“What’s out there? I can’t see. I can hold myself together quite well, When I am in this dark, chilled box. I am whole and I am firm. But if I am to leave this place, The world may not keep me so cool. I am so easily changed, With even the gentle pressure of a finger. It wouldn’t take much to melt me. What would happen if I were taken outside And the world began to melt me down? If I became soft and started dripping And sagging and became smaller? Would I disappear entirely?”

I do not know what is out there, Beyond our cold and dark box, But I am here to protect you. I am wrapped tight around you Just as I always will be To keep you firm and whole, To preserve your shape and your chill. I will make sure you do not melt Or become soft and start to drip And if warm fingers try to press down, I will be your shield against them. And should you disappear, I will disappear right along with you, Covering your softening body As we sink into each other And into the warmth of the world.

As i swam through the brownish kernels, heat started to blast through what seemed to be the later of bag around popcorn. Something popped above me, then to my right, then left, then tiny explosions were everywhere. The smell of salted and buttery popcorn made me almost choke as it overwhelmed my sense. I hopped from kernel to kernel, trying to find out what was happening as I traversed the wild, exploding, kernels. Then every thing stopped, and a steam like air floated with delicious scents through and out of the bag. A loud tear sounded and light flooded the bag. I had to cover my eyes because of the shine off the still glistening butter. Then, piece by piece, someone ate all the popcorn, including me…

I don’t know what to write right now and I wanted to post something so here are some lovely ideas to ponder on:

“I’m cooler than you.”

“Does that make me hotter than you?”

Is sand called sand because it’s between the sea and the land?

Is a crush called a crush because he/she will most likely crush your feelings?

“Hey, is something burning?”

“Uhmmm, no”

“Because you look hot.”

Where does almond milk come from? My six year old brain picturing an almond with an udder

5 year old me at like 1 in the morning wondering if I should pee in my bed or go to the bathroom and risk an attack from the monster that lives down the hall

A/N: none of this is original, I got them from different sources off of the internet and I just randomly remembered them and didn’t know what to post haha!

King Beef, Pepper Jack the Cheese Lord, the famous Pickle Quintet, Sir Ketchup, and Madam Mayo were all in attendance for the third annual BBQ Brawl. The renowned BBQ Brawl was implemented by the infamous King Wagyu and has been a staple in the Kingdom of Frigidaire since.

On this day, Beefs battle to see who will become the next Great Sacrifice to the Grill God. The Grill God wears a pristine white apron, a symbol of purity to the food groups in the Kingdom of Frigidaire. To be chosen for sacrifice to the Grill God is a sacred honor.

The Beefs battle each other one at a time in a bracket tournament to become the last Beef standing. No other ingredient apart from the Grand Burgers has a selection process like this. The Corns cower in fear, hoping to survive the evening grill. They sit in their drawer, waiting to be skewered and roasted on the Pit. The Hot Dogs and Sausage peasants pray to their false God to spare them. They are always roasted in bulk. Whole families burn on the pyre.

The Beefs are noble warriors. Death is an honor for them. They fight their beefy hearts out to meet their maker. Armed with toothpicks, the Beefs stab and prod their way to victory. On this glorious day, the Grill God requests six Beefs. It will be a feast amongst the Gods. The Beefs are ecstatic. Beaming amongst the Kingdom of Frigidaire, they begin their selection process. Despite the great feast, the tournament will be simple this year. 12 Beefs will go head to head in a six versus six brawl. The winning team will go on triumphant, to face the Grill with honor and courage.

The tournament commences, and the Beefs fight with every last meaty breath. Skewering and stabbing their way to a hard-fought victory. Once the six are selected, they are put upon a silver platter, to be bathed in the Seasonings of Eternal Afterlife. The rest of the Beefs watch in awe and slight horror as their brothers transcend to the Gods.

The Beefs know that if they are not selected, then they will die a slow death. They will be forgotten and will rot and spoil, unable to be used-never to fulfill their one true destiny.

A burnt cheeseburger that was found in the dumpster behind McDonalds walks into a bar. The bartender says, “welcome back”. The burnt cheeseburger that was found in the dumpster behind McDonalds replied “good to be back.”

Darkness surrounds me.

The light comes in spurts, blinding.

When it comes, some of us go and new ones arrive.

Every time, I’m pushed even further back.

The graying bowl of bleu cheese keeps me company.

She’s okay but it’s hard to be beside her as the days go on. The baking soda stopped working months ago, so I’m told, so the smells are free to mix and combine.

Ms. Bleu is not great to be next to for another reason. Some of her fuzz has blown on to me.

I can feel it growing.

One day soon, they say clean out day will come.

They say that is when when I will go.

It is the fate of all things with the fuzz.

So I wait.

In the darkness.

To see which final burst of light will be my last.

