I’m reading my urban legend, “The Witch Of Catfish Prairie.”
It was the first non-spare-the-air day in months, and Rayette Davies had a new apprentice over to initiate into the ranks. It was to be a day of discovery and truth.
The fire crackled in the hearth, the cast iron panhandle was hot to touch. Rayette drew her hood back. “It is time,” she said. “Hear me O great mother of sauces. Scoop of butter, equal part flour, thickening agent of the three. Light roux. Dark roux. Tasty not gluten free.”
“Wait,” the apprentice stopped the incantation. “I thought we were here to practice solstice magic, not have a cooking lesson.”
Rayette turned, her eyes filled with compassion. “We are practicing magic.”
“I’m sorry,” the apprentice said. “I don’t have time for this. My pilates class starts in an hour, and I still don’t know what to cook for dinner?”
Rayette held her hand. “This is exactly what we talked about. A great evil has fallen over the land. We live in a factory farm age where people have lost their sense of eating. Culinary magic brings people back to living in harmony with seasonings. You want to get back into touch don’t you?”
The apprentice averted her eyes. “I do, but can we do this another time?”
“What about the coven?” Rayette asked. “It takes time, and patience. Love is the magic you put into what you are making.”
The apprentice stood. “I want to be a witch, not a sandwich maker. I’m going.”
“Please don’t.” Rayette put her spoon down. “You haven’t learned the recipe.”
Light flooded the kitchen from the open door. Rayette became lost in the fire, but the pleasant smell of toasting flour and butter brought her back from her thoughts. She spoke to the roux. “How can I have a cooking coven when nobody will dedicate time to cook real food? A counter spell is what I need to break the dark magic.”
Rayette consulted the book of culinary engineering, Pots and Pans Duh, by Edward Béarnaise. Rolling her eyes, she waved her spoon over the pot.
“Dead chefs of the past, I call upon thee.
Chewy and crunchy!
High Purine foods without worry of gout, come help me out!”
The fire flared. The pan sizzled. A cloud of deliciousness rose out her chimney, and over the town.
Rayette fell back from the hearth. Sweat ran from her brow, but her job wasn’t done yet. Dawning her chef’s hat, she mounted her food cart bike, and with a cackle, she rode.