A Trip to the Bazzar

Image by Ensie & Matthias via Wikimedia Commons

Author’s note: This week, I ran out of story ideas, so I’m substituting this travelogue. Enjoy!

I walk through the bazaar, the air filled with coffee and spices, while stands of every color and shape assault my senses. Silhouettes of femme fatales gyrate on the wall of one tent, pixies and leprechauns play dice in front of another. At an outdoor cafe, a knight sits with a man in a tuxedo and a woman in an aviator helmet sharing coffee and cigarettes. Another man sits alone at another table, casting furtive glances at the trio and whispering into his sleeve.

Normally, I'd hang out at the cafe and see who I'd meet, but today, I'm in need of something quick, a plot driver. Something to take back to the office where my characters are sitting around on set, complaining about their motivations. (Ugh! Characters!)

I stop at a stand painted green where a short bearded man looks up at me expectantly.

“Welcome to Macadoo McGuffin’s, sir! Please come into my humble stall and find the solution to all your plot problems!”

I thank the man and browse around the shelves and barrels. Macadoo hovers around me like a shadow, making comments of the obvious.

I look at a barrel filled with black falcon statuary.

“Ah, from Malta, sir! Very popular. Ten for a dollar.”

I point to another barrel filled with golden cups.

“Holy grails. Also ten for a dollar. In this barrel, swords Excalibur. Next to that, Spears of Destiny. All ten for dollar, or mix and match.”

I remark on the borderline blasphemy of offering the cup of Christ so cheaply. Macadoo shrugs and spreads his hands.

“I don't make the rules, I just work here.”

I nod in sympathy and move on to paintings hung on a wall.

“Ah, you have a good eye sir. These are Picassos, Rembrandts, and Da Vincis. Works of art, perhaps stolen by your dastardly villains to be recovered by a plucky hero? Or maybe the canvases hold clues to an ancient secret? You've come on a banner day, sir. These priceless objets d'art are 35 percent off today.”

I shrug and keep walking. On a shelf are several disassembled bombs.

“Time bombs, honorable sir! We have timers in both ticking analog and flashing digital. Wires straight and curly in a variety of True-Brite ™ colors! As for the bombs themselves, I have sticks of TNT, slabs of plastic explosive, and I believe I can even find a black powder cannonball if you're of a pirate mind.”

I demur.

“Of course not, sir! I can see you are a man of big ideas. Accordingly, let me offer you this full nuclear device. Guaranteed to end your story in 200 pages or less! Look how it shines! Did you know I was Ian Fleming’s sole supplier? It's true!”

I move on, further into the shop. When did his kiosk become a shop?

Behind a beaded curtain are an old woman, a boy, a girl, and a middle-aged woman. They're watching a movie with subtitles, but that's not what's odd about them. The four are bound hand-and-foot, with white gags in their mouths. I arch an eyebrow at the proprietor.

“Kidnap victims, good sir. Look at the eyes on the boy! The freckles on the girl! What protagonist would dare sit around when children such as these are missing? Ten percent off for the pair! Not enough? Don't like the single-father angle? Add in the mother! Take fifteen percent off for the set, and I'll throw Grandma in for free!”

I ask about the price for just the mother. Macadoo shakes his head.

“No, no, no. This one is too old to work on her own. You want the younger, prettier model, the girlfriend-fiancée. She screams your hero's name at 110 decibels.”

I ask if that's not a little sexist in this day and age.

“I don't make the rules, I just work here. You know, they used to be called the princess models, but now they're all girlfriend-fiancées. PC-marketing, am I right? But if you're worried about the trope police, you could always get your princess with the kung-fu upgrade. It's surprisingly affordable these days.”

I inform him that the revenge props seem a bit over the top for what I have in mind. Perhaps he sells something that gives peace-of-mind?

He shakes his head. “I'm strictly a genre guy.” He jerks his head to indicate a kiosk across the bazaar. “Talk to that guy with the purple beret if you just want existential materials.”

I mention that the beret looks red to me, almost raspberry.

“You tryin' to be funny?” Macadoo says.

I apologize.

“Anyway, his place is called 'Stuttering Tulips,' it sells literary tropes. Today he has a sale on children coming of age and lives wrecked by alcoholism.”

I shake my head and move on, scanning the shelves filled with dusty pieces of the true cross.

“Dan Brown stood in front of this shelf for an hour one day. Then he shouted ‘Jesus, that’s it!’ and ran off. I hear he did quite well for himself after that.”

I walk away.

“Perhaps if you could just tell me what you're looking for.”

I mention that I’m a science fiction author.

“Ah-ah! I should have known. The glasses, the pocket protector, the Dr Who t-shirt!” He grabs me by the hand and leads me to a glowing cube the size of an elephant.

“A genuine spaceship engine! Faster than light travel! Moves at the speed of plot!”

I look for a while, kicking at the warp core and tugging on the superconductors. It's too big, I say. I couldn’t possibly build a story around it.

Macdoodle nods, and taps a finger against his chin.

“Ah! Just the thing!”

He hurries behind a counter and disappears under it. Moments later, he emerges struggling under the weight of a long multi-barreled gun. It lands on the counter with a thud, sitting on a tripod with articulated legs like a scorpion's, the matte-black barrels soaking up all available light.

“Behold! The OSH-1T multi-barrel particle beam portable orbital defense system.”

I attempt to repeat the name and fail.

“Most people call it the 'oh shit.' for short. This baby will stop alien invasions in seconds.”

I admit that it looks impressive.

“And for you, I can sell it so cheaply it may as well be a gift.”

I wonder aloud about a catch.

“Well,” Macadoo says sheepishly, “There is one little thing. It violates the laws of physics.”

That doesn't sound good to me, and I say so.

“Fortunately,” Macadoo says, “I can offer you a pair of Improbability Underwear. It girds the loins of its wearer so that they may violate nature's laws with impunity. Guaranteed flame-resistant.”

I ask why I would need flame-resistant underwear.

“Ever hear of the Internet?”

Point taken. The price?

He names it.

I agree and arrange for shipment. As I pay the man with the kudos my writing has earned over the past months, I mention that now I will have to come up with an alien foe worthy of such a weapon. He smiles and hands me a card.

“This will get you fifteen percent off at Arnold’s Aliens and Frozen Custard, located at the end of the street. He’s got a nice stable of extra-terrestrials, but stay away from the custard. I’ve heard stories …”

I stay longer than I should as he tells me all about Arnold and his unusual custards of questionable origin. I soon discover I am late and have to bid a hasty farewell to Macadoo MacGuffin. As I begin my journey back to reality, I wonder why I am always drawn to stories of the bazaar. 

Cooking Up Trouble - Part II

By Bettyann Moore

Many times Maggie had heard Porpoise say “They don’t call it the web for nothing,” but didn’t realize what he’d meant until now. After reading and rereading through the recipes and jotting down notes until she felt a bit more comfortable with them, she clicked on a highlighted link for Family Recipes. Then on a link for Pot Pies, which led her to the HappyGrumpyChef. As far as Maggie could tell, the HappyGrumpyChef (such a name!) was just a grandmother in Kansas who liked to cook and put up a recipe Web site. Nonetheless, Maggie spent a long time looking at the woman’s pictures and videos and reading stories about her family. Maggie had been ensnared in the World Wide Web. She didn’t surface until she heard the clomp of John’s boots on the back porch.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Maggie cried, jumping up. She’d completely forgotten about dinner. She ran to the freezer and grabbed a bag of stew she’d frozen months before, silently blessing the microwave she’d cursed when her son had installed it. Then she pulled out a bowl from the cupboard and started assembling ingredients for biscuits. Start to finish, they’d take 20 minutes. By the time John was out of the shower and dressed, a hot (and delicious) dinner would be waiting.

