For the month of April, fellow author, Thea Atkinson is streaking through 30 blogs and flashing us a piece of fiction. I generously offered her a space today so she could expose a piece. My blog will be back to normal tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy and follow the links at the end to see who she flashed yesterday and who she will flash tomorrow. Feel free to leave a comment to let me know if you enjoyed the streak, and you are welcome to tweet it or share it on Facebook. You can also follow the chain through twitter with the hashtag #blogstreak
A Fairy Tale Once Removed
Well, doggoneit all, if she hadn’t gone and put too many onions in the roaster again. Their smell was already mixing with the scent of those over-sweet begonias growing around everywhere, and that was most definitely not a pleasant stink. She really should think twice before she peeled a bushel of vegetables when the man she planned to cook obviously only needed about half that.
Ah. Roast ribs and shanks. Always that much better when marinated in their own juices. Hint of bay leaf, zest of lemon, bushel of onions. Or half a bushel, if she’d caught the meat’s weight in time.
Luckily this time the rack of ribs saw fit to see things her way and move himself along to the pot without her help. Bursitis made carrying the meat difficult, but this one had volunteered to go. Volunteered. Strange thing for supper to do, to walk on his own steam to the instrument of his roasting.
She imagined the feast she’d have for the week and prodded dinner-man-walking with a stick of lemon branch. “Halfway there, old gent,” she told him. “Get your wiggle on. I hain’t got all day.”
He was a broiler if she ever did see one. Had to be at least seventy. She’d have to roast this one a couple extra hours just to be able to chew him up decent. But, well, she couldn’t be too choosy lately now could she. Not since those two brats had rattled by back in the old country and that little spitfire had given her a hard shove. Damn kids. Gal couldn’t even practice in her own hometown anymore. Too many eyes and those brats too much tongue. Got run outta town as quick as the kids started to disappear again. She should have waited. But it was so damn tight in that stove. She just couldn’t stay in it.
But then Barbados hadn’t been too hard on her. Not really. Constant supply of aging poor. Sometimes a few runaways. Now and then an old gent tired of living. An old gent like this one.
She poked him again. “OK. Climb in,” she said. “The pan’ll hold you, don’t ye worry.”
He stumbled on a rock and steadied himself slowly. The oven door beneath the trees held a gargantuan roasting pan, nearly leveled with onions. She watched him ginger his way in…ginger.
Ah, the pungency of spice. No one in the village had looked twice at her gingerbread walls when she first got here and spelled them up– no idea what they were and never bothered to pull a piece of wall off for a good snack, so she’d had to come up with a new enchantment: rum. Yes, sir. Plant a great big wide pool of rum in the middle of the jungle, and the men came scurrying faster than she could cook them. Made for a tasty marinade too. But she missed the sweetness of children made spicy by a good dash of ginger. Ginger had a touch of heat with the sweet.
She thought about spices as she closed the oven door. Maybe tomorrow she’d drain the pool. Pop on her broom and speed to Mexico. She had a real hankering for hot spices now she thought it, and those kids over there were probably in dire need of some decent sweets.
april 12 Victoria Smith
april 14 Gayle Carline