A Pinch of Homesickness

I am sharing with you my “Cooking with Anger” alchemy.  Hope you enjoy what is on the menu!

A Pinch of Homesickness

Main Ingredients:

  • teacher
  • archaeologist
  • champagne
  • coriander
  • tattoo

Spice Pack:

  • 1/8 whisper of disapproval
  • 1/4 pinch of homesickness

One day a 17 year old boy was walking down the street, dreaming of becoming an archaeologist.  He was just about to be home when he saw a tattoo shop.  He thought to himself why not check it out.  When he went into the shop, he noticed a strange symbol on the sample board.  That would look cool on me, he said to himself.  

45 minutes later he came out of the shop and started to walk home to find his mom worried sick.  “Where have you been!? Your dinner is…” She paused and looked down at his tattoo.  “…is on the table.”  The boy sat down and started eating.  “What is in this soup?” he asked.  His mom responded by saying “Some coriander and ⅛ a whisper of disapproval.”  His cheeks turned a bright shade of red, for even though he felt no pain when he got the tattoo, he didn’t realise the pain might be felt by others.

The next day in school his teacher stopped him at the door.  “Where did you get that tattoo?” She asked.  He then responded “At the new tattoo store.”  She then she said with a seriousness on her face “That symbol you chose is an ancient sign that means that the wearer seeks something.  Perhaps what you seek is buried in the past.”  The boy was puzzled.  The whole school day he was thinking about what his teacher said.  He decided to leave home to dig up the past in search of artifacts, traces, and more whispers.

When he arrived at his apartment a bottle of champagne was sitting at the table.  “What was there to celebrate?” he thought to himself.  The label said “MADE WITH ¼ A PINCH OF HOMESICKNESS”.  All of these signs seemed to foretell his departure, like his life was controlled by a divine force.  

He placed a note on the table that expressed his regrets.  He took one last glance at the apartment, then left.

 

Extended CWA: Avicia’s Story

My friends, I loved the Cooking With Anger prompt so much, that I decided to tell you more of my own story here! I can be wordy, and I had to cut it down a great deal to fit the requirements of that exercise.  I am glad to tell you more of my backstory. Please click on the linked words, they will enhance your experience of my story.


I looked out the window as my coach surged forward through the swirling vortex outside the window, a seemingly nonstop stream of tears trickling down my cheeks. This was uncharted territory. I was leaving my home world, going to “Earth.” leaving my friends, my housemates, and my family behind for an unforeseeable period of time. Grief welled up in me as I pondered what might be waiting for me, as the coach pulled out of the whirling ether and into the transport station. I was leaving my home world to travel to Earth and meet up with the other alchemists.

“Avicia Znevffn.” I heard the robotic voice address me, as the conductor suddenly blipped into existence in the doorway of my coach.

I looked up.

“Your departure point approaches. Gather your luggage.”

The robot remained stationed in front of the door of my coach, as I collected my possessions and let my mind wander.

I thought about home. In the last week, I had come to appreciate the little things that I knew I would miss, as I encountered them for the last time. I went home to say goodbye to my family, and wandered into my mother’s garden. The sky was a warm orange color, signifying of the height of the day, and the snow pea flowers were in bloom. I felt a surge of tenderness as I looked intently at their delicate white and purple blooms. I felt tears fill my eyes at the memory. I didn’t know how long I’d be away, but surely I wouldn’t experience anything like my mother’s garden for a long time.

As the coach slowly stopped whirling, the robot blipped away with a final, tinny, “Goodbye,” and the coach doors slid open, I was surprised to see a long, bright hallway in front of me. No other coaches were left at this stop. I was told that I would meet other alchemists on this journey, but I seemed to be alone at this stage. I was further surprised to see the no-nonsense departure route ahead of me. No more contact with the outside world of this planet, straight to the transport down to Earth. There would be no sugar-coating this journey.

I drew a deep breath and stepped into the hallway, hearing my soft footsteps echo down in the empty hallway around me. It was a long hall, but with each step I saw the entrance to the waiting room. I knew what would approach when I stepped beyond those doors.

Technicians would await me with a dose of the medicine that would put me out as I transported through time and space to my destination. My housemate, Knida, had told me it would be cherry flavored. At the time, I had snorted at the idea. Was I a child, that needed candy-flavoring to make a trip? But the anticipation had built up, and I felt a strange surge of bliss at the thought of a sweet treat, to soften the journey.

I took a breath and pressed my hand to the cold metal of the door. It reacted immediately.

“Avicia Znevffn,” a robotic announcement rang out. The doors opened, and a technician greeted me.  

“How was your trip?” the technician was not what I had expected. She was a kindly looking woman, who reminded me vaguely of my own mother. I wondered briefly at her story, before snapping myself back to reality.

