Writing Prompt

Reading a book titled “2024” in the kitchen, these morning sounds, of year 2500 seem to be familiar to a 2024 airport. DEFINITION: Consistent rumbling roars , with a high pitched wind . Cooking lunch, you see here , these trees produce all those fabulous fruits on the counter. Reading I see fruits weren’t always produced this way. Behind me you see strawberries, I prefer them on thick waffles for breakfast.Lunch and dinner in a hearty cold salad also, let’s not forget desert served with some ice cream fast and also easy. Strawberries harvested differently in the year 2024 from a crown that is , not a tree, very interesting. A crown ,resembling a firework , in the year 2024 , was a small plant that popped out of the soil and from there roots held the strawberries , and those strawberries stayed on the ground or close to it . Quick note in front of me, marvelous mountains source our city’s purest water despite that consistent hint of metal that sticks to each molecule in the air . That is indeed, with the help of those flying jets in front of me, always observing , monitoring the mountains. Continuing making my lunch strawberries aren’t the only thing I think my salad needs, I smell the oranges next to me and know they will taste great in a salad too . The year 2500 has been beyond blessed . The stove next to the notebook, I worry the heat may be to much . Give me time to prepare my lunch for now the reading and the writing is being put away . Stay tuned.

I hum as I walk into my kitchen in the back, ready to prepare a feast for all senses. I am the Chef LaDurro El Charpudo, world renowned baker and cook. I have my own hologram show. I teach brilliant young chefs to cook prefection. I have millions of fans. I have the biggest one man resturaunt in the world.

Well, two person. I share it with my daughter Amelia.

I wave to her as I step into the kitchen. She smiles her big smile, hugging me with all her 6 year old self. Then she opens the doors and people come pouring in. They make a line and smile at her as she points them to booths. Then she scrambles back to the kitchen and turns on our orderbot, who goes to retrieve orders from people.

First up is a couple with the daily special. I go into overdrive— french toast, bacon, flambéed eggs and tomatoes on top. I snatch the eggs from the chickens, grab the bread and bacon from the storage, and pluck the tomato from the plan. I smell in the juicy tomato, gently move the crispy french toast onto the plate, hear the bacon sizzle as i lift it beside the toast, and see the perfect egg as i flip it, smiling.

Meanwhile, the orderbot is back. Amelia, who is a very skilled chef herself, takes the order, careful of the allergies. I trust her, for she is a good chef, and almost as fast as me. Almost.

Quick as can be, i snatch up a orange from the tree, zest it and make my special sauce. It has honey, vanilla extract, and orange zest all melted together in a saucepan. The orange, I cut into slices and put on the plate before drizzling the delicious sauce on top, careful not to get it on the egg (i have discovered that they do not mix well). Then i do it all again, slip the plates onto the severbot shelves, and off it goes. Then the orderbot comes back and gives another order.

When the first breakfast rush is done, I settle back in a chair. A bit slower, now that I have a little time, I begin premaking some dishes. The storage area will keep them just the same temperture and crispness. When they are ordered, they will be the exact same as when i first made them, so therefore, still perfect.

The year 2500 had seen the most massive uptick in space travel in centuries. The year 2300 had produced the very first lightspeed engine; 2400, the advanced lightspeed engine; and 2500 was the century of the super advanced lightspeed engine. And by golly, we were running out of names for lightspeed engines. One thing that we weren’t running out of, however, were ludberries. They came from the planet Galapraxos-Snogladant IV, home to a race of tiny alien creatures called the Ug, named such, since they were not necessarily the most loquacious of species and walked around saying “Ug” while eating wild ludberries most days—except for Tuesdays, when they turned into giant, ravenous, Godzilla-like monsters that consumed entire worlds… but that’s neither here nor there. It was not entirely clear how the world of Galapraxos-Snogladant IV got its name, but it was rumored to be onomatopoetic for how the Ug sound when they consume entire worlds on Tuesdays… but that’s also neither here nor there.

