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Artwork by Marcia Borell
The pot boiled, steamed upon the stove. Sally stood on a chair and stirred the ladle frantically with both hands. Sweat dripping onto the frilly collar of her pink Sunday dress. Fun when Mum's not around. She jumped from her perch and skitted to the cupboard like a frantic monkey. Grabbed some flour and tossed it in the stew. Snapped a pen from the fridge door, broke it and threw it in for ink (and color). A garlic bulb followed, leading the way before a handful of clover from the lawn for luck. Time to light it. Dials spun and flints clicked repeatedly. A succession of faint whooshes heralded the flames of the gas burners. Blue circles appeared like the fiery azure crowns of six djinns. A second, third and fourth pot were tossed from the cupboard and filled with water, then juggled to the stove. One by one they were slid across hissing flames. Two burners were turned off - not needed. An assortment of items tumbled into the water from a pink wicker basket that sat on the bench: a blob of Plasticene, a baby doll, six green plastic soldiers and two dozen gold chocolate coins saved from Easter. Needs to be thicker. Sally darted from the room, slid over the Linoleum and dodged into the laundry. She returned toting a plastic bag of Plaster of Paris. Mum don't want this. She ripped open the corner of the bag and poured the plaster into the largest pot. Blobs of plaster plopped into the water. The dust made Sally sneeze. A single element fumed black curls of smoke as a pile of white powder heaped at the edge of a flame. Cook. Cook . Cook. Salt was gushed into each pot, followed by a dozen generous scoops of choc-chip ice cream stolen from the freezer. Milk, cream, a rasher of bacon - all nice things, and healthy. Sally had watched Mummy cook many times- knew what to do. Small fingers fiddled in a pink pocket and pulled out a handful of dead lizards (vitamins). She grabbed a saber-like knife, dirty with magenta jewels that sat on the cutting board and sliced the tails of the reptiles. Flicked the silver spear up and down quickly like a Master Chef. Slice and Dice. Tossed the silver-cubes of flesh in the pot. Cinnamon, pepper, lard from a pig all went airborne and bounced off the stove or splashed into one of the many boiling stews. Wonder what snail's like? French eat 'em. I'll get one nice and big.Sally rushed away, slid open the glass door that led to the back garden and darted outside. The pots began to steam in her absence, spluttering like crystal volcanoes. Sally returned with a handful of snails and eased them into the boiling water, one by one, shells and all. The brew in the pots now boiled gray and had a skin of mucus, large bubbles danced and slid over the surface of the frantic water. Daddy 'll be home soon. He'll be glad I cooked dinner. Mummy never had dinner ready; I'll show him how it's done. I AM a good girl. Four forgotten slugs were retrieved from Sally's left pocket along with two earthworms relatively fresh from the ground (she loved digging in the garden). In all, a busy morning for a little girl. Lots of preparation; planning for a better life. She'd told Daddy it would come to this, but he'd not believed her. Believed Mummy instead and punished her for lying. Not nice. For breakfast I'll make a cereal pie, Corn Flakes in syrup; bake it to the sky. I wonder what's in a pancake? To be big it has to have at least six dozen eggs. I'll smash 'em and mix 'em in the sink. Add beetroot - then it'll be pink. The oven bell dinged. The roast was done by Sally's reckoning. She'd started that dish hours earlier, just after lunch. Before Mummy went ballistic, shouted, screamed, threw things . . . . Before she left Everything's almost ready. Has to be perfect when Daddy gets home. Perfect so Daddy won't get upset. Sally leapt off her stool. She was getting frantic now; excited with anticipation. Daddy was home at six sharp every day. He was always tired after work. Sally didn't have long now - it was five thirty five. She scrambled in the cupboard and retrieved a pair of serving bowls and a couple of plates. Tossed them by the sink. I hope Daddy likes dinner. Changes when he finds out. We need each other more than ever now. He'll know that. Mummy's wasn't real mummy anyway - bad mummy. Always locking me up when Mr Parker come by. Not let me watch TV. Smacking me when I told the truth. Made Daddy hate me; hit me with a belt. Dad wouldn't do that if it wasn't for her. Mr Parker DID come. Stepmothers are always witches. Only one thing for that! Sally went to the sink where she'd placed her pink crayon. She started writing on a slip of paper: MENU 1. chewy treat: plasticene rolls. celery sticks & toes. drink: Apple juice. 2. side order: lips n ear. 3. main: eyes in spuds, lickerish sauce n prunes.
Sally looked at her handiwork - better than McDonalds. If Dad didn't appreciate her now, well, only one thing for it: a lime milkshake just like she made for Mummy. She didn't notice the rat poison. All green. Lime green like a frog. Sally placed the crayon carefully in a glass by the sink, smiled a ap-toothed smile and skipped the plates to the dinner table. The oven continued with its incessant pinging. If Dad can't love me now . . . I'll find one that will.
END
Cooking Dinner originally appeared in Thirteen Stories #9 and is reprinted with their kind permission.
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