Carla’s Cooked

One pound of white asparagus

Five ounces of porcini mushrooms

Five ounces of golden chanterelles

Four cups of water

One cup of milk

Butter, salt, black pepper, and onion powder to taste

One migraine and a heaping helping of nausea

Carla held the tanned and wrinkled scrap of paper her grandmother had always promised would one day be hers. It never seemed like much of a gift or reward. In the kitchen, here today, it felt like a punishment. A lifetime sentence.

Carla groaned as she walked towards the cabinet. She rummaged through the rack of spices and herbs. She located the salt, black pepper, and onion powder. She carried them to the counter beside the stove. Next, she collected the rest of the ingredients from the refrigerator.

Carla knew her grandmother was looking forward to this soup. It was all her sisters, mother, and aunt had talked about for weeks and grandmama had already prepared everything that Carla would need.

Overprepared is what her grandmother had done. Everything was there, perfectly portioned. Just enough asparagus was left from the bushel. The milk jug contained the exact amount needed for the recipe. As much spice as was left over in the shakers was exactly what Carla would have added in — if she was intending to cook the soup as her family was anticipating it would be, that is.

“I could underspice it, I suppose,” Carla whispered to herself. “But that won’t entirely ruin the dish. Just make it a bit bland. But maybe I can get a little… creative!”

Carla went back to the cabinet and checked the spice rack for anything extra she could pour in the soup. “Nutmeg,” she thought. “They all hate nutmeg.” But of course there was none there. Why would someone keep a spice that they disliked? “I’m an idiot! I’m always doing stuff like this.”

She scoured through what remained in the cabinet but there wasn’t enough of anything in there that she thought would sour the meal. A pinch of paprika. No more than a teaspoon full of mustard powder. It was like her grandmother had anticipated Carla’s desire to mess this up. Anticipated that she wanted to get out of the responsibility of being the one who had to prepare family meals on Fridays going forward.

“But of course she did,” Carla hissed, turning on the spigot. “Stumbling into good fortune is all these so-called witches are good at.”

As the water poured, however, Carla saw an out. Perhaps the only hope she had left.

Carla opened the door into the living room and called, “The water is running murky and gray. I’m going to need to go to the well to fetch some. Be back soon.” She left without waiting for a response.

Her real goal was to peruse the garden. There would have to be something there that could upset the delicate balance and flavor profile of her grandmother’s soup. There just had to be. She exited the house, bucket in hand.

In the garden there were tomatoes, bell peppers, and a few baby pumpkins. Carla quickly gathered a tomato and a few green peppers. “Perfect!” she mused. She looked around and didn’t see much else that she could add to the soup.

What she had gathered was a good start, but was it enough? There was so little there, as it was, and she couldn’t pick her grandmother’s garden bare. She had an idea.

She would check the wooded area just outside the property’s perimeter to see what she could discover. “And honestly,” Carla said. “Some of this might actually elevate the dish and I definitely don’t want them thinking I’m some kind of culinary savant.”

In the woods, Carla searched high and low for things that would absolutely ruin the soup. She looked for wild berries but all the bushes were either picked clean or otherwise shriveled. The ones that had weathered the recent drought, and weren’t pilfered, were poisonous. Carla wanted her dinner to be disgusting, not deadly.

She found all sorts of mushrooms. Most would be palatable in the dish or otherwise, again, would probably lead to a hospital visit if not the morgue.

Wild ideas crept into Carla’s mind. Maybe the bark of some trees could be removed and powdered. She didn’t want splinters under her nails and probably wouldn’t be able to collect enough to really make it worth the while before the pain in her fingers would stop her, anyway.

There were worms and snails around but, “That’s foul!” That seemed a bit too vulgar and, more importantly, she’d probably have to take a taste of her concoction at some point and she was a vegetarian.

All possibilities had led to nothing and so she decided to give up.

“I’m doomed.”

Carla strode to the well, tears welling in her eyes, and she dropped the bucket in. She filled it, as her heart filled with disappointment, and solemnly slunk back to the house.

She entered the kitchen and almost spilled the spoils of her gathering efforts all over the floor, as her grandmother greeted her, cutting up ingredients.

“Grandmama. You’re not well. You should be sitting. Why did mother and auntie let you —” Carla began.