Ludberries were everywhere. They pollinated like bullrabbits on a quiet, summer evening. They grew from every crack and crevice of my home world now, and yet they were still considered a delicacy. “Why?” You might ask. It was because a ludberry always tasted like your least favorite food, but multiplied by one-thousand degrees of mushy, disgusting, eye-wateringly potent stench that could drop a skywalrus. But people would never eat them in the wild. No. To eat a ludberry off the ground was a savage thing to do, but to eat a ludberry in a fancy restaurant with la creme de la creme of the city, well, that was cultured.

To wax philosophical for a moment, the human mind is the most backwards, twisted, nonsensical thing imaginable. Give a person a good thing, and they want another. Give them a bad thing and they're satisfied with just one. Give a person a juicy steak, and they'll only pay upwards of thirty Imperial dollars for it and then want a bigger portion. Give them ludberry wine and they'll pay upwards of 3000 Imperial dollars for a bottle, and walk away satisfied. I was in the business of distilling ludberry wine, and I must say that my philosophy rang true for the commoners who would spend a fortune just to try one sip of the wine, spit it out, and leave. They were simply there for the experience and the culture, and if drinking wine with notes of burning flesh, rotten eggs, and a hint of cilantro was cultured, then, by golly they'd do it.

As for my profession, I ran a decadent restaurant called L'Aisselle du Diable, which, translated reads, "The Armpit of the Devil", a fitting name for a restaurant that serves a wine that tastes like how I would imagine the Devil's body odor smells. My main and most frequent customers consisted of the Imperial Elites and the wealthy club of private business executives called the "Ludberry Club", who would come into "The Armpit" every Tuesday for a glass of my finest Vin du Diable, the most expensive wine in my selection, at 6,666.66 Imperial dollars, containing notes of fire-ant venom, volcanic ash, and hydrochloric acid. Of course, I included my signature palette cleanser, which must be drunk within three seconds after the Vin du Diable is consumed, lest death occur. The palette cleanser, called Salut, which included Venusian Moonworm powder and Betelgeusian stardust, cloves, and cinnamon, served as a base to counteract the hydrochloric acid and an antitoxin to the fire-ant venom. I had tried the Vin du Diable, chased directly by the Salut only once and it was hell. The burning of the hydrochloric acid and fire-ant venom had erupted my whole body into an agonizing inferno of torment and I thought I would die as I reached, trembling for the Salut, my only true salvation in my dire moment of need. I poured the stuff down my throat, gagging, coughing, choking. It was the most refreshing thing I had ever tasted; warm and cold at the same time, soothing, enlightening. It had covered my entire body with an aura of warmth, like a fire on a cold winter's night. Wonderful. Ambrosia. I understood why the Imperials and the "Ludberry Club" came to drink here so often... or at least I thought I did.

One particular Tuesday afternoon, I walked into "The Armpit". There were the usual suspects sitting around, chatting, drinking Vin du Diable and Vin aux Aisselles, another finer ludberry wine in the assortment with notes of rotting flesh, sewage, and body odor. They glanced up at me, and those that weren't in the middle of attempting to prevent their own deaths by chugging Salut waved to me heartily. I waved back and entered the hermetically sealed kitchen. It stank of all of the most horrendous stenches you could imagine, but my nose immediately picked up the stench of dead animal. I waved to my sous chef, "I see we have a Vin D'Animal Pourri ready?"

"Yes," She replied, "Though I doubt anyone will order it today. It's a Tuesday, after all."

"Right," I remarked. On Tuesdays, nobody came in except for the Elites and the "Ludberry Club". They stayed all day and reserved every single seat in the restaurant, though they hardly filled half of them. Then, during the evening, they would retreat into a private room at the back of the establishment, leaving the dining area completely empty. It was odd, but I didn't ask questions. They were our most lucrative clientele, after all.

But as it became evening that Tuesday and the Elites and "Ludberry Club" retreated into the private room, there was an abrupt shockwave that rumbled through the restaurant. The restaurant was shattered into smithereens, and me and my sous chef found ourselves face-to-foot with a gigantic, Godzilla-sized member of the "Ludberry Club".