While she worked the butter (always cold!) into the flour for the biscuits, Maggie couldn’t stop thinking about the HappyGrumpyChef. The woman’s recipes were nothing special as far as she could tell. Why, she even recommended short cuts like using store-bought crust! She was funny, though, and obviously proud of her family. She wrote with a lot of heart. Maggie admired that.

John came into the kitchen just as Maggie was pulling the biscuits out of the oven. Dinner was served. Maggie couldn’t wait until afterward when she could get back to the computer. She told herself it was because she needed to email Porpoise with a detailed shopping list and a list of ingredients he needn’t bother buying, like tomatoes. There was no reason to use those hard, tasteless grocery store things when she had lovely heirlooms all ripe and ready. Once the email was sent, though, her time was her own.

After school the next day, Porpoise showed up at his grandmother’s door with bags of groceries. He couldn’t wait to get started.

“Heaven’s, sweetie, it looks like you bought out the store!” Maggie said, helping him unload the bags.

“Pretty much, but they still had a lot of tomatoes, Gram,” Porpoise said, smiling. “When can we get started?”

“Hold on there, young man,” Maggie cautioned. “Let’s sort these things first. I was thinking that we could probably do the salad and one other thing tonight if you’d like.”

“Could we? That’d be great! Like what?”

“Maybe the Jambon Chevre, too? It shouldn’t be too hard for you to handle. Tomorrow we’ll try the bisque. We’ll leave the confit until Friday. It has to sit in the fridge overnight, you know, and we’ll need all of Saturday to prepare it.” Maggie knew she was showing off, but was happy to be able to.

At first tentative and nervous, Porpoise used the kitchen implements – especially his grandmother’s sharp knives – slowly and carefully.

“Here,” Gram said, showing him how to use the chef’s knife the right way, swiftly and deftly. “The kitchen is no place for shrinking violets!”

A willing and capable student, Porpoise finally caught on fairly well in his grandmother’s estimation. Even John agreed, since he was the one who had to eat the results that night.

“Pretty fancy stuff you’re putting out here, Porpoise,” he said after tasting the ham roll-ups.

“They’re really okay then, Grandpa?” Porpoise asked, still a bit amazed that he could pull it off.

“I’d say you’re gonna sweep that young lady right off her feet!”

Pleased, Porpoise blushed in agreement. “How ‘bout the tomato salad, Gramps?”

John took another bite of the salad. “Just have to get used to this fancy cheese,” he said. “Your grandma’s tomatoes sure are somethin’, though, and so?”

Porpoise agreed, though he never really thought there was much difference in tomatoes and still didn’t. He was young.

“I might not be able to get back here tomorrow night,” Porpoise worried aloud. “I have 4-H and it might be late.”

“No problem, sweetie,” Gram assured him. “I have to be somewhere Wednesday night anyway. We’ll do the crème brulee and bisque on Thursday and duck on Friday and Saturday. By the time next Saturday rolls around, you’ll be an old pro. And if you’re not, we’ll still have time to practice!”

Porpoise was grinning like a maniac when he left and still grinning when he came back on Thursday to tackle the lobster bisque and crème brulee. Gram seemed distracted and left Porpoise to his own devices most of the time. He burned the scallions and onions on the first try, so he had to dump it out and start again. Chopping all the vegetables a second time gave him a chance to improve his knife skills, but he couldn’t see why they couldn’t just buy the stuff already chopped. His grandmother would never hear of it, of course.

“Gram! Soup’s on!” Porpoise yelled once the soup was a thick, creamy consistency. He ladled its fragrant goodness into two soup bowls and set them on the small kitchen table. Grandpa was allergic to shellfish, so they didn’t have to wait for him.

“Mmmmmm, smells wonderful, dear!” Gram said, hurrying into the kitchen. She went to the bread box and cut off two slices of her homemade bread to go with the soup. They dipped in their spoons and tasted.

“Why, Porpoise, this is absolutely amazing!” Gram crowed. “It’s so creamy and the bits of lobster are cooked just right. Bravo!”

Porpoise basked in the praise. He thought it was pretty darn good, too. He kept picturing April’s rapturous face as she ate his offerings.

Gram finished first, then got up and headed off again. “Don’t forget to clean up before you start the brulee,” she called over her shoulder.

Porpoises surveyed the kitchen and frowned. He’d never given much thought to clean-up before he started cooking. Any time he even offered to help his mom or grandmother, he was sent away. Only they knew how to do it right. “Guess it’s not magic after all,” he said, mopping up the last bits of soup with his bread.

Gram supervised more closely when he started making the crème brulee, then trotted off again. Still, Porpoise managed to get the ramekins filled – if a bit sloppily – and into the oven. While he waited for the pudding to cook, he cleaned up the latest monster mess he’d made. The pudding needed to sit in the fridge for several hours before he could get a chance to take the torch to them. That, he felt sure, would be the best part, but he had homework to do.

“So I guess it’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Porpoise said as he found a spot in his grandparents’ refrigerator for the pudding.

“What’s that, dear?” Gram called from the dining room. Porpoise found her at the table where she was hunched over a laptop Porpoise had never seen before, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“I said the brulee will have to … wow, Gram, you’re using a computer?” Porpoise had seen her balk for weeks about using a microwave, her gas stove was from the ‘50s and while her sewing machine was electric, it’d started out as a pedal model that Grandpa had updated. As far as he could tell, Gram thought “tech” was just another four-letter word.

Never taking her eyes off the screen, Gram waved the boy off. “Such a fuss you’re making,” she said, as if she’d been using a computer all her life. “This old dog isn’t done learning new tricks!”

“Whatever you say, Gram,” Porpoise said, taken aback. “The kitchen’s all clean and the brulee is in the fridge. I have to get my math done, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Did you want to check how clean ...”

Maggie waved him away again. “I’m sure it’s just fine, dear,” she said, surprising him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Come give me a kiss.”

Porpoise sidled up and gave his Gram a kiss on her cheek while stealing a quick peek at the laptop screen. He expected to see some silly computer game, like Maj-Jong, but it was nothing like that at all. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it was very slick and looked high-tech. He shrugged and headed home, his mind already on April.

The whole family – Porpoise, his grandparents and parents – gathered around the dining room table for the duck confit on Saturday. The laptop was nowhere in sight. The amount of work that went into the meal surprised even Maggie. They had saved the crème brulee for dessert and Maggie made biscuits and green beans to round out the meal. Never one to like heavily fried foods, Maggie was surprised at how good the Pommes Frittes were; had she known, she never would have made the biscuits.

At the end of the meal, John stood and raised his glass of whole milk.

“I’d like to propose a toast to my grandson, Gerald ‘Porpoise’ McAllister,” he declared, “the next … uh … give me a famous chef’s name someone.”

“Anthony Bourdain!”

“Eric Ripert!”

“Paul Prudhomme!”

“Julia Child!” That came from Porpoise’s mother.

“Okay, okay, to the next Paul Prudhomme!”

Everyone hoisted and clinked their glasses, except Porpoise, who sat there grinning and blushing.

“Thanks, Gramps,” he said, “but I think you all might be a bit biased.”

John winked at his grandson. “A week from today one lucky lady will be added to your fan club.”

Porpoise could only hope.

On Monday, Porpoise waited impatiently at their table for April to finally get to class. She came breezing in a second before the bell wearing a long scarf dress that fluttered as she moved. It seemed to Porpoise that she was floating on air.

