“You chose,” he’d remind me later. “You could’ve gone home.”
“You needed help! Neither of you knew how to do it right!” I retorted.
“Well, is it almost done?” He’d asked thrice before.
Feet aching, sweat pouring down my face, I replied “Yes, the turkey will be finished by dinnertime.”
AJ Joseph occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe and tweets very short stories as @sonobeus.
“Congratulations! Is it true your bride learned to cook, years ago, at her mama’s knee?”
“Yeah,” Jim said without enthusiasm.
“Polly’s perfect with shortbread and shortcakes but for everything else she only makes a half recipe. In hindsight, I reckon she ought to have stood on a chair.”
John H. Dromey has a rather short (but complete) story reprinted in the anthology Timeshift: Tales of Time (Shacklebound Books, 2018).
Little if any sizzling. Pulling away from the pan.
A toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean.
She turned it upside down on a wire cooling rack then righted it on another.
That brief time left an impression.
The crisscross pattern reminded her of her mother.
Dead at forty-two.
Jennifer M. Smith was taught the family baking secrets at an early age. She never met her maternal grandmother.
I took the chopped vegetables from the cutting board. Heating olive oil, I fried them with a pinch of salt and oregano, then added just the right amount of peri-peri sauce.
At dinner, hubby commented, “Amazing meat dish.”
I got rather puzzled.
Suddenly kiddo exclaimed, “Mommy’s missing left hand fingers!”
Paramita Ghosh is an ordinary lady who loves to read and collect knowledge in her spare time. She also loves sketching and painting.
The smoke was so thick that I couldn’t breathe. Pieces of metal were everywhere. The room was covered in red liquid. I looked at my hands and screamed with terror. My whole body was aching. I had never experienced anything like this.
I will never make toast with ketchup again.
Sara wrote this story.
Editor’s Note: I really wanted to title this “Catoastrophe”, but that would have spoiled the reveal!
Fry flour in the pan juices. Stir in stock (chicken, or marmite and water).
Add worcestershire sauce and pepper.
What could possibly go wrong?
Whisk to get rid of lumps.
Sieve to get rid of lumps.
Hope mother-in-law to be doesn’t notice lumps.
It’s not a witch’s brew.
A little over a year ago Debb Bouch entered a short story into a Needle in the Hay contest. Regular contests since have provided encouragement and challenge. And writing is all about challenge.
“You are eighteen, Ahradok. Here is your sword. Come join the fighting men!”
“Father,” said Ahradok, “I wish to remain in the kitchens.”
“Son, men work with drawn swords, not wooden spoons.”
Ahradok honoured his father’s advice, but soon found that a sword is highly impractical for chopping and dicing.