"Hmm," I thought, "Perhaps I shouldn't have dismissed that thing about the Ug and Tuesdays." I supposed I'd have to cater to a new consumer base now and I wondered how much profit I could make off selling entire planets for Godzilla-sized monsters to eat on Tuesdays. As I pondered this, the giant constituent of the "Ludberry Club" trampled my sous chef.

Eating for pleasure No need to worry Calories no treasure In no hurry

The air lock seals the entrance immediately after we enter my Pod - SR24. I walk straight to the incubator without addressing my guests — in the transparent container grows a single plant of basil.

The self-regulated incubator sends growth data to me when I’m away. But seeing it, seeing the tender green leaves getting bigger and darker each time, and the stems getting stronger, well, it’s a marvel to behold. I smile and tap the container once -- today is the day.

Oh, I should pause my basil gazing for just a moment, and introduce myself. My name is E. Fang. I’m a “chef” in the year 2500, offering a particular type of experience — cooking and dining — which has not been a common, or necessary, for over two hundred years.

I designed and configured SR24 painstakingly for this vision and it took a very long time, down to the antique lighting and the oven which actually runs on real heat. The custom-engineered vegetables and fruits are my favorite. The precise color and texture were finalized after careful studies of many historic records, as the remaining ones are kept in antiquity reserves. Some of them are very oversized. That was my idea, just for fun.

It baffles my guests why I spent so much resource on creating SR24. Because it has been nearly three hundred years since science achieved the perfect precision in neural activation and rendering tasting real food obsolete.

What is neural activation, you ask? To put it simply, and with food in particular, it meant we stopped needing actual food items to have an tasting and eating experience. We don’t even need artificial strawberry flavor to experience the taste of strawberry, for example. Instead, a simple neural activation sent as an energy pulse directly to the precise location of the brain, creates the complete sensory evocation. The visual, which is obviously the simplest, sees the 3-D object image of a strawberry. Nerve endings experience the texture of the pulp, the tiny bumps of seeds, the wetness of juice, even the fruit fibers getting caught between teeth. Different combinations of sweet, sour, tangy, and dozens of sub-flavors of strawberries were created, based on original growing locations and conditions.

In short, with a simple click, the complete feeling and experience of eating a strawberry is delivered to perfection, without that strawberry ever having existed.

This achievement finally put to rest all debates about the real purpose of food. The first to go was “food as fuel”. Technology decoded the precise combination of macro and micro nutrients which was perfected to each individual’s needs based on their live biochemical reading. Actually, to use organic foods (such as actual meats or vegetables) was actually not the optimal way to deliver such customization and precision. Many people who saw food as fuel opted for the dynamic optimization and experienced increased energy constantly and no fatigue which people used to get after a big holiday meal.

Then the argument that food was for social bonding and cultural heritage was also lost. New and improved substitution was quickly prevailing.

Intriguingly, food as a sensory, and therefore highly private emotion experience, was the most persistent. It took scientists many years to completely map the entire human race’s emotional response to eating, down to individual neurons of every single person. It was then that science at last could completely render an eating experience down to every last nuance without food.

As a “chef” at a time when there is no more “food”, I carry on with my guests of the day. As they gather around me in my SR24, I snip two basil leaves from the now exposed plant. The juice glistens immediately and the smell seeps into my nostrils quite like sudden rush of cold air. I clap my hands together with the two leaves between my palms. A chef would do this action hundreds of years ago, to release its taste and smell, according to my research.

My guests bend forward at the same time to inhale as instructed. I watch the reaction on their faces. The bail smell isn’t new to them. It’s been programmed into every experience delivery system and the guests must have experienced it before. As a matter of fact, this incubated basil plant, due to sub-optimal growing condition, actually smells and tastes “less” than the delivery system. After moments of confusion, at last, I see something else on their face, which is the only reward I seek.

