Tag: food

The Dwarves at Night

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Sarah noticed that she smelled of strawberries when she woke up.
The shower washed it away, but every night, it kept coming back.
One night, she awoke to a pair of dwarves, lifting up her shirt and opening the lid of a jar of strawberry jam.
She pulled her shirt back down.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” she snarled.
The dwarves looked at each other and then back at her.
“Do you not like strawberry?” one asked.
Sarah said “There’s grape jelly in the fridge.”
She went back to sleep, and woke up feeling sticky and quite relieved.

Get Out Of Bed!

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For some people, it’s the alarm clock.
For others, it’s getting licked on the face by their dog or cat.
What gets me out of bed, well, that’s kind of a moot point.
I never get out of bed.
Ever since the drunk driver hit me, I’ve been here.
The tubes, wires, and nurses do everything for me.
And when they can’t, well, they put me under and cut more stuff off or stick in more tubes and wires.
The brown tube there, well, that pumps out my shit.
Probably to the kitchen, based on how this damn porridge tastes.

Meat Pie

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“Sweeney Todd will give you a close shave, and Mrs. Lovett will make you into a wonderful meat pie.”
I read the poster twice.
And smiled.
So, I hobbled into the barber shop and happily shouted “I’m really to be murdered and turned into a meat pie!”
Todd looked me over, ran a hand across my chin, and smirked.
“You won’t do at all,” he said, and told me to leave.
Mrs. Lovett was just as dismissive.
“I just chop up what Sweeney sends me,” she said. “No special orders.”
In the end, she did sell me a meat pie.

Eight Nights

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On the second night of Hanukkah, the rabbis were desperate.
“This re-dedication will fail,” one said. “The consecrated oil will not last another night.”
“What do we have plenty of?” said another rabbi.
They found wine. Lots of it.
“Drink!” they shouted. “Everybody take a bottle and drink yourselves stiff!”
And so, everyone drank and drunk. They drank until they passed out.
The rabbis refilled the lamps with some non-holy oil while everyone slept it off.
“Boy, did you guys party last night!” said the rabbis. “Ready to light up again?”
The real miracle was: the wine lasted eight days.

Talking To Candy

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It’s the holiday season, and I am busy as a bee.
I work in a chocolate shop, and there’s no busier time than Christmas.
You’d think it would be Valentine’s Day.
No.
Just before I wrap each of these chocolate-dipped apples and hand-rolled jellies into their packaging, I whisper a message for each to announce as they are unwrapped.
“Your teeth will all rot out,” I say. “You will get fat and then suffer from diabetes.”
Then I close the foil and cellophane over the treat, affix a label, and add it to the completed batch in the shop window.

Cookies

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My mom always made the best cookies. I have recipes, but it’s not the same.
It was so hard to resist them. They never lasted long.
When she made plates of them for others, she had to hide them, or wrap them with several layers of foil and plastic to keep the rest of us out.
She put a plate on the front bench to take to the neighbors, but the next morning all that was left was the plate.
No foil, no plastic, no cookies.
The dog had eaten them all.
Or, at least, that’s what we told her.

Cold Feet

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The last thing you want at a wedding is for the groom to have cold feet.
Or the guests.
That’s why I keep the feet warm when I cater to cannibal weddings.
I made a special tray that keeps them at just the right temperature, but doesn’t dry them out.
I’m sure it would pass the Health Department’s inspection, if cannibalism didn’t throw up a red flag.
Or the fact that this island doesn’t have a Health Department.
Just cannibals.
Either I cater their weddings the way they want, or they will want me.
I’d rather serve than be served.

Dr. Frankenpizza

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Every evening, after Dr. Frankenstein would fail to bring his creature to life, Igor ordered a pizza and have it delivered to the castle.
“What would you like on your pizza, Master?” Igor asked.
“Does it really matter?” Dr. Frankenstein sighed, sweeping the ashes off of the lab table, mopping up blood with a rag.
“Right, Master,” said Igor.
Thirty minutes later, a knock on the castle door.
Igor carefully sneaked behind the delivery boy and brained him with a club.
“Will this one do?” said Igor.
“Certainly,” said Dr. Frankenstein, smiling.
“And about the pizza?”
“Ugh. I hate pizza.”

Wishbone

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Tommy is my older brother.
He’s a bully. And a jerk.
Every year when it’s time to break the wishbone, he puts his thumb on it so it breaks in his favor.
This year, I made a wish:
I want him to be gone.
Totally gone.
When it came time to snap the wishbone, I started on it with my thumb high on the bone.
We struggled, and then I heard the snap.
I opened my eyes.
I had the bigger piece of the wishbone.
And… and…
My dad held the other piece.
“Congratulations,” he said, smiling. “Make a wish?”

Cashews

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Yes, this is a magical nut dish that I am posting on eBay.
I put peanuts in the nut dish, close the lid, and they turn into cashews when I lift the lid.
I don’t like cashews. I like peanuts.
Turning peanuts into cashews has no appeal to me.
Sure, it’s cool that it changes one thing into another in a manner that defies explanation, but as many times as I show my friends and scientists, I still end up with mounds and mounds of cashews.
And I don’t like cashews.
Want a nut dish? And want some cashews, too?