# 19/08/11 - LM - Food, Glorious Food!



## TheFuhrer02 (Aug 18, 2011)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*
The August Challenge


A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!

So, do your best.​


Another round of LM begins! And this time, it will not only be our hands that will be exercised, but our palate as well. Our prompt for this installment, courtesy of Hawke, is:


*Food, Glorious Food!*

_In 650 words, write a story where food plays a big part._​



The judges for this round are as follows: *AvA*, *Moderan*, *Hawke* and *TheFuhrer02*.
(To the judges, uhm, just send your scores to me via PM. ^_^)

Now a recap of the rules:
The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but really, you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
And of course, there can only be one entry per member.
As always, there are two ways to post your entry:
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story here if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). *Take note: If you have elected to put your entry in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into this thread or else it will not be counted.*

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your entry right here in the *LM Challenge thread*.​

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.

This competition will close on "Friday the 2nd of September".
To avoid confusion I will close the thread at 11:59pm (Friday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.  If daylight savings has happened I admit I copied this from the beginning of August thread, so to be safe maybe post an hour before the time I've written below:

This will make it 4:59pm on Saturday the 3rd for me in Melbourne Australia
It'll be 2:59pm on Saturday the 3rd for Fuhrer in the Phillipines (I think? Manila?).
For anyone in Baghdad it'll be 9:59am on Saturday morning.
If you're in the UK (London Time) it'll be 7:59am Saturday morning.
If you're in New York it'll be 2:55am Saturday morning.

I hope if I haven't covered your area, you guys can figure out when it'll be for you.
The world clock kind of does my head in.


*No comments, please - Only competition entries (or links to) to be posted in this thread.*


Now that all's set, let the writing begin!


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## Rustgold (Aug 18, 2011)

Little Witches Cooking*
203 words : By B.D.Branch
#2*


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## bazz cargo (Aug 22, 2011)

*The Ultimate Treat.*

Removed for renovation, expansion and submission to an off site publication.

Thank you to everyone that helped me with this.
Bazz


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## BabaYaga (Aug 24, 2011)

*Waiting for the Golden Pig (645 words without title)*

Waiting for the Golden Pig 

(639 words without title)

It is Czechoslovakian tradition that only by fasting through Christmas Eve, can one hope to see the legendary ‘Golden Pig’. A single glimpse of this gilded porker is said to bring a lifetime of luck to its hungry viewer. 

When Andel immigrated half a world away at age twelve, the ‘golden pig’ was the only Christmas tradition from his own childhood to remain intact, and it was one he'd been determined to uphold.

Now, twenty years after he’d first stepped into the scalding heat of the African sun, he stood over a mountain of steaming, just-boiled potatoes, carefully peeling each one before dicing it into precise cubes and adding it to an old, plastic baby’s bath. The bath was the only receptacle large enough to contain his immense Christmas potato salad until all of it was eventually eaten, or sneakily fed to patient dogs beneath the dinner table. 

 He heard a hysterical screech from the backyard, but didn’t so much as turn to investigate the sound. It was the same scream that had punctuated nearly every waking minute since Dana and Robert, his young children, had gone on school holiday. Most likely they were playing some mad, invented game that was sure to end in bitter tears and forced apologies. 

Until then, he had potatoes to peel. 

December in Cape Town meant long, hot days spent at the beach or in close vicinity of a swimming pool. No one sang carols, roasted walnuts, or sat huddled around fires telling stories like he and his sister had done so many years ago in Prague. No one begrudgingly wore the sweaters that their grandmothers had knitted, and the idea of roasting a turkey  was as alien as marrying one. 

As he reached for another potato from the pile, his hand brushed the wet, swimming-tousled hair of his young daughter, Dana. She stood hunched over with her back towards him, and seemed just as surprised by the contact as he was. 

“Dana, what are you doing?” Andel asked in still heavily accented English. 

She slowly turned towards her father. Her cheeks were swollen full and her eyes watery, both from her guilt at getting caught and the heat of the hastily smuggled hot potato she chewed.

“Did you steal a potato, Dana?” He asked. She shook her head vigorously and he watched as she determinedly tried to conceal the huge mouthful. Andel worried for a moment that she might choke. 

 “Are you sure? If you lie, you wont see the golden pig.”

She swallowed heavily and stared fixedly at her own bare feet. Her lip started to quiver and her eyes went wide and glossy with threatening tears. “I had a potato,” she stuttered through her burgeoning sobs. 

“It’s ok.” Andel squatted down and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“…and Robbie and me had an ice cream. But ice creams aren’t food,” she insisted, wiping her eyes. 

“Says who?” asked Andel. 

“You.” 