They call me a monster. I’m not. I’ve had the craving all my life. I was born before my time. Screaming, I was a tiny ugly thing precious only to my Mum and Papa. I couldn’t keep up with the other boys. Powerful, golden calves flexing the children ran on the playground and I wanted to taste that strength. I’m not ashamed of myself or my appetite. My mouth watered on the playground. As I grew older my appetite grew. I gouged myself on trollops. Nightclubs and alleyways were my hunting grounds. But I could never pull the trigger on these greasy creatures. Glacial and remote, Hitchcock Blondes were on the tip of my tongue. I began to visit high end shopping centers and art galleys. I met my girl. Or at least I thought I had in a car park. When I held her close, I savored her beauty. She hurt me bad. She fought me. I don’t like to think of it. But then I did think of it. I made plans inside of plans. For years I waited and plotted. Then just like that Marlena came by for dinner. We would take turns cooking for one another. She would make her nan’s wallenbergen. I would tantalize her with rabbit in mustard sauce and coq au vin. We would eat and laugh and watch the Great British Baking Show. Marlena so funny, so thoughtful we had been friends since grad school. Marlena so sweet, so succulent when she turned her back to me to make dinner I knew the time was right. My Marlena I could taste her honesty and openness. She had a good heart. Our meal was ecstasy. Have you ever had a moment that met no exceeded your dreams? I never wanted to kill honestly. I’m not ashamed and I’ve never had been. I don’t regret anything. Well except now after the reporters and the police and the mental institutions I have my freedom. I miss my friend..People say I’m a monster but I’m not. I’m a just gourmet.

My Aunt Lydia wasn’t a powerful witch. But she could still make your life miserable if she wanted to. Just little curses to be annoying. A driver who cut her off in traffic, she gave a worrisome rash for a week. The waitress who kept forgetting to fill her coffee cup, she made the toaster behave erratically, sometimes burning it, sometimes undertoasting.

And the time I left the pizza boxes in the recycling bin and she got a nasty note from the city.

She waggled the citation in my face. “I appreciate you helping out your old aunt on trash day, but I have told you about the pizza boxes. It’s the grease, you see.”

“Won’t happen again, Aunt Lydia,” I said.

“Oh, it won’t,” she warbled. “Now take those chef skills and make me dinner.”

I wasn’t a chef yet, just in school.

“Sure, Auntie. Whatcha want?”

“Something … spicy.”

I knew something was up when I grabbed the tortillas and they started blowing raspberries at me.

From the living room, stifled giggles.

“You gonna chop us up, lovely as we are?” The sweet potatoes cooed.

“Sorry,” I answered. “I hope this doesn’t hurt.”

“You g’wan ahead, sugar, this is what we live for.”

The poblano pepper wasn’t as nice. “I need a cigarette before I go,” he said. “I’m kinda smoky.”

The chorizo couldn’t wait to start yapping as soon as I opened the package. “Hola, mi amigo! Que pasa?”

Sautéing the whole mess of these chattery foods was a test of my patience. But they mellowed eventually as their flavors came together.

“You’re using sauce from a JAR?” the Baldi brand sauce complained.

“I don’t have any tomato paste,” I explained.

The sauce bubbled disdainfully at me as it swam over top the dish.

The final touch, shredded cheese.

“This recipe is nothing without me,” it said. “Shower us over this mess!”

“What!” The sour cream barked. “The spice level in these enchiladas indicates that they’ll be inedible without ME!”

“Oh these enchiladas are just marvelous!” Aunt Lydia exclaimed. “It’s as if the ingredients were speaking right to you!”

Aunt Lydia was mischievous but not mean-spirited. Her curses never lasted long. Eventually the voices got quieter, as Lydia’s powers faded. We had to ask her to stop using her power completely because it was making her weaker. But I don’t think she cared.

One day I was making a turkey sandwich and its usual gobbling had stopped completely. That’s the day I found out she had passed.

She probably put a curse on St Peter at the gates. Good old Aunt Lydia.

You wince at resistance Of sword in flesh. Your hands blush red as your sleeves, as your cheeks, As his blood. Women’s work is this, Midwives of death, With breasts white as bone. What did he say when you set your bread basket at the throne, when you rolled up your sleeves? Women’s work it was, that’s all. Bread and breast for the taking, both white as snow. Your brow narrows As you slice away the canker, the dictator, the male/factor, what else do you lose? Golden woman with the double chin, you shed ambivalence. You shed youth. You shed summer. You shed hot hands and breath in the desert shadows. Walk into your golden years, bear that breadbasket of gore to your people. The bleached skull white as clouds whispers: The women’s work is done.

Something simple…what is something simple I can throw together? I ask while scanning the fridge. Hmm, no ideas. I’ll circle back.

10 minutes later, opening the fridge again Why do I think opening the fridge will make something new appear. I’ve looked in here 3 times already! Oh wait, stew meat! How did I miss this!

I don’t want to do a full pot roast but maybe I can do a pot roast/beef stew hybrid.

Stew meat Beef broth Yellow small potatoes Green beans Onion soup mix

Throw in some garlic, some more fun seasonings! 30 minutes on the pressure cooker and we’re golden! Just like the potatoes!