast, buttered as think as the back bacon slices.
I don’t remember ever eating the morning ritual, just watching my Grandfather mop up the grease with his last, perfect mouthful until he deemed it ‘OK’ to leave en-mass to go fishing or swimming in the Loch. I miss them.
5 Likes
Slopped carelessly from tin to bowl. No care or heat given.
The smell nauseating, filled with hints of gelatine and animal products.
Tossed in front of the grateful recipient, happy and excited to receive the unappetizing bounty.
Consumed in minutes, spilled, and picked up from the floor with a joy that the quality didn’t deserve.
Who knew it would be his late? Would the meal have been shown more care if we had known?
Would he have savior it, taken his time to enjoy that meat and gravy?
The smell still brings back memories of him, my first best friend.
5 Likes
Talia looked around as she walked into the house, it was quiet but the smell of something incredibly savory and mouth watering filled the air of the home. She kicked off her shoes and put them in the wrack by the door; the last time she didn’t her mother had given her the classic ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ speech that always left Talia in tears. Once that was done, she padded on silent steps towards the kitchen, where the smell was coming from. The smell was stronger now, the closer she got to the source, and becoming more familiar.
Talia stepped into the brightly lit kitchen and instantly spotted her mother, her bright red hair in a messy bun was impossible to miss, waving her hand over a steaming pot to try and catch the smell better from the steam. Something Talia had never understood, but had picked up as a habit herself when she had the opportunity to cook. Now that she was in the kitchen proper, Talia could smell pepper and garlic, as well as salt and oil. There was fried chicken sitting on a paper-towel covered plate to absorb the excess oil, waiting to be put into the pot that her mother was now stirring. Talia would bet good money that rice was sitting in a corningware dish in the microwave. Stepping closer, she could now see that the pot had a generous amount of milk-based gravy, spiced with garlic, pepper, a little hot sauce, and a whole lot of butter and the cooking oil from where her mother had shallow fried the chicken.
“What’s the occasion mom?”
Her mother turned to look at Talia over her shoulder, a loving smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, making the laugh and smile lines stand out a little more than usual, “Occasion? Do I need a reason to cook for my favorite daughter?”
Talia smiled at her, “Mom, I’m your only daughter.”
Her mother laughed, a joy-filled sound that was one of Talia’s favorites in the world to listen to, “All the more reason to cook for you. But did you forget? Of all days, you forgot what today is?”
Talia blinked and turned to look at the calendar on the wall next to the refrigerator, then gasped, how had she forgotten? This day came around once a year, and her mother always made sure to make it special for her. No matter what hardships they might have had that year. This year had, thankfully, been a good year; if a little busy. Her mother’s laughter rang through the air again.
“I see you realized that today is your birthday, Pumpkin. My little girl isn’t so little anymore, she’s twenty years old now, my how time has flown, it seems like just yesterday I was holding you in my arms for the first time, and now you’re a manager at your work, you help teach craft classes, and you still take care of your mom. I must have done something right to earn you as my daughter.”
Talia flushed from her hair to her chest, “Mooooom, stop it, you’re making me blush!” To cover the rest of her embarrassment, she walked over and pulled out two waters, opening and handing one to her mom, before she started to help her mom put the chicken into the gravy to finish the cooking process. This was her favorite meal, had been ever since she was old enough to have favorites, chicken fricassee, at least that what her mom always called it. A spiced milk and chicken gravy with pieces of chicken, often on the bone for flavor and to keep the meal inexpensive, served over fluffy rice. It looked plain and kind of boring, but it was so full of rich flavor, and very filling. Every time she tasted it, it was like a hug on a plate, rich, spiced and unctuous. It reminded her of every family dinner she had with her parents, all the joy and the love that her home had over the years. Talia shook her head and began to set the table, a small smile of her own gracing her lips. It was time to make yet another happy memory while she still could.
4 Likes