Andel smiled at her as she frowned in her frilly pink swimsuit, her skin baked to a rich tan from many hours spent outside and her stomach distended with previously stolen snacks. 

“Can I still see the golden pig?” Dana asked, unconsciously licking the remnants of the potato off her fingers as she found her composure just as quickly as she’d lost it. 

  His smile widened as he looked at her in all of her tiny, gluttonous glory. She had indeed brought him a lifetime of luck- and laughter- and he’d never even had to skip a single meal to see his little golden piglet. 

  “I think he will come if you help with potatoes.” He held her fingers in his and led her back towards the waiting pile of steamy spuds to continue his tradition in the best way he could think of- by letting it change.


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## DuKane (Aug 30, 2011)

Aunt Jemima - [648 words according to Text Wrangler]

“Exploding food!” Major Allenby muttered to himself, dropping his head into his hands. He threw the file back into the briefcase on the seat beside him, blowing out his cheeks as he snapped it shut with contempt.
His driver parked by a large dark green marquee at one end of the abandoned quarry and opened the rear door. Allenby, a well built, clean-shaven, square jawed, six foot two climbed out and glanced round, before placing his cap on perfectly neat light brown hair, saluting his driver and hurrying into the tent.

“Major Allenby Sir? I’m Hayter from the Ministry,” a young looking chap announced, thrusting out his hand. 
Allenby shook it, all the while examining him. Hayter looked about thirty, around six feet tall, stocky and fit looking with very short crew cut black hair. Well groomed in the blue three-piece suit he wore.

“Exploding food!” Allenby began with disdain.
Hayter quickly shuffled him to the far side of the tent.
“Major, the Corporal I have cooking has no knowledge of the special nature of the ingredients, and no clearance for this demonstration!” Hayter whispered angrily at him.

“You have someone cooking exploding food?” Allenby asked incredulously. 
“It’s perfectly safe Major, at least in the kitchen,” Hayter spat back.

“Corporal Morris, please explain to the Major exactly what you have been cooking,” Hayter called out.
The Corporal retrieved a large tin from the oven and set it down on the worktop next to a pile of freshly baked pancakes.

“The pancakes were made from this Sir,” Morris answered, holding up a red packet of Aunt Jemima pancake mix. 
“Just added water Sir, and well, whisked it together and poured it out onto this greased tin and cooked them Sir.” 

“The Syrup loaf Sir was made with this buckwheat flour,” Morris continued, this time holding up a yellow packet of Aunt Jemima.
“Added a couple of teaspoons of baking soda, half a teaspoon of bicarb, a pinch of salt and mixed it altogether. Heated a quarter pint of milk and two tablespoons of golden syrup. Poured that mixture over the flour and beat it in. Then poured it all into a well greased one pound loaf tin and baked it in a moderately hot oven for around thirty minutes Sir,” Morris explained proudly.

“Thank you Corporal, you may go,” ordered Hayter.

“So you see Major perfectly safe. It will only explode when you put a blasting cap into it. Roughly, a muffin equals a grenade!” Hayter spoke very matter of factly.
“How?” Was all that Allenby could think to ask.

“Do you really want me to explain HMX?” Hayter enquired.
“No, probably not.” Allenby replied after some thought.

“It’s just like normal flour, bit gritty to the touch if you examine it closely,” Hayter explained as Allenby began examining the contents of the packets and ran some between his fingers.
“Can you eat it?” Allenby dared to enquire.
“You can, but I’d avoid anything over a mouthful, unless you wanted a raging stomach,” Hayter replied with a smile.

“Dare I ask if it actually works?” Allenby tentatively enquired.
“Well that Syrup cake needs to cool, but grab one of the pancakes and follow me,” Hayter said.

Allenby shrugged, picked a pancake from the middle of the pile and followed Hayter outside towards three telegraph poles that were dug into the ground about fifty yards away.
Allenby watched as Hayter taped the crumbling pancake onto the pole, before inserting a blasting cap, whereupon both men retreated hastily to their original positions. 

Hayter wired up the detonator, which he handed to Allenby with a knowing smile accompanied by a cursory wave of his hand. Allenby pressed the detonator and BOOM, the pancake exploded and the shattered telegraph pole crashed to the ground, leaving a splintered stump.
Hayter just grinned. 

“My god!” Allenby exclaimed, bursting out laughing.
“Exploding food!”


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## Eluixa (Aug 30, 2011)

*For Their Sake [647 words]*


I’ve boiled white eggs… why white? Mom used those; said they were easier to peel. I remembered to set the timer because having burnt eggs explode like missiles across my kitchen is wretched. And dangerous, you’d best duck and run to pull them off the heat. I don’t wish to clean that mess a third time. 

