Tag: food

The Butter River

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In the morning, we walk to the river of melted butter that runs through our village.
Others are already there, waiting for the Buttermaster to proclaim the river clean.
He inspects the flow, confirms that our upstream neighbors are still neighborly, and measures some samples in his testing apparatus.
A light shines green.
“Safe!” he shouts.
We cheer.
Lined up on the shore, we dip our toast and biscuits into the river and savor each bite.
“The river is good,” I say.
My family grunts their agreement.
Nobody double-dips here – that is impolite, unsanitary, and a crime punishable by flogging.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln #83

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Trapped in the kitchen with Mary Todd, Abe decided to make a souffle.
After many failed attempts, he focused his chi and went back to the mixing bowl.
Pour.
Spread.
Lift.
Close.
Wait.
Then, just at the right moment, he reached into the oven to pull it out.
Gently as the dews of heaven, not rending or wrecking anything, he carried the crockery to the table to display his achievement to Mary Todd.
“It looks great,” she said. “What did you do different this time?”
Abe scowled. “It helps not to trip over the loose floorboards and Tad”s scattered toys.”

Wilton

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Where El Dorado was paved with gold, the town of Wilton is paved with cake.
Gingerbread houses and frosting flowers line Angel Food Lane, their gumdrop mailboxes overflowing with letters written on coconut.
In between classes, Wilton Elementary serves sugary snacks to the peanut-brittle children.
The Department of Works rolls around in a cake-pan truck, patching holes in the streets, mending the breaks in the peppermint sewers, and planting spun-sugar trees when the old ones dry up and flake away.
The explorers look at each other, mumble “El Dorado?”
One shakes the compass, and they walk back into the woods.

Banana In My Pocket

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There is always a banana in my right jacket pocket.
Every time I reach in there, I feel a banana is in there.
I know this, because when I pull it out, I have a banana in my hand.
And, sure enough, another banana appears in my pocket to replace it.
You’d think this endless supply of bananas would be a godsend, but I don’t like bananas.
You like bananas?
I think this jacket’s about your size.
What have you got in your pocket? A plum? An orange? Strawberries?
Oh, you always have a weasel in your pants?
Never mind.

Iris

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Just as some women light up a room, Iris scented up a room with her peculiar aroma.
For some reason, Iris liked to spray herself with water from a handheld mister and then dust herself from head to toe with powdered cinnamon.
She said that she learned this from her mother, although her mother used nutmeg.
Iris preferred cinnamon to nutmeg.
At parties, people would look around for the air freshener or the scented candle.
Iris would smile, knowing they’d eventually figure out it was her.
She’d dip her fingers in their coffee, and they’d sip her up with glee.

The Happy Pie

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It was an ordinary pumpkin pie, fresh from the bakery.
We were finished with the roast beef, so it was time for dessert.
Victor grabbed the can of whipped cream and added two dots for eyes and a long curled smile.
That’s when it became the happy pie.
“Come on, Victor,” I said. “Let’s have the pie.”
We all wanted a slice, but Victor shouted “THE HAPPY PIE IS TOO HAPPY TO EAT!” and he ran off with it.
Victor wasn’t hard to chase down. He was sitting on the curb, the pie splattered against the sidewalk.
Happy, no more.

The Windup Cupcake

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She knew I was coming, so she baked me a cake.
She’s baking me a windup cupcake, my favorite kind of cupcake.
Watchmaker and confectionist, lover and friend.
It’s in the oven, baking.
Can you smell it?
It’s good.
If you listen closely, you can hear the ticking of the gears, counting down the time.
It’s its own timer, it’s own oven timer.
When it goes off, it’s ready.
And then, light the candle, and make a wish.
Know what my wish is?
That I just lick the frosting, and I don’t break my teeth on this lovely windup cupcake.

First Christmas

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We were heading back to the office when we blew a temporal stabilizer and had to drop back into the time stream for repairs.
“It’ll take at least an hour,” said Murphy.
It’s been six.
While we’re waiting for the system to reboot, we broke out the emergency rations and had ourselves a Christmas Dinner right there on the prairie.
“I guess this is the first Christmas dinner,” said Jones.
“Yeah,” I said. “A million years before Christ was born.”
We toasted to our health with Tang, finished the meal, and bundled up the trash before checking on Murphy’s progress.

Dunstan The Unstable Existentialist

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As I sit by the fire, reading Sartre in my Kierkegaard Underoos, I ponder the meaning of life.
Then, I realize. Life exists, whether it has meaning or not. It is an end to itself, regardless if I am consciously observing it.
Anything else would be a lie, and we all know that the first person we lie to is ourselves.
Utterly absurd, this all is. There is no meaning to life except whatever meaning we impose upon it.
I, for one, shall believe I am a egg and cheese sandwich. I am part of a nutritious and complete breakfast.

Cucumber

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The doctor told me it was either lose weight or lose my life.
So forget the potato chips, folks – I’m on a diet.
It’s all vegetable snacks for me: carrots, celery, snow peas, and lots of cucumber slices.
Sure, it’s not easy to carry these things around with me everywhere, but there’s lots of those snack pouches at the grocery store these days.
Still, whenever I see a bag of potato chips, I feel the urge to buy it and tear it open and eat it.
My bodyguard then steps in to smash the bag into greasy potato dust.
Saved.