He wanted to tell her right away about Saturday’s meal, but Mrs. Hoyt was at the front of the room, commanding attention.

“Class, I have exciting news!” Mrs. Hoyt crowed. “Thursday and Friday, as you know, are parent/teacher conferences.”

The room started clapping; it meant two days off from school.

Mrs. Hoyt raised her voice over the din and continued. “And I have volunteered this class to make treats for the event!”

“What? Boiled rice?” one of the girls muttered under her breath as everyone groaned.

“Each kitchen will make something different so we’ll have a nice variety.” The teacher began passing out recipe cards to each kitchen. “We’ll practice for the next two days, taste each other’s dishes, then make our final products on Wednesday.”

Porpoise glanced down at the index card the teacher had put on the table: Brownies, it read. He tingled with excitement. Brownies had to be tons easier than crème brulee. He could show off for April. He showed her the card, but she frowned and nibbled at a thumb nail. For the first time ever, she raised her hand.

“Uh, Mrs. Hoyt,” she called.

“Yes, Miss Showers? Is there a problem?”

“Well, I was just wondering if maybe we could make a salad or something like that instead?”

Mrs. Hoyt chuckled. “A salad? A salad isn’t much of a treat, dear,” she answered, getting a titter or two out of the class. “No one will be making salad. But why do you ask?”

“There’s eggs in these,” April said, snatching the card out of Porpoise’s hand and waving it like a flag.

“I daresay there are eggs in all of the things we’ll be making, April,” Mrs. Hoyt said. “We have chocolate chip cookies, snickerdoodles, brownies … are you allergic, dear?”

“No, I’m a vegan,” April said.

Mrs. Hoyt cocked her head and sighed. Everyone in the room cocked their heads, especially Porpoise, who’d never heard the word before.

“Is your objection to making the brownies, April,” Mrs. Hoyt asked, “or to eating them?”

April shrugged. “Both, but mostly to eating them, I guess.”

“Well, that’s easy then. You certainly don’t have to eat them and there are other jobs in the kitchen that you can do … pan prep and dish washing for instance.”

April sighed and made a face, but settled back into her chair, resigned. Porpoise was going through his menu in his mind. Only the crème brulee had eggs in it. He’d have to come up with something else. He wondered if there were other things vegans couldn’t eat. He didn’t want to look stupid, though, so he’d have to do some research into this vegan thing.

“Gram! Gramma?” Once again, Porpoise came barreling into his grandparents’ kitchen, but this time with the worst possible news.

“Heavens, dear,” Gram said, coming out of the dining room, “is there another girl you want to impress?”

“Gram, this is serious! And, trust me, I won’t be impressing anyone, especially April, any time soon.”

“What? How could that be? Your menu is wonderful and ...”

“Gram, I just found out that she’s a vegan!”

Maggie frowned at her grandson for a second. “I’m so disappointed in you, Porpoise McAllister!” she said. “In this house someone’s religion doesn’t make a whit of difference!”

“Gram … no, veganism isn’t a religion.”

“It certainly sounds like one,” Maggie said. “Then what is it?”

Porpoise went to the sink and filled a glass with water and downed it before he answered.

“It’s like vegetarianism, only worse.”

“Worse? How could it be worse?” To Maggie’s mind, anyone who didn’t love to sink their teeth into a nice, juicy steak or crispy fried chicken just hadn’t been brought up right.

“Gram,” Porpoise spoke slowly and clearly. “They … don’t … eat … any… animal … products. None. No milk, no eggs, no seafood, no cheese … and definitely no meat. Not even honey! Bye-bye feta. So long lobster. See ya, duck.”

Maggie stood their with her mouth open, her hands over her heart. She felt sick.

“What do they eat, then?” she finally asked.

“Vegetables. Fake milk. Fake eggs. They even have fake meat, usually made out of tofu.”

“Tofu? I don’t even know what that is!”

“It’s bean curds or something,” Porpoise told her. “And get this: A lot of them don’t use silk or leather, either, according to what I read.” He tried to remember if April wore leather shoes, but came up blank. “Thing is, Gram, we can’t serve any of the dishes I came up with. None!” Porpoise flopped down onto a kitchen chair and groaned.

Gram sank into a chair next to him. “As disappointed as you are, honey,” she said, laying a hand over his, “it’s not the end of the world.” Porpoise groaned louder. “I’m serious!” Maggie stood up. “Come with me,” she commanded. Porpoise groaned again and got up slowly to follow her.

Maggie was typing something on the laptop at the dining room table when he caught up.

“See?” she crowed, motioning him to come over.

Porpoise shuffled over to take a look at the screen.

“I just typed ‘vegan recipes’ into the Google and voila!” Gram said.

“It’s just Google, Gram, not the Google … oh, never mind.” Porpoise was looking at a lot of colorful pictures of assorted vegan dishes. There were main courses, desserts, even stuff with ‘gravy.’ He looked at his grandmother with wonder.

“Don’t look so surprised, dear,” she said. “I’ve become a pretty good Googler.”

Regardless, Porpoise’s heart still sank at the thought of starting all over again – the shopping, the cooking, the clean-up. “Thing is, Gram, dad needs my help after school this to get the rest of the hay in,” he said. “He gave me a pass last week, but I don’t think he’ll let it slide this time. There’s all that shopping ...”

“Hush now,” Gram commanded. “Who has the best garden in the whole county?”

“What? Well, you do, but so?”

“Sweetie, I have every vegetable you can imagine right here! We might have to buy this tofu stuff and fake eggs you mentioned, but I’ll bet I have just about everything else you’ll need. And don’t you have off from school at the end of the week?”

“Yeah, but ...”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” Gram said, clicking through some of the pictures. “I’ll come up with a menu, you’d trust me to do that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m pretty sure you’d do a better job of it than I did,” Porpoise said, hanging his head.

“Okay, good. I’ll come up with a menu, we’ll discuss it, and then bright and early on Thursday we cook. Trust me, vegetable dishes will be lots easier than the last ones. And I bet some of my own recipes would work perfectly. You love my vegetable soup, don’t you?”

“I sure do … but there’s no animal products in it, right?”

“Not a one.”

“And for dessert, maybe something with apples? Your trees are full of them.”

“Good idea! Gram said, pleased at the thought. “We won’t do pie, though. Crusts are a big challenge for people. Why, your mother … well, never mind that. My apple crisp would be perfect. I’ll be sure to use, heaven help me, margarine instead of butter. So, do we have a plan?”

“We sure do, Gram, and thanks,” Porpoise said, hugging her.

“Now, scat! I have work to do and so do you.” Gram walked the boy to the door then went to the cupboard and pulled out her well-worn recipe box and brought it to the computer. Time to do some comparisons and adaptations.

Maggie found that planning a vegan meal was a lot easier than the fancy French one. She and Porpoise decided to go Italian since that kind of cooking relies heavily on fresh vegetables and herbs. Besides, she had put up hundreds of jars of tomatoes and tomato sauce and knew they’d pass vegan muster. She did do a lot of checking and double checking to see if some of the staples she had on hand would do. Maggie had never spent any time reading labels, but she got good at it. Who knew that any margarine (just the word made her shudder) that contained casein was not vegan? Or that her brand of shortening, while vegan, was made by a company that the vegan community frowned on for its politics?

“Politics, shmolitics,” Maggie said, deciding to use the shortening anyway and crossing her fingers that the girl wouldn’t care.

