Story + Recipe = Storecipe

Over at H-Net, on the H-Nutrition online community where I am an Editor, we are observing something called "What is a Recipe?" It's an unconventional kind of conference happening partly in person, partly on the interwebs, during the months of June and July. The folks over at The Recipes Project put out a call for proposals to address the question in whatever creative way we wanted. Some people are making YouTube videos, there's a gal growing potatoes and blogging about it, and lots of people are tweeting. We asked our list-serv members to write a short piece about their favorite recipe and what it has to do with the history of nutrition. I wrote about satiety and the stereotypically heavy Central European dinner; others tackled oatmeal (food for animals or children?), dehydrated rations for Indian soldiers during World War II, and even individualized recipes for Soylent.

One of the groups participating in What is a Recipe? invited us to their "Cooking with Anger" netprov (internet + improvisation) as a way to think about the influence of emotions on cooking and eating. I decided to give it a try. Here's my storecipe (story + recipe) with the automatically generated list of ingredients and "spices." Click the link in the story to find the recipe.

Level: Chef

Your basket
Main Ingredients:
step-sister
pickpocket
mango
kohlrabi
futon

Spice Pack:
1/3 cup of love
1 teaspoon of nervousness 

I heard the door of my apartment slam and the squeak of worn springs as my step-sister threw herself onto the futon in the living room. “I can’t believe that fink got away with it!” she said.

“Who’s a fink?” I asked, drying my hair with a towel as I came out of the bathroom. It was 7AM on a Saturday morning, and Janice had been gone all night clubbing.

“A pickpocket on the subway,” she answered juicily, around a mouthful of mango. She must have spied the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter as she entered. “This one’s really good!” she said, and cut another piece.

“I should hope so,” I countered. “They’ve been ripening for the last week.” I took the slice she proffered me on the flat of the knife blade. “What did he or she take?”

“My cellphone with IDs—right out of my back pocket!” said Janice. “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?” she asked nervously. “I’ve got to catch the train back to Philly this afternoon.”

“Maybe, maybe not, sis,” I replied. “It’s unfortunate but not all that uncommon here in New York. I’m sorry that happened to you. Let’s make some phone calls to your bank and the DMV, and then I’ll fry you some kohlrabi fritters before we head down to the train station.”

Janice sighed a combination of frustration and satisfaction, ran her hands through her hair, and then laughed when her sticky fingers caught in her curls. “Sure, let me shower and look up the numbers on my laptop. Thanks!”

She gave me a wet kiss on the cheek on her way to the guest room, while I headed for the kitchen.

The Bengal Tiger: Who Finished Whom?

“What are you going to do on your day off, hon?” he asked. He was reading the sports section and sipping his second cup of coffee. “I’m finally going to do that 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle your mother gave me for Christmas. It’s a Bengal tiger.” She flashed him a toothy grin and made clawing motions with her hands.

He smiled. “Rowr.”

* * *

When he wandered through the dining room a few hours later, she was crouched on a chair, scanning the partially completed puzzle.

“How’s it going?”

“It’s harder than it looks—aha!” she replied, snapping a piece into place. “The colors are so subtle that the pieces don’t seem to fit until you try them, and then they just lock into place.”

“Here kitty, kitty,” he said, chucking the tiger under the chin. Or what would be his chin, once she found that piece.

She stroked his muscular flank. “He’s a beautiful animal. So strong and majestic.”

“And a hunter,” he answered. “What if he eats you?” he teased, bending down to nibble on her neck.

She laughed and pushed him away. “Gosh darn it, I’m going to finish this puzzle if it’s the last thing I do!”

* * *

She admired how the flesh of the tiger rippled in the image. Seemed to ripple, she corrected herself. She had been looking at the same shades of orange, red, black, brown, and green for so long that they had started to blend and blur together.

She slumped back in the chair and sighed. It was dark outside. When was the last time she had eaten? Her stomach growled.

* * *

In the morning he rolled over and reached out an arm, but her side of the bed was empty. The pillow had not been slept on. When he went downstairs, there were signs of a struggle—chairs tipped over, puzzle pieces scattered all over the floor—but no sign of her.

When he eventually got around to picking up the room, after the police had left, it slowly dawned on him that there were no orange pieces, only dark green and black ones, the ones she had set aside for the jungle border. “I’ll do those last,” she had said, “that’s the scariest part.”



Editor’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is a coincidence. No tigers or interns were harmed in the production of this story.