I see a look that is the exact same as I caught my own reflection on my helmet, the first time I hovered and watched a new galaxy being formed. I still remember the undulating boilings of black, after the bang. I remember how they moved like black flowing lava stretching in all dimensions. I remember seeing into its future, endless possibilities of matters and even life, long before they even form.

I see an array of warm colors. The steam flying from the pot like a train whistling down the tracks. A plethora of reds and yellows and oranges swirl around before my eyes. Forming this dish was a challenge but also an exciting event. Feeling the soft red bombs burst between my fingertips and allowing for an array of flavor to splatter the bowl. In another moment I feel tears cascade down my cheeks as I slice the least desirable of my ingredients but also the most important. Salts and peppers and oregano galore, I see soft, dark tones fall into my thick, red sauce and send waves of euphoric scents to my nostrils. I can almost see the streets of Rome before me as I close my eyes and take in another breath. Nothing truly hits the spot like the smell of fresh garlic and tomatoes. Meanwhile, I hear the steady bubbling of my noodles beginning to boil. Oh how the rhythmic sound soothes my soul like rolling thunder on a rainy afternoon. My stomach begins to rumble at the thought of these sweet and savory flavors coming together into one pan. The presentation made complete with the topping of basil garnish. I almost can’t contain the excitement when I feel the warm pasta hit my empty belly. The way it slides down my throat with ease. This was definitely worth the wait.

I’ve been studying for this moment for years, I’ve read the ancient texts, perused the ancient websites. I dream of chocolate and other things that went extinct two centuries ago. And yet I’m stuck with what I have.

My laser blade slices through the flesh of the fout, its jelly-like body jiggles a little as I scoop out its innards and mush them up in the bowl.

It’s a cruel thing taking something so false, so artificial and making it look like its fresh, fulfilling ancestor. This fout will never be as juicy or as zesty as the oranges it’s supposed to resemble.

There are few fruits that haven’t gone extinct, but only the elite can afford those. I work in a simple café dealing with the second class. They lack imagination! Food is just fuel to them. Not to me.

This faux orange covered in dyed nori to act as its peel will taste good for sure. But it will never be the real thing. It’ll never hold the sweet tangy smell that excites the nose. It’ll never give the sensation of the waxy peel slipping away in your fingers.

This is not an orange, none of us will ever get to try the real thing. I wish our ancestors didn’t wake what they had for granted.

All I could think about was the rough texture beneath my fingers. That grainy, almost porous clay surface of grey matter. A substance infused with proteins, and nutrients, but with no flavor other than that of a flat, metallic sensation.

I’m so sick of this: the war. Not only for the deaths, but for the geographical consequences of it as well. With most of our natural food sources depleted or extinct, the government in their last act, before it disbanded and became the Homelance Alliance, was that of ensuring our food,

So he I am, again. In my head hating the memory of it. The white plasticky paper that I had to take the grey matter out of in pieces. The light faucet warm on my hands as I held the matter to it, letting the light clean it as best as possible before I continued on with its journey.

This particular memory, I made beef with it. After the HA started governing what was left of America as it used private militarized organizations to fend off the foreign invaders, they came out with flavor packets. We still didn’t have any other reliable sources of food, but finally we could taste something, anything, other than the dirt in the air.

Anyway, as I held the matter, I tore off pieces about half the size of a marble, and placing it inside a metal pan, did so until a fair sized pile had emerged. After which, I had placed the pan under the stove, and let it cook. Just enough for the outsides to be firm yet sticky. I mushed the ‘meat’ together once it had cooked and in this process added the flavor. There isn’t much that one can do with grey matter. Yes it sounds like that one term for tissue that makes up the brain, but that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Not ever knowing about the stance of the war, the alliance would just send out flyers and posters requesting more and more volunteers, but we never saw any of the them after 7 years from the fall of the American Government. We learned to rely on the crates of grey matter that would somehow magically appear in the towns stores. We hated, yet craved for the next shipment, becoming a salve to our unseen Alliance. M But of what I can remember from the matter, is that it was somehow almost wet to the touch the course, yet how matter what you did with it, your mouth was always drier than it was before. And that texture didn’t always go away though sometimes it did. When it wasn’t like sandpaper to your tongue it was like clay. And the flavors only helped some, and those eventually stopped showing up. There was a single meat flavor, carrots, potatoes, corn, and bean flavored packets. Each an over stated phenomena with hardly any effect.