Normally, I’d run cold water over them, and then when I could touch them- but I was preoccupied yesterday. So, this morning I set to work, making multiple cracks in each by hitting them lightly on the counter. That and soaking them loosens the shell. I make tea and toast and log on.

The egg is chunking off with the shell, frustrating me. Had I but done this right away. Probably makes no difference white, green or brown, rather some focus, a little self discipline… 

I rinse well [biting down on eggshell is unpleasant], cut them in half long way and separate yolk from white. A fork to mash the yolk, add a little mustard, jarred, dry, doesn’t matter. I can’t say how much of everything, depends on how many eggs. It’s subtle, and really, a matter of tasting as you go. The ingredients are, eggs, mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar and paprika, just these five, seriously.


***​
​  Sisters, say eleven and eight, are taken along to a hippie potluck. It’s not the first nor will it be the last, them being progeny of the ilk. The girls are shy, quiet, barely speak but to each other, giving a nod and a name when introduced. The gathering is hosted by a newer friend, welcoming, still not surprisingly another with a bent for natural living.

The wooden house is smallish, tidy. Several reflected rainbows shift on walls and floor from bright windows adorned with varied prisms, so the girls make a game of trying to match each to its crystalline source.  Cascading potted plants, Aloe Vera and edible herbs crowd shelves and sills, feeling homey. 

There are few out of the way places to be, so mother encourages them to join the children outside. The backyard is hot, a desert ravine. A stand of bamboo fences a seasonal creek, but the scrubby grasses underfoot are yellow now and dry. The other kids are younger or older and know each other already. Five minutes of exploring leads back to the red porch steps, so they sit. 

The milling around the table with plates begins. They are hungry, since it was made clear this was where they would be eating whilst mom created her own exotic fare. At least they know what’s in that. 

Apparently culinary adventure is what everyone, except the children, was hoping for… Yet what fortune that in amongst so many foreign entrees, made of buckwheat, polenta or tofu, is a plate of deviled eggs! The girls hold themselves to a maybe slightly less than considerate, three each. Then with a tiny portion of a few more or less identifiable choices, and several blue corn chips, they find a place to eat. 

Delighted for and beginning with the eggs, they take big bites, and to be polite, don’t immediately spit, but chew and swallow with considerable effort. Sharing a look of shock and confusion, and in silent agreement, they wander outside, conspiring to rid themselves of the travesty.


***​
​  Whatever that was [guessing brewer’s yeast; yucky sprinkled in anything ever, mind you] had been disguised well, and we were fooled. We’ve since become quite adept at spotting irregularities. Double the stuffing is a sure sign of trouble and may have you choking down gobs of mayonnaise, or Gods forbid, Miracle whip, or ‘are you kidding me’, relish? We look carefully before putting a questionable version of this delicacy on our plates, and never more than one to start. And so thusly do I implore thee to hold this one recipe sacrosanct, at least when sharing.


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## ravensty (Sep 2, 2011)

The Paroxysm of a Hungarian Magpie


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## Anna Buttons (Sep 2, 2011)

*Sweet and Sour*

644 Words

You fell in love over sweet and sour chicken.

He a strapping, cheeky grinned arts student; you an aimless, starry eyed twenty-two year old in a tartan dress.

In a floundering attempt at sophistication your friend Belinda decided to host a dinner party. She called at the last minute in a panic, saying she had scorched the turkey beyond edibility and could you cook anything?

You arrived early with ingredients and your mother’s sweet and sour recipe. You cooked as Belinda squirted goon into wine bottles and laid a floral doona cover on the table. You loved the smell of sweet and sour chicken. It took you straight back to being a kid, perched up on the kitchen bench stealing bits of pineapple every time your Mum turned to the fridge.

He arrived with a guitar and a bunch of flowers taxed from gardens along the way for Belinda. You were charmed by his easy conversation. He had so many opinions on things, things you didn’t even understand let alone feel confident debating. And when he talked to you he made you feel like you were the centre of his universe, like your thoughts were all he cared to hear.

He called you the next day. He said he hadn’t known there was a white version of Merlot, and that your sweet and sour chicken was his new favourite food and could he please see you again?

A year later you found a small flat in a trendy suburb and moved in together. That first night he made your sweet and sour chicken and you ate it out of coffee cups amid the boxes and potential.

Two years on he called on your lunch break. He said his gig had been cancelled, and could you be home for dinner? He was going to make your chicken.
You rushed out for a manicure, just in case. A bubble formed in your throat as you imagined him taking the recipe to the shops, buying the ingredients for you, setting the table.

He was nervous when you got home. You wanted to tell him he didn’t have any reason to be, but you couldn’t figure out how. He dropped the flour and it puffed out the top of the bag in a little cloud that settled across the floorboards.