Since dinner would be at Brian and Thea’s house, Maggie and Porpoise practiced there, though Maggie made sure to bring her favorite mixing bowls and knives. She was positive her daughter-in-law never sharpened her knives.

By the time Saturday rolled around – and Porpoise thought it would never get there – all he had to do was toast the crostini for the bruschetta he’d made the day before, boil the noodles (al dente! Maggie cautioned him) for the already-prepared sauce, warm up the minestrone, toss the salad with homemade vinaigrette and put the apple crisp into the oven. Porpoise was amazed that so many things could be prepared ahead of time; it gave him a chance to focus on making sure the table was perfect. His mother watched him fuss.

“It’ll be just fine, honey,” she said, rearranging the centerpiece one more time. “I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t want to be here when April shows up.”

“She said she had stuff to do today,” he said, wiping imaginary spots off a water glass. “She sure is being secretive lately.”

“About what?”

“Duh, Ma, if I knew that it wouldn’t be secret. All I know is that it has something to do with the computer.”

“Computer? Your grandmother? Are you sure?” Thea chose to ignore the sarcasm from her nervous son.

“Oh, I’m sure all right. She can hardly tear herself away from it.”

“Hmmmm. Does your father know?”

“Dunno. You two aren’t going to be hanging around while April’s here, are you?”

“No, dear, we’ll stick around to say hello, then you can lock us in a closet or something.”

“Ma, geez.”

“Joking! We’re having dinner at your grandparents’ … I think we’re having steaks on the grill, baked potatoes with lots of butter and apple crisp, only ours will have loads of ice cream.”

“Nice, Ma, rub it in why don’t you?”

Thea chuckled and ruffled her boy’s hair. “I think it’s pretty cool that you’re doing this, you know? There are probably lots of boys who would run screaming away from someone so different from what they’re used to. Guess we raised you right, huh?”

Porpoise ducked away from his mother’s hand, embarrassed. “That’s only because you haven’t found out about the meth lab,” he teased.

“Kids!” Thea cried, laughing. “You better go get dressed, son of mine, that young lady’s due any time now.”

Dinner went off without a hitch. April wore one of her signature long skirts and had flowers woven in her hair. She’d brought a bottle of sparkling apple juice, impressing Porpoise’s parents.

“My parents thought, like, it would be a good idea,” April told them.

She was effusive with her praise, though there was the problem with the avocados.

“The salad is great,” April said. “I really love the olives and artichokes, but what are those hard green things?”

“Avocados,” Porpoise said. “Don’t they grow in California?”

April laughed, but not unkindly. “They sure do and they’re one of my favorite things in the world. Thing is, Porpoise, they’re not ripe yet. They’re supposed to be soft.”

Porpoise wasn’t quite as embarrassed as he could have been. He was just a kid from Wisconsin, what did he know?

“I guess Gram and I didn’t do our research on that,” he said. “Just eat around them.”

Over the spaghetti, which was ‘wonderful’ according to April, she asked, “So your grandmother helped you with all this?”

“She directed and did research,” Porpoise admitted, “but left the actual cooking to me. The clean-up, too!”

“That is so cool, Porpoise,” April said, “Everything’s amazing. What sort of research did she have to do? You’d think a grandma would have tons of recipes to use.”

“Oh, you know, the whole vegan thing. What could be used and what couldn’t, that sort of thing.”

“Vegan thing?” April asked. Then her eyes got wide as she surveyed the table. “Is that why there’s no meat or dairy?”

“Well, sure.” Porpoise gulped. “Didn’t you say you were a vegan?”

April buried her face in her hands. Porpoise had a bad feeling about this.

“Oh, man, I screwed up,” April said, actually putting her hand on his. It was the first time they’d touched unaccidentally.

“You mean you’re not a vegan?”

April blushed a little. “Well, I was … for about a week maybe. I like to try new things,” she explained. “But, man, I sure missed hamburgers and fish tacos, all of it. Sorry, Porpoise.”

Porpoise was still trying to wrap his head around the idea of fish tacos, let alone the fact that April wasn’t a vegan. He stood up to clear away the plates and carried them into the kitchen. April sat quietly, afraid to say a word.

A few seconds later Porpoise shouted, “April, do you want ice cream on your apple crisp?”

Maggie, when she was told, was not amused.

“All that time! All that money and preparation!” she railed. “Just because the girl had a whim!”

“It’s all right, Ma,” Brian said. The whole family was just finishing their bi-monthly dinner at Maggie and John’s.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that, Gram,” Porpoise said. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Maggie had no idea how she ever got such a great grandson. She felt bad for getting so upset, especially since the whole fiasco had actually served her quite well.

“No, dear, truly,” she said. “In fact, I think it’s time I let you all in on what I’ve been working on the last few weeks, due, by the way, to my grandson here.” She got up from the table and went to get her laptop. “Gather around now, kids. You, too, John.”

Maggie booted up the computer like an old pro and logged in while her family gathered around. She typed in a URL, then sat back.

A page popped up with the colorful title: Cooking 101 for Shrinking Violets. The phrase sounded familiar to Porpoise. Then it dawned on him.

“Gram is this yourWeb site?” He needn’t have asked. There in the corner was a picture of his grandmother in her favorite ‘Soup’s On!” apron, holding a cleaver and a mixing spoon. Below that were colorful pictures of many of her best recipes.

“Mother!” Thea cried. “Is that your secret recipe for strudel?” Maggie had never shared that recipe with her.

“Well,” Maggie said, “Sort of. I couldn’t disclose the secret ingredient, but it’s close. But what do you think? Isn’t it pretty? My Webmaster says that my site has had more hits than any new site he’s ever seen, and it grows every day! We’re talking about monetizing it soon.”

“Webmaster?” John said. “Hits? Monetizing? Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

“Bah!” Maggie said, taking a swat at him. “It’s all Porpoise’s fault, and that girl of his. It just seemed like there was room for someone with my experience and skill to share a little knowledge with the kids out there. You could say I’m ‘demystifying’ cooking for the next generation. Take a look at this.”

Maggie clicked on a picture entitled “Adaptations” and up came scads of recipes that she’d adapted for various palates, medical conditions and preferences. Vegan was the top choice.

“Gram, wow!” Porpoise said, amazed.

“That’s nothing,” Gram said, putting her hand into her lap and sitting up straight. “One of the cooking channels wants to talk to me about doing my own cooking show!”

If the Web site hadn’t floored her people, that little announcement did.

“See, Porpoise?” Gram said. “I owe it all to you and that girlfriend of yours.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Porpoise mumbled.

“What? Why?” Gram asked.

“Well, it turns out that her parents are kind of flaky,” Porpoise said, while his grandmother nodded knowingly. “They’re moving back to California. It’s too cold here for them.”

“It’s only September!” Thea cried.

“Yeah, I know, but it’s okay,” Porpoise said. “I don’t know if I could have kept up with April anyway. She’s kind of flaky, too, I don’t know if you noticed.”

Gram hid her smile. Her grandson was such an innocent. “I’m truly sorry, honey,” she said. “I know you liked her.”

“Thanks, Gram, but don’t worry. I met this new girl, Susan? She’s in my biology class. She’s super smart. Dad,” he said, turning to Brian, “you’ll really like her, she has all sorts of ideas about crop rotations and root worm cures.”

Cooking Up Trouble - Part I

By Bettyann Moore

Porpoise McAllister was the only boy at Dailyville High who elected to take cooking class instead of auto mechanics in his junior year.

“Always knew you were a freak, McAllister,” Troy Jones, the captain of the football team scoffed.