“No one ‘let’s’ me do anything, child.” Carla’s grandmother turned and smiled. “As any good witch controls her own fate.”

“I just…”

Carla’s grandmother looked her over. Her eyes rested and trained on the garden plants in her hand.

“Just thought you would alter my recipe a bit?” Carla’s grandmother winked.

“No… I…”

“This soup has fed three generations of witches, my dear. And —”

“And I won’t tamper with it grandmama.”

“A good witch must always abide by tradition, dear. Are you a good witch?”

Carla wrung her hands, “I am. I just —”

“Then don’t just leave this laying around, dear.” Carla’s grandmother walked to a nearby drawer and pulled Carla’s spell sachet from it. She handed it to Carla. “Your mother found your sisters playing in it. Now I really must go and rest. Looking forward to supper.” She turned and went into the living room.

“Th-thank you,” Carla said, taking it, suppressing a, “Yipee!”

Her grandmother didn’t know it, but she had just handed Carla the answer to her prayers and also some solid advice. She’d be sure to always carry the sachet with her, from here on out.

“Here I am, trying so hard to get out of cooking to focus on my witchcraft," thought Carla, “I guess I never considered sullying my spell components with something so mundane. But that’s exactly what I need to do!”

One tablespoon of liquorice root

Five teaspoons of cinnamon

Five teaspoons of ginger

Four drops of patchouli oil

One bay leaf

Mint, mugwort, sage, and thyme in grotesque amounts

One new recipe so that no one would ever ask Carla to cook again!

Carla stirred it all into the pot that was on the stove as she hummed a merry little tune to herself.

Once the concoction was a nice thick texture, Carla went to the cupboard and retrieved six bowls. Two for her sisters, one for her mother, one for her auntie, one for her grandmama, and one for herself.

“Did you add some of your own magic, you little witch, you? Either way, it smells delicious,” her auntie said as she came into the kitchen. “I’ll go set the table.”

Carla nodded with a smile, as she carefully poured her culinary creation into the bowls, then carried them into the dining room and placed them on the table alongside the spoons and herbal tea that her auntie had set on the table. “Moment of truth,” she muttered under her breath as her mother called for her grandmama to come eat dinner.

The six sat. As was tradition, they joined hands and Carla’s grandmother, being the eldest witch, said a prayer over the food.

“Lord and Lady, watch over us,

And bless us as we eat.

Bless this food, this bounty of the Earth,

For which we thank you.

So mote it be.”

The rest all echoed in chorus.

“So mote it be.”

Carla’s grandmother picked up her spoon and everyone watched in anticipation. It was customary that she be the first to have a bite, but also the others wanted to see her reaction to Carla’s cooking — each with her own expectation of what grandmama’s verdict might be.

She brought the food to her mouth, held it there for a moment, then swallowed.

There was little to no reaction, at first. No furrowing of the brow. No smile. Nothing.

The expression didn’t change.

But something else did.

Slowly, grandmama’s wrinkles receded. The skin around her eyes and mouth, as well as on her hands and neck, tightened. Her hair went from a dullish gray to being blacker than a raven flying through the night sky. Where her hand had been shaking, it now held firm and steady. She looked around at them, their mouths agape and eyes wide.

“I can… I can see you all so clearly,” Carla’s grandmother said. She stood. She stretched her arms and legs. “I can bend. I can… I feel like I could…” She did a cartwheel into a somersault, out into the living room, and tumbled onto the floor, laughing. She stood and looked at herself in a mirror. She laughed some more. Then she looked at Carla, still chuckling, “My child, my child. I don’t know what you’ve done. Part of me doesn’t care. You truly are the greatest witch amongst us.”

“I’m sorry, grandmama, I know tradition dictates —” Carla began.

“Yes, yes. Tradition. Extraordinarily important! But innovation. Witches also have a history of doing what others deem impossible and you have outdone yourself in that regard!”

“So, now what? Am I in trouble or…”

“Now you teach me how to brew this elixir of youth, my dear!”

“Of course grandmama! I’d be happy to.” Carla smiled from ear to ear.

“And in exchange, I will teach you how to follow rules and properly cook my recipe.”

Carla’s face fell and her grandmother motioned for her to stand, interlocked arms with her, and walked her into the kitchen, reciting, “One pound of white asparagus, five ounces of porcini mushrooms, five ounces of golden chantarelles…”