The chicken was perfect; it was an easy recipe. It always felt a bit naughty to you, eating something so sweet for dinner. You looked at his face across the table, trying to memorise the moment. Sometimes it worked, there was that day at the beach, you had tried so hard to imprint every second into your mind and you were proud of the detail you could still recall. Now you drank in his face, the exact colour his eyes looked in this light.

_I think it tastes better when you make it. _You say. His hands are clasped together on the table, an uncharacteristically tense gesture. You wrack your brain for the right thing to day.

_What so you want to do this weekend? I was thinking maybe we could go away. I could ask Belinda if the cabin is free._

_I need to talk to you. _His eyes avoided yours. It was so unlike him to be nervous. You tried to catch his gaze, to reassure him.

_Yes?_

_I, uhhhm. Well I’ve been seeing someone else I suppose. _

The butterflies in your stomach turned to lead and sank.

_I’m sorry?_

_Yes. I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I perfectly understand if you think I’m a..._

_Do I know her? Who is it? Is it a woman?_

_Yeah it’s ah, it’s Belinda actually. _

All you could think was that you betted it would be you to clean up the flour, and the dishes.

And how dare he ruin sweet and sour chicken for you.


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## morc44u (Sep 2, 2011)

*Home Cooking (647 Words)*

I enjoy killing birds.  Especially if they are beautiful and exotic.   It is a strange hobby, and probably not a great way to describe myself on a first date.  If I had any other pastimes to discuss, I could likely land a second.  But one cold November morning on the Montana Hi-Line caused dispatching birds to forever become my favorite means of recreation.

                That dawn I stepped out of the truck and watched my breath freeze in the air before me. With numb, trembling fingers I loaded shells into the magazine of my Winchester Model 12.  If the others with me were cold, they did not show it.  Dad was a park ranger.  One of his friends was a retired infantryman, and the other a logger.  They packed shells into their guns, Skoal into their gums, and strode into the field without a shiver.

                The infantryman arrayed us in a formation that would have made the Redcoats proud.  We marched abreast, a dozen paces separating each man.  Dad and I took the left flank, General Patton and Paul Bunyan secured the right.  Our black labs, Gunner and Boomer, wove a search pattern though the scrub ahead.  The six of us pressed into the wheat field, cutting a wide swath through the stubble. 

After several miles the bitter wind was no longer a concern.  Stopping to wipe sweat from my brow, I wondered how much longer I could match the relentless pace set by the dogs. 

                “Hurry up boy!  They’re gettin’ birdy!”

Boomer had cut a sent.   He had his nose pressed to the ground, and was snuffling like a shop-vac.  Gunner’s tail swept back forth with the frequency of a radar mast.  The dogs zigzagged forward in erratic, yet determined pursuit.  As we sprinted to catch up, Gunner made a hard break to the right. Bunyan and Patton broke formation to follow.  Dad and I continued forward, hot on Boomer’s heels.

 “Roosters! Take ‘em!” came the shout from over my shoulder.  Three staccato blasts came in response.  Ignoring the action to the rear, I focused on the chase unfolding before me.  Boomer lunged into a thicket, and a Chinese Ring-necked pheasant launched up into the sky.

His emerald head glistened in the sun, and his long golden plumage flowed in the breeze like the tail on a New Years dragon.  Feathers exploded from his body when I shot him.  He crumpled to the ground in a heap.

“Good shootin’, son! That’s how it’s done!” Dad exclaimed after giving me a hearty thump on the back.  Patton and Bunyan wandered over to join the celebration, bringing with them three more dead roosters.  After exchanging congratulatory handshakes and passing around a flask of whiskey, we began the grisly task of cleaning the birds.

                Following the example set by the veterans, I slit my pheasant’s belly open and reached a reluctant hand inside to scoop out its innards. A serrated blade made quick work of the wings, talons, and head.  The skin and feathers came off in a manner similar to removing a wool sweater.  The bloody carcass left in my hands resembled something you might see in a horror film starring Colonel Sanders.

                “Doesn’t that look tasty,” Dad commented with a grin.  “Don’t worry, we‘ll douse him with bourbon and put him to rest on a bed of wild rice.  You’ll swear off chicken forever!”

                I had doubts about that as we pulled into a lonely McDonald’s on the drive home.  The only other customer was a lanky college student wearing skin-tight jeans, square rimmed glasses, and a T-shirt emblazoned with PETA and Greenpeace logos.  He ordered a McNuggets meal.  It was delivered to him in a tidy little box garnished with an assortment of condiments and a moist towelette. 

I left the restaurant empty-handed, proud of the fact that tonight I would eat a truly home cooked meal.


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