The Time Traveling Kitchen

“This looks like a kitchen.. like a cooking show kitchen…” I say, surprised when the other tech showed me.

“I know, its weird right? An alien, building a kitchen, an Earthly kitchen.”

“Have you guys figured out why yet?”

“Nope, unfortunately the new alien doesn’t speak any of the languages the other aliens do, and they don’t have a translator.”

“Huh. You’d think they’d know some Earth language if they could build a kitchen that looks identical to one on Earth.”

“Yep. Anyways, since you’re the intern, you’re going to investigate the kitchen.”

“Me? I’m still working on the Egypt files!”

“Don’t worry, Chief said its fine.”

“You spoke to the Chief of Historical-Alien affairs to get me on this kitchen?”

“Yeah, the tech team is busy with the ship, the linguists are in charge of-”

“I have 3 college degrees and none of them are in culinary sciences!”

“Sitara, its an easy job. Won’t take more than an hour to check out the whole place. You’re Indian, right? You can make some chicken curry or something,” I glare at him. “Alrighty, well let us know what you find.” He strode out the door, whistling some annoying tune.

I glance over the kitchen. With marble counter tops, shiny white cabinets, and fancy silver appliances, I’m reminded of the Food Network. I start making a list on my clip board, making sections to organize. I first look through the cabinets, which were surprisingly filled with fresh fruits, veggies, flour, and many other cooking ingredients. I then look at the fridge, which had milk, eggs, chocolate sauce, yogurt, and chicken. The freezer only had a gallon of chocolate chip ice cream. The bottom cabinets revealed a blender, a few pots and pans, and a rice maker. The sink had two sections with a working garbage disposal. If I hadn’t known an alien built this, I would have thought this was a simple American kitchen.

After investigating the entire kitchen, I scanned my notes into the iPad and sent everything to the tech that brought me here, Michael Hughes.

So its just a regular kitchen? He texted in response.

Yep.

That’s so bizarre. And we literally work in Area 51.

Have you figured out anything about the new Alien?

Nope. We’re going to nickname them tho. Should we go with Martha Stewart or Rachel Ray?

Uhh… how about just Chef?

That’s a good idea.

Can I go back to the Egypt files now?

No. Try making something, I wanna know if it functions like a normal kitchen too.

I groaned. I barely know any cooking.

Weren’t you upset that the shipment of cookies was delayed? Why don’t you make a batch?

What if I contract some version of alien salmonella?

I’m sure you won’t. I will swing by soon to check out everything.

I sighed and got to work. After checking what was available again and looking at different recipes online, I settled with one that uses beets, because apparently that’s what people used to make red velvet cake like a hundred years ago, and because there’s no food coloring. I thought about the last time I had red velvet cookies, which wasn’t too long ago. It was at a 7-eleven, where I was tracking down extraterrestrial seeds a Martian had planted nearby. Even though they were from a gas station, they were pretty good. Making the cookies reminded me of winter breaks with my little brother, when we made cookies and hot cocoa and watch movies. We have a big age gap, but even then, we had fun. When he was a toddler, I had just started high school, and during the break, we made videos as if we were in a cooking show. That year, we made double chocolate chip cookies with peppermint candy. I smile at the memory.

As the cookies bake in the oven, I notice the oven started to shake. I reach for the power button, but then the entire room started to shake, and I stumbled. Ding! Everything stopped shaking. Odd. I get up and take out my iPad from the pocket of my lab coat. I message Michael about the shaking, but it doesn’t get sent immediately. It stays on sending. I decide not to worry about it. I take the cookies out, and the semi-sweet with a slight beet root scent immediately makes me drool. My stomach makes a sound, demanding for warm cookie, and I happily oblige. The cookie was delicious, the taste of beetroot barely there. It was moist yet almost crispy. The dark chocolate chips and white chocolate chips melted together, smooth and wonderful. Though the taste was otherworldly, it didn’t taste like there was anything from space. Once again confirming how everything looked like they’re from Earth.

Perhaps the alien, I guess the name we’re calling them is Chef, somehow watched cooking shows from Earth, I’m guessing American considering the ingredients and refrigerated eggs, and wanted to imitate a kitchen and try out cooking. I’ve seen other aliens do similar things, though not go far as to creating an entire kitchen. For example, Blueberry the Martian got a hold of blue berry seeds, modified the genes to adapt them to Mars, and grew them on Mars. They tasted pretty much the same.

I hear another ding from the oven, and I turn to find that nothing was cooking. Odd. I look around and find that the clock on the oven changed. Now it read 2:00pm 12221942, Odd. It should be 10:30ish am. I shrug; technology has its own issues. Maybe the techs will know what to do. Instead of waiting, I decide I’ll just go find the team and maybe give them the cookies, so I take the tray and open the door to…

A bustling street.