“Gonna make tiny cakes for tea parties?” a kid in chemistry teased, miming sipping tea with his pinkie in the air.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Porpoise always answered with a mysterious smile.

The fact of the matter was that there wasn’t much more for Porpoise to learn about vehicle maintenance. He’d been taking apart cars, tractors, mowers and combines on the family farm since he was big enough to hold a wrench – and putting them back together again. When he wasn’t working on the farm, he was working on the things that kept the farm working. The thought of spending part of his time at school doing the same held no thrall. Cooking, though, that was different.

It was nothing short of magic to the boy when his mother or his grandmother created hearty farm meals day after day. A little bit of flour and some of this and that – voila! – a tall birthday cake for a growing boy. A hen that had been clucking in his grandmother McAllister’s chicken coop at breakfast was transformed into delectable fried chicken by lunch. The McAllister women were conjurers of a high order. Porpoise wanted to be one, too.

“You got no business in a class like that!” Grandpa McAllister roared. “Brian,” he said, turning to his son, “you gonna let this happen?”

At one point in his son’s life, Porpoise’s dad would have railed just as long and loudly as his father, but he’d learned a thing or two since then. It was, he knew now, important for the boy to figure out who and what he was on his own – and have his family’s support while he did it.

“It’s all right, Pop,” Brian said, passing the mashed potatoes around his mother’s dinner table. “Porpoise has his reasons, don’t you, boy?” He winked at his son.

“What possible reason ...” John McAllister stopped and considered. “Oh!” he said, his face lighting up. “Girls! Lots of girls in them classes I bet!”

“All girls and Porpoise,” Thea, Porpoise’s mother said, bringing more beets to the table. Margaret, his grandmother, followed close behind carrying a pitcher of fresh milk.

“Well, I’ll be danged,” Grandpa McAllister said, nodding thoughtfully. “If that don’t beat all.”

Porpoise kept his head down and kept shoveling his grandmother’s good food into his mouth. He couldn’t wait to get to the apple pie, his favorite. Let them think what they want to think.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said, settling back into her chair. “What do you know about cooking?” she asked, turning to her grandson.

“Numuh,” Porpoise replied.

“Sweetie, don’t talk with your mouthful,” his mother scolded. “What’d you say?”

Porpoise took a long drink of milk to wash down the potatoes. “I said ‘not much’, but that’s what class is for.”

“I suppose … who teaches the class anyway,” his grandmother asked.

“Mrs. Hoyt,” Porpoise said, taking another helping of roast beef.

“Oh, lands, not Elna Hoyt!” Margaret cried, her hand on her heart. “That woman couldn’t cook her way out of a paper bag, I swear! Do you remember that ghastly casserole she entered in the county fair that year?” she asked, turning to her daughter-in-law.

“It was … a bit unusual,” Thea, ever the diplomat, replied.

“Unusual! It tasted like soap and shoe leather!” Margaret harrumphed.

“The class will be doing the cooking, Gram,” Porpoise said, “not Mrs. Hoyt.”

“But she’ll be teaching you all wrong!”

“Now, Margaret,” her husband cautioned. “That’s not a very Christian thing to say.”

Margaret reddened. She always knew her husband was a little sweet on Elna Hoyt. Still, she could be a little kinder.

“Well, dear,” she said, patting Porpoise’s hand, “If you need any help, you know who to come to.”

“Yep,” Porpoise said, smiling, “Ma.”

“Oh, you scamp!” Margaret said, swatting the boy’s arm. “Of course your mother’s a wonderful cook,” she added hurriedly. “After she married your father, I taught her everything I know.”

Thea rolled her eyes. “Not everything, Mother,” she said. “A robber with a loaded gun to your head couldn’t get half of your ‘secret recipes’ out of you.”

“Seriously, Gram, you have secret recipes?”

Margaret patted her already neat hair into place. “Just a few,” she said, “handed down from my mother’s mother’s mother.”

Thea rolled her eyes again. “A few?” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Your steak marinade, your chicken and dumplings, your chocolate sheet cake, your beef stew, your apple pie ...”

“Speaking of pie,” Margaret said, eager to change the subject, “who wants pie?”

Maggie McAllister, known to follow behind her husband with a wet mop when he came in from the barn, and who dusted and vacuumed every single day, even when her hip joints were screaming in pain, found cleanliness next to godliness. It wasn’t a matter of pride, it was just something one did. When it came to cooking, though, Maggie was proud, a bit secretive and, at times, downright boastful. If her pies won the blue ribbon at the county fair every year for 30 years running, it was as it should be, she felt. If Father Dolan begged her to head up the annual church potluck each year – featuring her fried chicken – well, the man was God’s instrument on earth, was he not? Who would know better?

Maggie wouldn’t know a persimmon from a pomegranet or a shitake from a portobella, but she didn’t need to; they didn’t fit into her style of cooking. There was nothing, she felt, that anyone could teach her about food. And up until then, no one had challenged her on that.

The cooking class was at the end of the day, which was perfect as far as Porpoise was concerned because that’s when he was always the hungriest. On the first day of class he shuffled into the room and took a chair at one of the tables in the back. There were two tables for four students who would share a “kitchen” with cupboards, counter, stove, fridge and sink. The room could accommodate 20 students. The girls who were in the room had already paired up; Porpoise sat alone.

“Hey, Porpoise,” one of the girls said, elbowing her partner, “you take a wrong turn at the Ag room or something?”

Porpoise made a mock-confused face and looked wildly around. “This is Animal Husbandry 101, isn’t it?” he shot back. The girls laughed, but not unkindly.

Mrs. Hoyt, dressed in a uniformly gray skirt, twin-set and pearls, came in then and eyed the boy sitting in the back of the room. “Young man,” she said, “this is Foods Class ...”

“Yes, thank you,” Porpoise said, settling back into his chair.

The woman scanned her class list. There he was: Gerald McAllister. I knew I should have taken early retirement, she thought. She stowed her purse in a cupboard and started pulling out various utensils, pots and pans. The bell rang as she put the last of the items on the counter in front of her; Mrs. Hoyt didn’t use a desk and she never sat down during class.

“Welcome, class,” she said, then stopped as a colorful blur burst into the room and scurried to the last chair, the one next to Porpoise. Mrs. Hoyt gave the new arrival her best evil eye.

“Tardiness,” she said loudly enough for all to hear, “is not tolerated in this class. Miss, uh ...”

All eyes turned toward the platinum blond who had arrived in a cloud of White Diamonds perfume who was now searching for a place to put her numerous books. She stopped when she realized that everyone was looking at her.

“Who, me?” she said. “April, April Showers.” She scanned the room with hard eyes, daring anyone to laugh. No one did. “I’m new. From SoCal.”

As if she needed to add that, Elna Hoyt thought. The creature was dressed in a long, brightly patterned peasant skirt, topped by an embroidered gauzy white blouse that dipped much too provocatively off the shoulder. She seemed to be wearing sandals. Her (obviously dyed) blond hair flowed down her back. It had little braids woven throughout it. In all her years of teaching, Elna had never set eyes on someone like her, outside of Madison, that is. Why, oh why hadn’t she retired? She cleared her throat.

“Yes, well, Miss Showers, I’m sure you won’t be tardy again. I will now take roll.”

“Whoa, what’s up with the stiff?” April whispered close to Porpoise’s ear. He nearly swooned from her perfume and her nearness.

“I think she’s been teaching since the Pleistocene Era,” he whispered back, careful not to let Mrs. Hoyt catch him.

April hooted, drawing a long, silencing look from Mrs. Hoyt.

“Gerald McAllister?”

