Burnt Cross Buns

 

Sitting in the oven are the hot cross buns
Where the heat is rising and it’s hotter than the sun
Watch them blacken, watch the growing smoke
Alas, the fire alarm is blaring and it’s no joke

Call your daughters and your sons
Come and weep for the hot cross buns
After such a tragedy, what can you do?
Start all over, make another batch or two.

 

 

Sadly, this poem is based on a true story. And if you're looking at the picture thinking, "Those don't look too bad," those are the hot cross buns that survived. Pictures weren't taken until after the charred ones had been donated to the trash can. Luckily, the redemption batch was perfect.

 

 

In the Kitchen

Photo by Andy Chilton on Unsplash

plum pudding does not steam itself

does not mix together the flour

or orange zest, or cinnamon,

the raisins, the nuts, the plums

that smell like Christmas

vegan cheese does not spring from cashews

fully formed, ready for plucking

there is soaking, and blending

and nutritional yeast

also, salt and garlic powder

and they do not measure themselves

nor does dinner call you to the table

laid out with dinner forks and salad forks

and knives and soup bowls and goblets

and places for desert

breakfast and lunch 

also take no  thought for themselves

so I take thought for them all

for the two hours of plum pudding

for the laying away of cashews

for the dinner and the breakfast and the lunch

I have but one complaint

the dishes do not wash themselves

Birthday Candles

Candles swim frosting waves
That rise up and curve back
In wide sugared strokes
Along the edges of the cake
Bordered by pebbly sands of sprinkles
That drop into oblivion
Gleaming candles burn steady
Like lighthouses through the night
Sparking wishes for the year



Written for dVerse


 

Aromatic

Tala parked her car, smiling at the new-car smells of leather and plastic. She really had something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. She picked up the plastic container of durian, her contribution to the upcoming feast, and breathed in the fresh damp air as she got out. Even from the yard, Tala could smell the turkey.

Tantalizing whiffs interlaced with the lingering damp smell of rain and wet dog. The dog in question looked up and thumped his tail against the ground. As she got closer to the house, the turkey drowned everything else out. The side door was open, which explained the overwhelming aroma. She went in there, entering directly into the kitchen. Inside other scents finally had the opportunity to fight with the turkey. The spice laden aroma of the pumpkin pie, the faint caramely roasted butternut squash, the buttery mashed potatoes. A feast for the nose!

But there was something else under all the Thanksgiving fragrance. Something not quite right. Tala sniffed. Something faint and almost metallic. She stepped through the hallway and entered the living room. There was blood soaked into the carpet, and a man in dark clothing. Beyond him, her friend on the ground. For a moment they both froze; as Tala’s brain processed the blood, her friend’s body, and the fact that she was facing a murderer. Then she did the only thing she could think of. She ripped off the lid of the durian container and threw it into the man’s face. Tala didn’t mind the smell; but she almost felt a stab of sympathy as she fled. Being assaulted by the pungent, oniony-old-gym-sock-sewer odor full in the face would be nauseating.

She ran to the neighbors and banged on the door, and practically fell in once they answered. Smelly and sweaty she gasped out her story and it wasn’t long before police sirens blared through the neighborhood. Tala answered questions in a daze. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take the police long to find the killer. Covered in the distinct reek of durian there wasn’t anywhere he could hide.



This story came from a prompt to write a scene using one of the five senses. I decided that using smell was challenging and then realized that Thanksgiving had a boat load of smells to write about. But I had to do something to make it interesting, so I needed a problem. At first it was just going to be a robber, but I didn't think a simple robbery would produce enough blood to actually smell it. And then since I was thinking of smelly things, I realized that durian had to get in here. Durian has a very distinct, strong odor that can be smelled from great distances. It's often banned in public places. Here's the Wikipedia entry: Durian. Durian grows in Southeast Asia, including in the Philippines, where I encountered it. Tala is the name of a Filipino goddess.

And that's how I wrote a Thanksgiving story that would probably have been better for Halloween.

Turkey Ode

Ode for the Turkey that kicked the bucket
As we raise the carving knife for the cut
With thanks for the ample life thou hadst
Resplendent praises we liberally bombast
Upon thy carcass decked with rosemary and thyme
Center of our festive dinnertime

And the One With All the Words 

    -using all 44 of the words that have been quadrille prompts in the past.

Breeze dancing dream free
Shimmering, twisting green
Spills spicy pepper leaves cuing
Dawn’s rosy, curling breath
Shadowy whispered clouds balloon
Flickering spring storm bubbles, sounds
Blissfully drizzles, giggles, grins
Lulls; melts.
Jarred journey kicks open
Ghost echoes
Scarred stillness creaks
Skips fear; sparks hope



Written for d'Verse.

The Building of the Gingerbread House

The witch surveyed the meadow in the midst of the pines and dismounted from her broom. A black cat jumped down as she looked around. It would do. So far from the unenlightened village that they couldn’t arrest her. Ever since graduating from the Sorcerous Culinarian Academy, she had been looking for someplace to call her own and practice her unique brand of magic. Here, deep in the forest she would be free from interruptions. She smiled. In time, perhaps, she would be famous. For now, she had to set up shop.

Setting down her sack that was nearly as large as herself she rummaged through it. The first thing she pulled out was a book, Ye Olde Guide to Baking Thy House, which she studied carefully before diving into the sack once more. Next came out a large mixing bowl, that was rather larger than the bag itself.  She had to fly up on the broom to dump the ingredients in. Sacks of flour, bundles of butter, armfuls of cinnamon, buckets of molasses, and more ginger than the village dreamed could ever be in the world. The cat tried to play with the ingredients and was shooed off.

The saplings at the edge of the meadow grew taller while she worked. As she stirred her concoction, rains fell down and she held up a marzipan umbrella to hold it off. The cat found a dry spot and had kittens. When the green leaves turned brown and flew from the trees, she plucked them out from the gooey brown mass. Before the sun slipped behind the trees, she lit great fires and continued her work as the moon rose. She rolled the dough, cut it and measured. She baked it in an oven the size of a horse that she pulled from the sack. New trees kept growing and the meadow was smaller than it had been. She laid down the gingerbread bricks and spread maple syrup over them for the mortar. The kittens of the black cat’s kittens played over the bricks as they rose taller. Clear melted sugar made the windowpanes and the roof was thatched with licorice.

At last it was done. The forest nearly touched the house itself now. The witch looked with pride on her creation. A house that had taken centuries to build, but would be talked of for centuries more. A black cat brushed against her as she patted the gingerbread walls. She walked hunched and slow into the house. She would rest a bit before she turned her mind to other matters. Just as she settled into a sturdy pretzel chair, she heard it. A sound that made her heart skip a beat and her old bones shake in horror. It was a munching, crunching sound interjected with high pitched squeals of delight. Someone was eating her house. Clenching her fists she roused herself from the chair. Whoever was out there was going to pay dearly for destroying her house.



Prompt: DIY