People and cars look all old-timey. Like the women were wearing plaid coats with matching skirts as well as short heels. Men wore top hats and long coats, a few with a cigar sticking out of their mouths. Everyone seemed tired and busy. Some kid, probably around 11, stopped in front of me, short brown hair tucked under a newsoy hat, and asked. “Excuse me miss,” his accent sounds old too, his accent mid-atlantic, if I was guessing correctly. “Are those cookies on sale?”

“Oh-uh-no you can have some of you want, I just made them,” His eyes squint as they look over me. “They’re red velvet, I used beetroot-”

“That’s smart, miss. With the rationing from the war going on, beetroots are a smart choice.” He takes a cookie and bites out of it. He seems to like it, and finishes the cookie in a matter of seconds. As he eats, I realized what he said.

“Wait, war? Rationing?”

“The European war, or rather the second World War I guess its what they’re calling it, I think. My father is off fighting it, I think I will be receiving a letter from him soon. That’s why I’m selling newspapers. And mom works for a cosmetics shop. Its hard without him, money is hard.”

“You can say that again,” I looked at his bag of newspapers. “I’ll buy one from you.”

He eyed me again. “How does a foreigner like you end up with cookies like that in the middle of New York?” I blinked. “And what’s with your weird clothes? I’ve never seen girls wear pants like that, and that white coat. Say, is that what people wear, wherever your from? You’re not as dark as the colored folks I’ve seen.”

I realize what he said earlier. The second world war. World War 2. Pants. Newspaper. Colored folks. That last part sounded kinda off.

“I-uh- well I’m from Texas, my family comes from India-”

“India? Wow, have you ridden an elephant before?”

“I-Actually I have-Um anyways, about that newspaper?”

“If you give me a few more cookies. I will give you one for free.”

“Sure,” I give him 5 more cookies, which he tucks away in his bag with a handkerchief. He hands me a newspaper, please with the trade. “Thanks.”

“Thank you for the cookies miss,” he starts to turn, but then looks at me once more and says, “By the way, your English is really good for a foreigner.” And he walks away, looking for more customers, presumably.

I stand there, shocked at the encounter. I somehow ended up in New York, and judging by the newspaper, its December 22, 1942. The front page had a long article about the Nazis. Everything hits me all at once.

I just time traveled.

Like Back to the Future or Avengers Endgame (I have no idea what the rules are yet).

How?

I was in the kitchen, I made the cookies, then-

The oven clock. Did the alien kitchen just send me back in time? Or just the oven? How did Chef make an Earthly kitchen that travels back in time?

I started getting stares, and I realized I should probably go back to the kitchen before I cause any disturbances in the stream of time, hopefully I haven’t already. I turn around, and realize the door to the kitchen isn’t there. Its a phone booth. Maybe its disguised? I open the door, finding I am right. I shut the door behind me, the noises muffled once more.

Now how do I get back?

I set the cookies and newspaper down on the counter top and look at the oven clock. Same day, but the time is now 2:12pm. 12 minutes has passed. There’s a knob I didn’t notice before, the arrow in the 6’o clock position. The word “reset” is in the 12’ o clock position. I turn it, to reset, and the entire kitchen shakes again. I turn toward the door.

“If there is dinosaurs out there, I’m going to cry.” I mutter to myself. I marched to the door and open it to find-

The corridor. In the spaceship department, at Area 51.

Right where its supposed to be. I glance back at the clock, its back to current time.

“Sitara, hey! I smell something good, did you make cookies?” Michael calls out, turning from the hallway.

“Mike, come here!” I lead him inside.

“Red velvet cookies! These smell divine!” He takes one and bits into it. “Mmm, nice job intern!”

“Mike, listen to me, I just traveled back in time!”

“Pfft, yeah and I have a unicorn as a pet.”

“Wha- no!”

I hand him the newspaper. “I made the cookies, and I ended up in New York 1942, look at the newspaper!”

He takes the newspaper and chuckles. “Sitara, we’re in 2023, who reads newspapers anymore?”

“Look at the date!”

“1942? How did you get a newspaper from 1942- hey did you put beetroot in this?”

“Yes, that’s not important- I look-” I pointed at the oven. “It sounds crazy-”

“We work in Area 51, we work with crazy-”

“I made the cookies, everything started shaking, the time changed to December 1942 on the oven clock, then I opened the door, and ended up in New York in the middle of World War 2!”

He stood there quietly, contemplating something. He stopped eating his cookie. “Sitara, maybe see the medics because you might be hallucinating from alien toxins?”

“I’m not!” I snapped. “Did you not figure out anything from Chef?”

“Nope, all we know is that they recognize Martha Stewart and Gordan Ramsay on TV.”

“Okay, you know what, I will show you. Name a dish.”

————

About twenty minutes later, I made spaghetti. Basic, yes, but what do you expect from a basic white guy. Just as Michael takes a bite, the kitchen starts shaking, and we both hold on to the counter top.

“What’s going on?” He asks over the rumbling.

I pointed at the clock on the oven. “You’ll see!” The rumbling stops. We both look at the clock. This time, it reads 12:00pm 05071295.