“Here!” Porpoise piped up, then mumbled, “As if you didn’t know.”

“Wow,” April said, looking around. “You’re, like, the only boy in here, Gerald.”

“Everyone calls me Porpoise.”

“Porpoise? Like the fish? Crazy.”

“They’re mammals, actually, April Showers,” Porpoise said pointedly.

April gave him a look, then smiled. “I think it’s cool that you want to cook, Porpoise,” she said. “Any guy I hook up with better know how to cook because I like to eat!”

Porpoise blushed crimson. Did she really just say hook up? he wondered. He thought maybe he was falling in love.

The weeks went by and even though Porpoise looked forward to seeing April in class, he was less happy about the class itself. Two weeks in and they still hadn’t learned to cook anything more than rice. The rest of the time was spent on learning kitchen equipment names and uses, cooking terms like rolling boil and saute, how to sharpen knives, how to set a table and lots and lots of stuff about cleanliness and safety.

More than ever before, Porpoise wanted to learn how to cook. He fantasized about creating dish after incredible dish … all for April. Her eyes would grow wide with admiration as he set each one before her at a perfectly set dinner table, china and silverware gleaming in candlelight. Appetizer, soup, salad, entree … topped off by a gooey, but sophisticated, dessert.

None of the dishes he served to April in his daydreams had names or form. They were complex, he knew that, sometimes involving the use of a blowtorch (he’d seen that on a TV show once), and certain to dazzle April in prep, presentation and taste.

“Do you want to come over for dinner one night? I’ll cook for you,” Porpoise blurted out one day in class as he and April worked side-by-side at the sink learning proper dish washing techniques.

“Seriously?” April said, her eyes wide. “You would do that?”

It was too late to back down. What the heck was he thinking? “Sure, no problem!” he said, mind racing.

“We haven’t exactly learned anything here,” April reminded him.

Porpoise waved a sudsy hand in the air. “I cook with my mom all the time,” he declared. It was sort of true. She let him chop vegetables once in a while.

“That’s, like, really cool, Porpoise. I’d like that. No one’s ever cooked for me before.” Now it was April’s turn to blush.

Porpoise washed a few more already-clean dishes, his head filled with visions of that perfect meal and April’s perfect response to it.

“So, when?”

“What?” April’s question startled him out of his reverie. “Oh, uh, I’ll have to see what works for my mom and dad … a week from Saturday maybe?” It was Monday. That would give him almost two weeks to plan … and to practice.

“Gram! Gramma!” Porpoise barreled into his grandparents’ house on a mission.

“Whoa!” Margaret cried, nearly getting knocked over by her six foot grandson. “Where’s the fire?”

“Gram, Gram, you have to help,” Porpoise wheezed, out of breath. He waved a sheet of paper in the air, a rudimentary menu he’d come up with. “Food, I need food!”

“Did your mother run out?” his grandmother teased. “Sit yourself down, I’ll get you some food. PB&J? Some leftover pie?”

“No … I mean, yeah, some leftover pie would be good, but that’s not it.” Porpoise took some deep breaths and sat at his familiar place at his grandparents’ table.

Maggie McAllister seldom saw her grandson in such a state. She sliced off a large piece of cherry pie, poured some milk and set it in front of the boy. She had dinner to see to, but her grandson needed her. She took a sliver of pie for herself and settled her bulk into a chair at the table. By the time she lifted her fork, Porpoise was licking his plate clean.

“I swear, you’re the eatingest boy I ever laid eyes on,” Maggie said. “Now what’s all the fuss about?”

Porpoise gulped down the last of his milk and swiped a sleeve across his mouth. Margaret made a “tsking” sound between her teeth.

“There’s this girl, see,” he began, “I want to cook dinner for her.”

Maggie kept her composure. Porpoise had never shown any interest in girls before.

“That’s wonderful, sweetie! I’m sure some of my tried and true recipes will suit nicely ...”

Porpoise waved the sheet of paper again. “Thanks, Gram, but I went through Mom’s Joy of Cooking and something called Mastering the Art of French Cooking and I made a menu,” he said. “It’s just that I need your help to make it all. You’re the best, Gram. You’re like a magician in the kitchen.”

Maggie tried not to show how preturbed she was; the boy did compliment her after all, but what was wrong with her recipes? What was wrong with a good country ham with potatoes? Mastering the Art of French Cooking indeed. Fancy-shmancy falderol.

“Cooking’s not magic, exactly,” she said, “old recipes play an important part ...” She saw the crestfallen look on her grandson’s face and rallied. “But, of course, sweetie, I’ll help any way I can.”

“Great, Gram, thanks! I really want to impress April,” Porpoise said, blushing a little.

“April, that’s a lovely name, dear,” Gram said, “what’s her family name?”

“Showers, April Showers,” Porpoise replied reverently. “They just moved here from California.”

Seeing the look on her grandson’s face, Maggie kept her chuckle in. “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl. Now, let’s see this menu of yours.”

Porpoise handed the sheet to his grandmother, whose eyes went big as saucers when she saw the list.

Appetizer: Jambon Chevre

Soup: Lobster bisque

Salad: Tomato Feta

Entree: Duck Confit with Pommes Frites

Dessert: Creme Brulee

Lobster … tomato … duck. Maggie knew those words, but what the heck, she wondered, is a confit? It sounded like a feminine hygiene product. Or Pomme Frites? Did they rhyme? None of it made any sense to her. Surely Porpoise was pulling her leg. She looked up at his eager face, though, and knew he wasn’t.

“So, you can do it, right, Gram?” he asked. “You can teach me how to make these?”

Maggie’s reputation and pride were at stake. “Um … wow, honey, these look awfully ambitious for your first time ...” The statement was probably correct given that Maggie had no clue what any of them were.

Porpoise’s face fell. “But, Gram, you’re a wizard at this and we have almost two weeks to practice!”

Without admitting that she had no clue how to make any of the dishes, Maggie latched onto anything she could.

“Lobster, though, Porpoise! Do you know how much lobster costs?”

“Gram,” Porpoise reminded her, “I’ve been getting paid for working on the farm since I was six and haven’t spent a penny! I’ll make a shopping list and I’ll go to the store and buy everything we need.”

“I don’t think Thompson’s Market carries lobster ...”

“So, I’ll drive to Madison … Milwaukee, if I have to! I just want it to be perfect.”

How could she say no? She glanced down at the paper. “Let’s start small,” she said. “Sort of ease into it. We can try the salad first … the tomato thing.” She didn’t want to risk saying “feta” – whatever that was – incorrectly.

“Cool, Gram, you’re the best!” Porpoise stood up and gave his grandmother a bear hug. “I better go talk to mom and dad, though, to see if next Saturday is okay, and make my shopping list!”

“You do that and I’ll get my dinner started.” Was it bad of Maggie to wish that his parents would tell him no? “Here,” she said, “give me the menu and I’ll copy it down. I don’t want to forget!”

Fairly certain she wouldn’t find any of the recipes in her collection of spiral-bound church and county fair cookbooks, Maggie headed to her husband’s computer. He used it to keep track of soybean prices, to send email and play some sort of alien blaster game. Although she knew how to turn it on and get to the Google, Margaret McAllister wasn’t one to waste her precious time on such machines. She needed it today, though.

First she typed in “feta” and found out that it was a cheese. Cheese she could handle. Why didn’t they just say that? It was crumbly and aged, probably a lot like blue cheese, she thought. Then she typed in “Tomato Feta Salad.”