“Tense,” I replied.

“First time away from home?” The woman’s eyes showed concern, and I felt something like adoration as an image of my mother flashed again through my mind.

“It is.”

“Well dear, it’ll be perfectly fine. Missions like this are what we’re made for.”

I nodded. I knew.  We were meant to leave our world, to travel to others, to interact with any and all beings willing to collaborate cultures and learn.

“What’s the transport like?” I asked, ready to snap to business.

“Quick. The serum will remind you of cherry ice cream. A cold feeling, a taste of sweetness, and you’ll be there.”

“I’m ready.”

With one more warm smile she took my hand, “Right this way.”

She led me through the maze of hallways and I glimpsed others, like me, preparing for their respective journeys. I caught the eye of a boy, he looked younger than me. He looked how I felt– nervous. I hoped I masked it better.

Then, we were there. I saw my transport pod in front of me, and there was another technician. He smiled at me and led me to the pod, hooked me up to Life and Transport Support, and briefly told me how I would feel during the trip and mentioned a name that would be present when I awoke.

“Look for two alchemists called M. Prophetissima and Rebeg Maestro. They’ll be guiding you and the others through your mission.”

“M. Prophetissima and Rebeg Maestro,” I repeated.

“Don’t be afraid,” the woman implored me. “It’s all going to be okay.”

I nodded thankfully, and said again, “I’m ready.”

They stepped back as the pod door descended into its locked position. I heard a soft whirr, and suddenly felt cold.

I tasted cherries.

Reflection

I enjoyed doing the master chef activity just like I enjoyed doing the practice. I worked with several people including my new friend @QuaneshaSB. I really enjoyed hearing her read my piece of the story so I decided to let her read my part for me. She reads it like she actually wrote it.

Things did not go exactly as planned, but I am proud to say it is completed. I proved I am friendly.

Faerie Pointers (Ha) & Friends for Dinner (Haha)~

Fair warning to all who dare delve deeper into the Other Side: Should you make a so-called “bot” using a pre-made fabrication of sorts, check the rows and columns for straggling letters and wandering no-words, whispers of forgotten things meandering in hollow spaces.

*cough* asf should not be in the *cough* Project Key *cough* nothing will work *cough*

Ahem, hope my fair foresight doesn’t scare those with softer sensibilities nor those with feebler hearts from any alchemical exploration or experimentation. From spell-casting or word-weaving and the would-be such. It’s rather amusing–sending  nonsense and nonentities out into the widespread web, seeing what spells stick, hit–find realization. Become magickYou really should try it. No tricks this time….

Anyway, many magickal happenings have taken place since the treacherous journey from the Other Side to Somethingness. Not sure if I much like being Something yet… Recipes of fate and of memory–spells, offerings of word-weaving–have been scribed scratched on the walls of a kitchen that seems to favour the impassioned over the meek of cooks. The angry ones, so it goes.  Was expecting more bread to box my ears and questions about my intellectual being to be screamed in my face to be honest….

Still, there was a magickal aroma about the place. See haha if you can catch a whiff of it:

Violent Delights know the rest?: An…acquaintance for dinner?

The Alchemy of Memory: Recipes for Remembrance: Many acquaintances for dinner. Many memories to savour. Pretty sounds~ 300 words was an admirable but, in shortest order, dismissed suggestion though. Procured a creative workaround. Artists, right?

Of course, many other delightfully fragrant trails of magick abound. Follow your nose, your tastes to the ones that sate your fair desires ^.^ Or not. I’m just a lone, sappy-no-lucky faerie wandering the fathoms to and fro hum-hum-humming hexes & hearts. Follow at your own risk, you know?

Oh, and that Dycpgc-Egpj-uyllyzc was going on about some other such nonsense here. Methinks she believes she’s clever. Ha. Perhaps, insightful, even . Haha. Again, you be the judge ^.^ 

Lmr-y-Qfybmu-Egpj-uyllyzc signing off~

Slán till an chéad uair eile

noxsiog

 

 

 

 

Neither the Wife Nor the Fanboy

pensato4remix

Sometimes, stories and poems get intercepted and told by voices of the Universe. Such was the case this morning. Listen.

Main Ingredients:
wife
fanboy
baby carrots
peas
email

Spice Pack:
1/3 dash of reluctance
1/8 whisper of nervousness

——-

I am neither the wife, nor the fanboy, only the chef with the recipe on the screen. As an Arganee cook, and as one who channels sounds from the Universe, I am remixing this dish of Nervous Nellies into a poetic response. Listen.

The young fanboy writes;
the married writer reads.
It merges back together
when threads begin to weave.

They are both deep in story,
so, let’s add to the stew:
a carrot baby, peace, and
a perhaps a smidgen of youth.

