Saturday, January 21, 2006

Kitchen Disaster

A 10-minute 'prompt' exercise from our writers' group meeting.
The prompt was:
A kitchen disaster.
The story is true though boldly embellished.

Checking the roast
It makes me nervous
I don't know why

Peeling the potatoes
Gouging out those devious little eyes
They try to get away from me
Scurrying around to the back of the spud as I turn it in my hand
Insolent little buggers
I go on to the next potato
Not really sure whether I'd finished blinding the last one

Checking the roast
It seems okay
Seems fine
On the surface

Washing the lettuce
The sandy dirt surrenders without fuss
Rinses away without so much as a whimper
No bugs in there
That's good
My darling must have bought it at The Barn instead of No Frills
Ah yes, It's more green than brown
The Barn indeed

Checking the roast
Did it wink at me just now?
It's plotting something ungodly
I just know it

Chopping potatoes
They suffer in silence
Even when my fork impales them
But when I fling them alive into the boiling water
I hear them scream

Checking the roast
It sits there very still
All innocent-like
As if it hasn't been up to something while my back was turned

Back to the lettuce
Chop or rip?
My guests are there at the table now
Drinking beer and wine
Oblivious to the life-and-death struggle all around them
Rip, I decide
For a guest may be covertly watching
to see if I'm a lettuce chopping anarchist or something
I am of course but I won't be outed on this day
A-ripping I go

Dragging the charred lifeless bacon from the pan
And into a coffin of paper towel

Breaking out the pre-packaged croutons
No blood on my hands there

I had selected the oily caesar dressing
Not the creamy
Oh how decisions can come back to haunt you

Shaking the bottle furiously
Dimly hearing the shouting behind me
Shaking the life out of that bottle
Why does it grow lighter in my hand?
Is that its soul departing?
The shouting reaches a climactic fervor
Oh horror of horrors
I spy the treacherous lid of the dressing bottle
Sitting on the counter all alone
The last place it is needed
I turn around and face my silent moistened guests

Oil oil everywhere
And not a guest was spared

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