“Oh my lands!” she cried. “There’s thousands of recipes!” She scanned the first page and clicked on the one that said “easy”. Wonderful, she was familiar with all of the ingredients, except the feta. Porpoise could take care of that. It looked simple and claimed to only take 20 minutes to make. Doable, definitely doable.

She moved onto the bisque. In her mind she pronounced it “bis-kay,” which made her think it was some sort of biscuit (her biscuits were famouse hereabouts), but it didn’t make sense given that it was listed as a soup. While Maggie never cottoned to taking short cuts in her cooking, or anything for that matter, once again she clicked on “easy,” though totally amazed at the sheer number of recipes available.

She gave it a read-through, it sounded quite good, actually, but she stopped at the word “deglaze.” They needed to “deglaze” the pan with white wine. What? Make it so it doesn’t shine? She opened another window and typed that in. “Oh for pity’s sake,” she said to the screen … “pour some cold liquid into a very hot pan to get up all the brown bits stuck to the bottom of the pan” … she did that all the time when she made gravy. Another fancy word for something simple. Maggie was starting to feel confident, then she moved on to Jambon Chevre.

“Why, it’s just ham pinwheels!” Maggie cried when she saw the recipe. Even with goat cheese, she figured they could handle that.

Now the Duck Confit, pronounced in her mind, of course, as “con-fit.”

Maggie’s heart sank. First of all, it was pronounced “con-fee” – just thinking that made her feel foreign. But the worst part was the total prep time – 11 hours. Eleven hours? For duck? She read on. Plus overnight in the fridge? Basically, if she understood what she was reading, it was all about cooking duck in its own fat, for a very long time. Any leftover fat could be used to make Pommes Frites … that was another thing on the list. “Oh, great,” she said after looking that up, “it’s just French fries.”

On to the crème brulee. Again it was nothing more than a fancy pudding, except they had to use a propane torch, for crying out loud. Maggie knew her husband had one in the barn somewhere; she hoped it would do. Maggie wasn’t feeling very friendly toward the French at that point. She hoped this April was worth all the fuss and bother.

City of Wonders

Photo by By lafleur, via Wikimedia Commons

My name is Michca, and I live in a city of wonders. I live in a flat on the highest floor of my building. It looks down on the mansions, ski lodges, and expensive shops across the river. Some days, I watch the little people ski down the mountains right to the edge of town, and dream that I am a queen surveying my subjects. To either side, identical flats in identical blocks to my own form a kind of castle wall. I wonder sometimes if in the hundreds of families lucky enough to have a view like mine, if there is a girl that thinks she is a queen too.

My cousin came to stay with his worn suitcase and old person’s clothes, reeking of animals and diesel. I wondered if we could find him something else to wear before we went out to meet my friends. He almost looks Roma, his clothes are so worn. The Roma pick through rags and live like peasants. The city makes them live away from us, which is good, because otherwise they would steal from us all the time. Every year, the Americans and British come to give them food and toys at Christmas. Why, I do not know.

We have fine Western clothes, with the names and logos of many American sports teams. My cousin looks like he is from the country, but I look like I could have just come from New York City, or been in a hip-hop music video. Someday I will be a famous model in the magazines and I will live on the other side of the city. My cousin will never be this; he will always be a pig farmer.

I said as much to him, but he just shrugged. He pointed to the road leading out of town.

“Who are they?” he asked.

On the road, three Roma were carrying some boards likely stolen from a rich person’s garage.

“Don’t you have Roma where you live?”

“Roma? No.”

“Then you are lucky; they steal. They pick through our rags for clothes, and through our garbage for food. They are so bad, they are not allowed to live in the city.”

“Where do they live?”

I pointed to a hill. “The Roma live behind that,” I said,

“It must be even sadder than this place,” my cousin said.

“They are happy to live there,” I said. “They sing all the time. How can you be sad if you are constantly singing? Besides, every year the Americans and British visit them around Christmas and shower them with food and presents.”

“I still feel sorry for them, don’t you?”

“The children, perhaps. They are so cute when they are little and by themselves. Of course, if there are more than three, watch your pockets. The adults make them work in gangs to steal things. Wallets, watches, necklaces, papers, anything. They take thievery with mother’s milk.”

I rummaged through my shirts, looking for an American t-shirt that would suit him. I thrust one out at him, a basketball shirt I didn’t particularly like for myself, but would do for him.

“Here, wear this so we can go outside,” I said.

He wrinkled his nose. “That shirt you’re wearing, do you know what it says?” my cousin asked.

“Of course. We have English classes in school.” I looked down at my shirt, with its buffalo and American football helmet. “It says this team won the championship game in 1993.”

“They call it the Super Bowl,” he said.

I stared at him. “How do you know?”

“We have a neighbor with a satellite dish, and we watch sports all the time. Have you ever seen American football?”

“No. Does it matter?”

My cousin frowned. “I guess not.”

“Good! If you don’t like basketball, I think I can find another American football shirt for you to wear when we go see my friends.”

“What team?”

“The Tennesee Titans. They won the – what did you call it? Super Bowl? In 2000.”

My cousin made the stink face. “Where did you get it?”

I shrugged. “Down in the market.”

“I hope you got a good price,” he said. There was something in his voice that made me think he meant the opposite.

“What does that mean?” I said.

He sighed. “The Americans made shirts for both teams before the game was played so the winning team could wear them right away. The shirts of the losing teams, they decide to give them away to a far-away charity.”

“But this was two Euros.”

He shrugged.

“You’re lying.”

“We have Internet too,” my cousin said. “You go look it up.”

“And my father’s cap?” I pointed to his birthday present, sitting on the shelf.

“The team that did not win the American college basketball tournament in 2007.”

“The hanging on the wall?”

“A favored race car driver that crashed in his last race.”

“Everyone in the city has these things.”

My cousin didn’t have anything to say about that. He didn’t want to wear the shirts I picked out for him, but I didn’t care. I looked out at the fine houses across the river, and wondered if there was someone like me looking back, thankful that she was not living in a brick box.

My name is Michca, and I live in the city of losers. I live in a flat across the river from the ski lodges, fancy houses, and expensive shops. Over a hundred other families live in our building, one of a dozen identical buildings the Soviets built many years ago. The Americans and British send us their clothes, but at least we are not Roma.

The Stalker - Part II

Read Part I here.

By Bettyann Moore

It took him a while and he had to use the flashlight in the darkening gloom, but Digg’s heart raced with joy when he saw Bo lying on the porch as he approached the house.

“Hey boy, hey Bo!” Digg hollered. The dog raised his head and Digg could see his tail thumping, but the pit bull didn’t get up. Digg rushed to his side, unsurprised to see a large, bloody gash in the dog’s side.

“Oh, Christ. Oh, God,” Digg moaned. “My poor boy.” He sat down next to the dog and scratched him behind the ears. He poked a tentative finger into the wound, but Bo snarled at him.

“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay,” Digg soothed. “Fucking lion, fucking cat! Bet you put up a good fight, huh, boy?”

It was 15 miles to the nearest vet and Digg hated doctors of all sorts, but he gathered the dog into his arms as gently as he could and carried him to the truck, which he’d left parked on the culvert. By the time he climbed into the driver’s seat, though, he knew Bo was gone. Digg never cried and he didn’t cry now. He pounded on the steering wheel and screamed for the blood of that big cat. And her brats, too.

Without bothering to take off his dripping clothes or his muddy boots, Digg stomped into the house and headed to his gun safe. He left Bo’s body in the truck; first things first. Although he’d never been hunting in his life, Digg was about to do a little hunting now.