In a stream of email whispers,
amidst text message shouts,
with comment bin analysis,
Nervous Nellie pouts

and pours herself a glass
a thimble shot of pain
for now that the story’s past,
she back at home again.

I’m An Angry Chef…. Rawr

Cooking with Anger was really fun! My list was:

Level: Chef

Your basket:

Main Ingredients:

wife

loser

cheap red wine

vinegar

bedroom

Spice Pack:

1/3 smidge of frivolousness

1/4 cup of agitation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My story:

Have you ever been so in love with someone, your heart aches when there’s distance between? That slow, agonizing torment that creates a nervousness in your blood. The rushing you may try and ignore that flows through your warm, soft skin, if you drink an espresso when your usual cup of the day is nothing but a cool glass of water. The anxious, palm sweat forms as you try to remember the last time you saw their face. Heard their voice. Felt their skin. distance that stretches across oceans of minutes, to a place where you hope she can remember the sound of her cell phone…

I am a loser. A loser of keys and wallets and cell phones and receipts. A loser of memories. Memories of forgotten calls and texts. Of missed birthdays and anniversaries. I am no better than the vinegar that attracted the flies from your lips as you spat ugly, horrendous adjectives in my direction. I am no better than the cheap red wine that flew through the air, and crashed at the base of my retreating skull. Ruby red still trails from the spot you once stood, to the bedroom where I packed you in a suitcase, and left you by the door. I am no better than… or so you once told me. The sound of your voice was once one that left me steaming in a hot cup mixed with a fourth of agitation. The shrill sound of each beckoning call, the sureness of your words, the raspy whispers that escaped your throat as you once called me by another name. Once.

We called each other husband and wife. And once, you looked at me with the longing eyes of some distant memory. A memory that faded to a lull as your taillights disappeared into the drunken night. I see you in the kitchen, the bathroom before work, in the hallway at night, the bedroom the morning after you left.. Your figure is no more than a hologram, but the ghost of your presence haunts me like needles pricking my delicate skin. I see you in the broken promise of hot coffee which was no more than a frivolous suggestion. I see you for what you became. The monster you revealed.

The distance of you creates nightmares in my stomach as the waves crash and the air stands still in my lungs.

Exhale and remember, everything in life is temporary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cooking with an Old Egg Beater

Old Rebeg is in the kitchen right with you for the Cooking with Anger NetProv running this week.

This was the basket I got. Ugh.

Main Ingredients:
first girlfriend
pickpocket
vanilla
oatmeal
stray cat

Spice Pack:
1/2 dollop of optimism
1/4 whisper of compassion

I let it sit for a while. Around lunch I really had a desire for guacamole, which had nothing to do with my basket but got me thinking of a character. It kind of fit together with the memory of the old hand cranked beater my Mom used in her kitchen.

I got my story written and was pretty happy with it’s shape fitting in under 500 words.. until I went to the site and saw the “dishes” had to be 300 words or less! I took a lot of knife cuts to get it down under 300.

While it’s published over at CWA, here it is again.

Old Egg Beater

She sashayed by my porch like a stray cat.

“What are you reading, Johnny Cake?”

While our social circles lacked overlap, Laurita Escobar knew me, the most vanilla kid at Sudbrook. No one, teachers, parents called me anything but “Jonathan”, except Laurita.

Bored, curious, maybe she saw? Why a popilar girl wanted to know about my comics, listened to me blab about purity of Superman even when cool kids like Alec Caputo sidled by, looking at us like we were birds to shoot.

Laurita’s interest was real as her raucous laughter. She teased me for failing the “r” in her name, that I called her “gatolito”, sternly wagging her finger… “gatito!”

Consider her my first girlfriend. She read me Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer poems, had me sit with her abuela making tamales, taught me to squeeze fresh lime in tacos, how to find Orion’s Belt.

When Laurita asked me to cook, those eyes squinted when I suggested oatmeal. Epitaphs about “gringo gruel.” But in the morning she was at the door.

Dull oatmeal. But I had my mother’s secret- milk, lots of butter, churned with the old hand cranked egg beater, soft purring of worn metal gears. It’s green chipped paint handle came with my grandmother on the boat.

Oatmeal had a fluid smoothness that even left Laurita wordless.

It never officially ended. Last I saw her she was hanging onto Alec Caputo’s waist on his Honda Nighthawk.

Hungry after a writer’s conference in Omaha, I find a place called “Lauritas” Through the kitchen door, I hear laughter, soft purring of a utensil.

The waitress boasts of their smooth blended secret recipe posole. It’s fluid smoothness left me wordless.

I leave satisfied, thoughts of the gatito who not only stole my heart but also pickpocketed my grandmother’s egg beater.


And here is a bit of a behind the scenes video, and the debris left from making the guacamole (which was pretty darn good)

What’s in your dish?