“13th century. Remind me what was going on during this era?”

“I-I don’t remember. Trade got better. Lets see where we are first.”

“Wait, our clothes,” he’s wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit with a black utility belt. “We look out of place.”

“Even if I remove my lab coat, I’ll still look strange. And unless you’re wearing something under-”

“Have you looked at the pantry?”

“The pantry?” I look around and realize I completely ignored the pantry. “What about it?”

“Did you go through it?”

“N-No-”

He goes to the pantry and opens it. I’m not sure what either of us were expecting, but waiting for us was mountains of fabric, an unidentifiable machine, a remote, and a mirror. “What if I-” he slams the door, and I hear a series of whirring and ripping until it stops. He opens the door and I’m not sure if I should laugh or let my mouth be open in shock. He’s wearing a puffy red tunic with yellow detailing, black cotton pants, black shoes, and a silly blue hat.

“What do you think?” He asks with a grin, turning a full 360.

“Like you’re about to recite a long ass sonnet,” I looked him then the pantry. “You figured it out pretty quickly, now how do I use it?”

“Just go in, and say what you want to dress as.”

“Hmm… I just- well you look European enough-”

“Do I?” He says, with a vaguely French accent?

“I can’t pass for European though.”

“Well… Let’s translate your 21st century self to 13th century. You’re a scientist. Women weren’t really scientists in this century. Well most people weren’t. It was an artsy era. And you’re Indian, India was mainly ruled by the Mughals in this century… hmm…”

“I guess I’d be a scholar in this century.”

“Ah yes, a traveling scholar.”

“I think my safest bet is a salvar. Not too regal looking though. Like not too high status…” I say, thinking.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I hop into the pantry and shut the door. Taking a breath, I command: “Give me a 13th century South Indian salvar with a duppata. Something for a traveling scholar of the era.”

A whir and a whoosh later, I step out into the comfiest salvar I’ve ever worn, yet so dazzling. The slate color top is reminiscent of the Mughal era, with turqioise patterns and matching turquoise pants. the dupatta is lightweight and is the same color as my top, but with beautiful detailing. My ears are stuffed with earrings, including a cute set of gold jhumkas.

“Well how’s this casual?”

“Its my culture dude.” We both grab translators, double check the stove, and face the door. “After you.” I say. Mike opens the door and gasps. Beyond us is 13th century Italy, filled with people of sorts. There’s a stalls of what looked like a middle eastern man selling-

“Oh my God it’s spaghetti!” Mike ran off toward the stall.

“Mike you can’t just run off!” I call after him. I chase after him, ignoring all the stares from the people around me. I get stares in every century, sheesh. Mike is handing over a silver coin when I get to him. The man looks at the coin in shock, but then starts preparing a dish of spaghetti for Mike.

“I thought Marco Polo brought spaghetti to Italy after going to China.” Mike whispers not so quietly.

“I think that’s a myth actually. Spaghetti noodles originated somewhere else, and then Arabian traders made them for travelers in Italy.” I tell him, remembering a tid bit I learned a couple years ago.

“Hmmph, that Marco Polo,” the man said, handing Mike a wooden bowl full of noodles covered in olive oil, black pepper, and a few other things I didn’t recognize. “Claiming a new dish that he created after his travels to China.”

Mike and I look at each other with an eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“This Italian man, he’s a traveler. He claims he tasted an exquisite dish from China and felt inspired. He mixed some things with noodles from China and is claiming it’s his creation. But we all know it’s my people’s creation. From many, many years ago.”

“Hmm… Thank you for that information.”

He nodded at my clothes. “It looks like you’ve come from afar. I don’t see your people often.”

“Uh… well…” I stutter.

“I traveled to the East and came across Sitara,” I twitched at my name, mainly because I don’t want to mess up time and have my name come up somehow. “Who is a rare woman scholar. She’s joined me on my travels.”

“A scholar you say?” His eyes lit up. “Impressive. What do you like to study?”

“The stars.” I say, without hesitation. Yes I work for Area 51, so it’s a little on the nose.

“The stars?”

“The stars tell us our past, present and future. The stars tell us stories, and guides us.”

“I see.”

“Can you tell us more about this Marco Polo? We’ve heard of him in our travels.” Mike asks.

“Why don’t you talk to him yourself,” the man points toward a fountain, where a man sat, writing in a leather bound book with a feather dipped in ink. He has a red tunic and a round yet tall brown hat. There’s a few guards around him, with some people looking on. “That’s him, he’s writing books apparently of his travels. He’s dressed similarly to you, young man. Are you also a merchant?”

“Of sorts. Thank you for your time.”

I thank the man too, and we both head off toward the fountain.

“What do you think Marco Polo is like?” Mike asks.

“Dunno. He’s probably a curious guy with a lot of ego.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Men are men in any era.”

“Ouch.”

Marco Polo then does something strange. He looks at us in recognition and runs up to us and says,

“Long time no see.”