“Handgun or rifle?” he wondered aloud as he stood before the safe. The .41 mag would do the job, he knew, but it required accuracy. Digg winced, remembering his poor performance on the range in Baltimore with the handgun. Instead, he reached for his .243 Savage rifle and scope.

“This oughta do it,” he said, rubbing his hand along the stock. He loaded it, jammed a handful of bullets into his breast pocket and headed back outside. The ringing phone stopped him short. His phone never rang.

“What?” he said into the receiver, impatient to get going. The voice at the end was obviously recorded.

“This is a reverse 9-1-1 call from the county sheriff’s office. Please be advised that there is a flash flood warning in effect for your area. We strongly advise that you leave your premises now and make your way to safety. If you decide to shelter in place, the county sheriff’s office cannot be held responsible for your safety. To repeat ...”

Digg slammed down the phone. “Nobody tells me what to do,” he said, and headed outside.

It seemed to Digg that the rain had lighted up a bit. “What the hell do they know? Stupid cops.” he grumbled. He jogged toward the spot where he’d found Cleo’s blood and hair. It took him a while to find it; all the damn pine trees looked alike.

“Couple of bloodhounds would be nice right about now,” Digg said as he scanned the ground as best he could for any more signs. The rain had washed away Cleo’s blood and hair. All Digg could do was head deeper into the woods and hope the cat had gone that way.

All the locals said that the deer population was down and that was why the cats were going for loose dogs, but you’d never know it by all the deer droppings Digg saw. It was slow going, despite the deer trails he followed. He swept the Savage back and forth as he walked, looking high and low, hoping he could find his way back.

A sudden movement to his right made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The cat wasn’t very big, probably one of the cubs, and it seemed oblivious to Digg’s presence. It looked like it was eating something. Cleo? Digg didn’t hesitate. He turned and shot wildly, splintering the trunk of a tree. The animal raced deeper into the woods.

“Stupid idiot,” Digg swore at himself. “Why didn’t you wait for a clean shot?” He knew he’d never get close enough to the spooked animals now and darkness was coming on. He’d never find his way back out in the dark. Besides, he needed to bury poor Bo before his body stunk up the Dodge.

Digg awoke to the sound of water, not unusual these days, but it sounded closer than usual. After burying Bo in a shallow, muddy grave that he topped with heavy boulders, he’d taken a long, hot shower. He had meant to rustle up something to eat, but had fallen over onto his bed while he was pulling on clean socks and didn’t wake up until three in the morning. Groggily, he groped for his sweat pants and went in search of the water sound.

“Holy shit!” he cried at the top of the basement stairs. He could see murky water streaming over the lowest step. He ran to the bottom of the stairs, then stopped. The electricity hadn’t gone out yet, but he knew he needed to kill it, right then, before he set foot into the water. He raced to the breaker box on the porch and threw the master switch. The rain drummed down on the tin roof of the porch. He’d never been anywhere close to a waterfall, but Digg felt like he was under one now.

As he shined the beam of his flashlight down the cellar stairs, Digg knew there was nothing he could do. The freezer full of (illegally) obtained venison and elk would be lost. He lit on the hope that the flood insurance the mortgage company had forced him to buy would pay out. He wondered if they would believe him if he told them he had a freezer full of lobster and prime rib. The possibilities were endless.

The basement could wait. There was nothing Digg could do about it anyway. He had an uneasy feeling about the creek and the truck sitting atop the culvert. He should have moved it after burying Bo. Thinking about Bo and Cleo sent his blood pressure sky-high. Come drier weather, there would be hell to pay for one mama mountain lion.

The last thing he wanted to do was go out in the soaking mess outside, but Digg couldn’t bear the thought of just sitting inside in the dark. He rested the flashlight on the bed and pulled on some dry clothes and the tallest boots he had. Then he opened the footlocker at the end of the bed. He wasn’t about to go outside unprepared. In fact, he hoped he’d run into the big cat. It was time for some real firepower.

He’d gotten the AR-15 the day after 9-11. It was hard to get then (not like today), and its weight never failed to soothe him. He’d only fired it once, at some fence posts at Rocky Flats, but what it lacked in precision was made up by the sheer number of rounds it could put out in a few seconds.

“It’s chicken soup for the gun man’s soul,” Digg said, proud of his little play on words. He pulled its long strap over his head and let the weapon dangle across his belly. He reached back into the footlocker and took out one of his emergency kits; he had four of them. All he needed from the kit was the heavy-duty rain poncho. It was piss yellow, but it would have to do. Digg put it on and made sure he could wear the darn thing while carrying the AR-15. He was pleased that he could and that the plastic would protect the gun as well. He pulled up the hood, then added his wide-brimmed Stetson for good measure.

It was near sunrise, but Digg could tell he’d never see the sun that day. He didn’t need the sun, though, to see that he now had a river swirling through his property. He stepped tentatively off the porch and cold, muddy water coursed over the top of his boots.

“Shit!” he swore.

Digg slogged back onto the porch to reassess his situation. Maybe it would be a good idea to get out of here, he thought, as if it was his own idea. He remembered the sign at the entrance to the canyon: Climb to higher ground in case of a flash-flood. Was this really a flash flood? Could he even get to higher ground? He eyed the ridge behind the house. It looked like a waterfall and it was too steep anyway. The idea of leaving his house unprotected went against his grain. But then again, he doubted anyone up to no good would be out skulking around at this point. But what if he couldn’t get back to the house afterwards? Digg hated indecision.

Either way, he needed to get to the truck. He cursed himself for leaving the Dodge out near the road, but it always made him feel safer and more isolated when he used it to block the entrance to his property.

Once again, Digg stepped into the swirling waters. He was surprised at how strong the current felt. It seemed like the water was getting higher, too. He looked back at the house; before too long the water would be up over the porch. Maybe the decision had been made for him.

Digg slowly made his way toward the road, picking his way past displaced rocks and rapidly moving branches. The curve in the drive and the trees between the house and the creek blocked his view of the culvert, but he could see a faint glint of metal through the leaves. He kept his head down, the rain sluicing down the Stetson’s brim and out of his eyes. When he finally got beyond the trees, the current was twice as strong as the water coursed down the canyon road and the creek. The noise was deafening.

Just 20 feet from the truck, Digg raised his head for the first time. At first, his brain didn’t register what his eyes were seeing. Once again, his blood ran cold as he realized that the mama lion was crouched atop the truck cab, having found the only spot that wasn’t under water. She eyed him warily, but even Digg could see that she was worn out, her chest and flanks heaving as she panted with exhaustion.

Only a second or two had passed, but to Digg it felt like an eternity before the tense muscles in his arms loosened. Keeping his eyes on the cat, he brought up his big gun under the cover of the yellow poncho. He’d have to shoot right through the flimsy plastic. Digg didn’t look away from the lion’s hooded gaze, but out of the corner of his eye he saw something big, something fast, coming toward them. The roar in Digg’s ears seemed to be getting louder.

Everything happened at once. The cat’s haunches tensed and she sprang away from the man. The man raised his gun and pulled the trigger. And a massive, roiling wall of water, boulders, hunks of asphalt and tree trunks roared down the canyon and slammed into the truck, the culvert and the man, washing them all away.

It wasn’t until late the next day that sheriff deputies found Digg’s body half a mile from his house. The bright yellow of his poncho alerted the searchers.The waters might have carried him farther, but the strap of his gun had snagged on a tree and held him fast. No one claimed his body.

The mother mountain lion relocated her cubs to another canyon, one where the deer were more plentiful and had the added feature of mountain goats. Even in the winter, food was plentiful; she’d lost her taste for dogs.