Now though, I do not need for it. That grey matter. For things are not as they once where, and I for one, am now an old man. A man who every time he takes a bite of food, is taken back in surprise by how much flavor it contained, and how peaceful it is to eat.

One hand holds a spoon. Another holds a jar of salt. My third hand holds the pan steady on the stove. One of my four tentacles is keeping a dish of finely diced onions at the ready. I use my new lovely white feathery wings (my latest Special Species Super Surgery - only the best for me) to fan away the heat from the dust powered stove. Everything is dust powered now. Since Earth’s oceans dried up, dust is the planet’s largest natural resource. The kitchen is lit by sand filament bulbs under a shade of dust particle glass. Leave it to American innovation to turn even the dust of their Midwest, once their Bread Basket, to a tidy profit.

The dish I’m preparing has been requested many times. I’ve given it a fancy name: Saturn Ring Soufflé. The main ingredient is horsefly eggs. Insects, now so rare, have become a great culinary delicacy.

My hover board is running low. I must take it to the dust station to recharge. Soon I will be able to get off my six crab legs and take a break in the kitchen spa. It’s convenient to have hot tubs everywhere and makes it easy to keep my mermaid tail looking fresh. I will take a nice hot soak and relax. The water, both for cooking and for everything else, is imported from Venus now. Its oxygen rich atmosphere is distilled daily. Venus water is plentiful, and tastes so much better than the acrid stuff we used to get from Mars.

My sister once asked me how I still have five fingers on each hand, because when I chopped vegetables I did it way faster than anyone she knew. Faster than mom had, when she was still around. And I loved it when she complimented my skills. I loved having that connection with mom. Livy loved it, too. As if mom wasn’t gone after all.

Now, after so many years, I find myself chopping up my own vegetables with my own knife in my own house bought with my very own money. It’s more than Livy and I could ever have dreamed for back in our childhood days. More than we could afford for sure. I chop silently, thinking of her. Livy. My sister. I loved her so much.

To clear my head I thrust the cabbage into the boiling stew and set the temperature on the stove. I take a few carrots and cut them up into even circles, which I also throw into the pot. I mix, I add spices, I smell my masterpiece. It was almost done. Carrots, onions, cabbage, vegetable broth, potatoes, ginger, salt and peppers all creating a mixture of goodness that smelled like the old days. Just how mom had made it. This was the first time I made it after she passed. After she passed, Livy and I couldn’t even hope for it. Or anything else, for that matter.

Because whereas we chose grieving, dad chose alcohol. Livy and I were scared to cross his path. He usually came home drunk and stressed, and lashed out his anger on the two of us. I remember. Not pretty.

Stop. Focus on the stew. I need more garlic. I open the fridge and take out the tiny pieces of garlic, clean my knife on a cloth and begin cutting it into satisfying squares. I remember whenever l used to cook, Livy would be so eager to help. So excited to watch me do something she used to watching mom do. So enthusiastic to learn more and be like me someday. What example have I set, leaving my home like that?

Cut. Just cut.

Livy. Poor Livy. Leaving her behind like that, alone with dad. Without a mother. A sister. She loved me. I betrayed her. Or had I? She would’ve wanted me to live a better life. We couldn’t both escape. She knew that. She gets it. Dad must’ve stopped drinking by now. Right?

The spices smell amazing, and the steam from the stew rises up my nostrils as I mix the garlic in. Perfect.

Something drops into my pot. A drop. A tear.

I have been ignorant for my own sake, and I do know it. The price I payed for leaving my home, my sister - was seeing her sad teary eyes every night in my dreams back when she begged me to stay. But she needs to understand. She has to. I had no choice.

The stew tastes great. Livy would’ve loved it.