Cooking in the cold
Collective Inspired...
Of my weekly expenditure, five pounds remain. From the choice of either warmth or food, the latter prevails. The stove burns and the heat is welcomed, but this pot of food - fashioned to quell my hunger - in turn absorbs my little heat, selfishly. "I shall make light work of you" I vowed.
Time passed, my thumbs had twiddled to exhaustion, my finger nails chewed to the bone. I stirred the treacherous stew once more then returned to my perch and gazed eagerly as it simmered. "I shall salt you as you have salted me" I vowed.
More and more salt I added, unsparingly and with a spiteful grin. A slight warmth returned with my act of malice. "How about some lemon? Yes lemon shall suit you fine". One by one I zested and juiced three lemons into the stew. I paced the kitchen in a psychotic strut, returning to the pot to add the seeds of a scotch bonnet pepper and to slowly poor boiling water over it's ingredients.
I stood over the pot proudly as it's cooking time was coming to an end. With my bare hands I ripped the skin from a red onion and crushed it in my grasp, emptying the pulped remains into the pot. I turned suddenly, paced the scale of the hallway and went out of the front door.
I walked to the top of the street. Stood on the corner facing the main road and inhaled the victorious night air like a war lord returning from battle. "BEEP" "FLASH" "FLASH" "BEEP". In my euphoria I had stepped off the pavement and a lorry had swerved to avoid me. I looked around slowly, breathing heavily, seemingly undeterred by the near miss. A chill came over me. The muffled profanities of the inconvenienced lorry driver faded away in the distance as I walked slowly home.
I felt reality perusing me and continuously catching up until I could make no further ground. I stopped and took in my surroundings, slightly bamboozled by the familiarity of my whereabouts. Suddenly I remembered the stew, I ran the short distance to my front door - which was ajar, stormed into the kitchen and stopped at the stove.
I stood face to face with the dry, bitter remains of my intended supper. I slopped the non-ashy centre into a bowl, took a taste and immediately spat it out almost heaving. I stumbled slowly backwards into the chair (previously my perch) staring at the cindered pot and then into space. I thought to myself, " I should of ordered pizza"...
Submitted by David, The Collective
Of my weekly expenditure, five pounds remain. From the choice of either warmth or food, the latter prevails. The stove burns and the heat is welcomed, but this pot of food - fashioned to quell my hunger - in turn absorbs my little heat, selfishly. "I shall make light work of you" I vowed.
Time passed, my thumbs had twiddled to exhaustion, my finger nails chewed to the bone. I stirred the treacherous stew once more then returned to my perch and gazed eagerly as it simmered. "I shall salt you as you have salted me" I vowed.
More and more salt I added, unsparingly and with a spiteful grin. A slight warmth returned with my act of malice. "How about some lemon? Yes lemon shall suit you fine". One by one I zested and juiced three lemons into the stew. I paced the kitchen in a psychotic strut, returning to the pot to add the seeds of a scotch bonnet pepper and to slowly poor boiling water over it's ingredients.
I stood over the pot proudly as it's cooking time was coming to an end. With my bare hands I ripped the skin from a red onion and crushed it in my grasp, emptying the pulped remains into the pot. I turned suddenly, paced the scale of the hallway and went out of the front door.
I walked to the top of the street. Stood on the corner facing the main road and inhaled the victorious night air like a war lord returning from battle. "BEEP" "FLASH" "FLASH" "BEEP". In my euphoria I had stepped off the pavement and a lorry had swerved to avoid me. I looked around slowly, breathing heavily, seemingly undeterred by the near miss. A chill came over me. The muffled profanities of the inconvenienced lorry driver faded away in the distance as I walked slowly home.
I felt reality perusing me and continuously catching up until I could make no further ground. I stopped and took in my surroundings, slightly bamboozled by the familiarity of my whereabouts. Suddenly I remembered the stew, I ran the short distance to my front door - which was ajar, stormed into the kitchen and stopped at the stove.
I stood face to face with the dry, bitter remains of my intended supper. I slopped the non-ashy centre into a bowl, took a taste and immediately spat it out almost heaving. I stumbled slowly backwards into the chair (previously my perch) staring at the cindered pot and then into space. I thought to myself, " I should of ordered pizza"...
Submitted by David, The Collective
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