Hedgewitchin' in the Kitchen

by Sarina Dorie

  “Peach pie doesn’t contain fewer peaches if it’s baked, right?” he asked.

  “But there will be less alcohol if it’s cooked off,” I said.

  Derrick looked up from his chopping. “Wait, are you going to be eating the potion too?”

  “I’m going to have to. It will look suspicious if I pour the potion in one bowl and serve it to Missy.”

  Derrick made a face. “You’ll have to tell me if you feel more protected tomorrow.”

  I started the bacon sizzling in a pan. Grease hissed and sputtered at me. I flipped the bacon over, trying to dodge hot missiles of oil. Derrick inhaled the aroma over my shoulder. My stomach grumbled.

  The very first piece I set aside, Derrick snatched up. “And for our next magic trick, watch this bacon disappear.”

  “You can’t eat the bacon. It’s for the stew.”

  “Just one or two or five pieces.”

  “Two pieces.”

  He set two perfectly crisp pieces aside and resumed chopping herbs. The moment they were cool enough he practically inhaled the first one. I placed a new row of bacon strips in the pan.

  He waved the second piece back and forth in front of my face. “It’s calling to you. Will you give in to temptation?” He waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture of flirtatiousness.

  “I’ll be more tempted when I don’t have raw meat on my hands.”

  He held it closer to my mouth. “My hands are as clean as a baby’s bottom.”

  I laughed. “Is that supposed to make me confident of your hygiene?”

  “For real. I just washed my hands for the third time.” He held the bacon under my nose so I was forced to breathe in the tantalizing smoky aroma. My mouth watered.

  I bit in. A burst of savory heaven exploded on my tongue. He held it out for me to nibble on. His eyes sparkled with mischief when I came to the last bite. He pulled the bacon away and made as if he intended to eat the last morsel.

  “No way, dorkbreath. You can’t tease me like that!” I said.

  “Yes, I can, baconbreath.” He nodded to the pan. “Oh, look I’m distracting you. You take care of that, while I finish off your last bite.”

  The bacon in the pan had turned dark. I quickly moved the pan to a different burner and transferred the strips onto a plate. I set out more to fry. The moment I turned back to him, he held up my last piece.

  He grinned. “You didn’t really think I’d steal your bacon, did you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He shoved the last bite into my mouth, both of us laughing as I bit his finger.

  He poked me in the side. “You did that on purpose.”

  I squirmed back. “It’s not magic without a sacrifice.”

  He planted his hands on my arms, his eyes twinkling at me. The grin on his face faded. He rubbed his hands down my arms.

  He leaned closer. My heart drummed in my ribcage. My face felt hot. I suspected his lips tasted like bacon. The flavor of Derrick and bacon sounded like a good combination.

  “Do you know what I just did?” His fingers kneaded circles in my arms.

  Electricity danced under my skin. “Make magic happen?”

  “Wipe bacon grease on you.” His grin returned.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “That’s why you love me, right?”

  A hot splatter of grease struck my arm, and I winced. He replaced the lid on the pan. He smiled, shy and boyish. I leaned closer, not ready for this moment between us to end. I wished I could have told him how right he was. I did love him—or at least have a crush on him—because he was funny and smart and he fed me bacon.

  “Clarissa,” he said. He dipped his head down.

  Across the house, the front door opened. Derrick leapt away. He fumbled with the empty wine bottle, shoved it in his bookbag, and slipped out the backdoor.

  “Hey, there pumpkin,” Dad said, coming in and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Do I smell bacon?”

  “You aren’t supposed to be in here.” I shooed him away with the spatula. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  “Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Mom arrived home shortly after. She tried to sneak a taste, but I had to shoo her away too. Missy was late at cheerleading. I was afraid she might not make it in time and the spell would no longer be effective. I only had twenty-four hours before the potion stopped working.

  Missy came home at eight. Mom served dinner.

  “My favorite, honey,” Dad said to Mom. He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “This smells great.”

  Mom beamed, looking everywhere but me, trying not to give me away. She radiated with pride.

  “I love it when you make Irish stew,” Missy said.

  Mom blew on a spoonful, a sneaky smile on her face. Dad dug in. He choked and coughed. I feared it was the magic.

  Mom wacked him on the back. She tasted her stew a moment later. Her eyes went wide, but she said nothing. Missy spit her stew out. I was afraid to taste mine.

  The soup was sour and burned. The lamb didn’t taste right. I looked to Mom.

  “I think the meat was rancid,” she said.

  That wasn’t possible. I’d gotten it from the freezer.

  I forced myself to swallow a mouthful of bacon. Even that didn’t taste right. “It’s not that bad,” I lied. “Try the bacon,” I said to Missy.

  She shoved her bowl away from herself. “No thanks. Mom said it’s rancid. I’m not eating it.”

  Was it the spell? Or was it my cooking?

  Mom patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you worked so hard on this.”

  “What?” Missy asked. “You made this? Ugh. No wonder it—”

  “Stop,” Dad said. “Don’t make this any worse.”

  Mom stood and cleared the plates. “We have some leftover lasagna in the fridge. How about that instead?”

  It was bad enough I had failed at magic and hadn’t succeeded in covertly protecting my sister, but I also couldn’t cook. One thing was for certain, I wasn’t a kitchen witch like my mom.

  Wet Burritos

  Ingredients

  • 4 cups diced or shredded chicken breast (baked or boiled)

  • 1 can cream of mushroom soup

  • 1 cup or an 8 ounce tub sour cream

  • 3 cups cheddar divided in half

  • 1 cup Monterey Jack OR Pepper Jack cheese

  • ½ cup green onions chopped

  • 1 zucchini diced (about 2 cups)

  • 1 can diced olives (about 1 cup)

  • 1 jars salsa (green salsa or tomatillo sauce also fine)

  • 1 package tortilla shells (flour or corn)

  • * sour cream, guacamole, hot sauce, etc. (Are these really options?)

  Directions

  1. Mix chicken, soup, sour cream, vegetables, Monterey Jack/Pepper Jack cheese, 1 cup of the cheddar cheese and olives in a bowl.

  2. Scoop a liberal amount of this thick mixture into a shell. Make sure you can roll it up. Place this in a 9 x 13 pan. Continue to fill the rest of the tortillas until there is no more room in the pan to fit another burrito.

  3. Pour 1 jars of salsa on top. Sprinkle the remaining cheddar cheese over the entire mixture.

  4. Cover with tinfoil. Bake for 25 minutes at 350° F or 180 ° C. Uncover and bake for 20 minutes until the cheese starts to turn golden with spots.

  5. Add dollops of guacamole, more salsa, etc. onto each plate.

  

  Kitchen Witching Tip

  Between the salsa and the Pepper Jack cheese, this dish can get pretty spicy. I prefer to use Monterey Jack, but the spicier the dinner is, the spicier your romance life will be. Tomatoes, peppers have long been considered aphrodisiacs. In part this is due to the capsaicin in the peppers.

  These ingredients are great for a steamy evening—unless you get indigestion from too much spice. If that is the case, try eating a few papaya enzy
me tablets with your meal. Or a cup of ginger tea will work wonders as well. Ginger eases stomach aches and is also an aphrodisiac.

  

  Kitchen Witching Tip

  Cilantro is the leafy part of the plant Coriandrum sativum and had been used medicinally to help remove heavy metals, balance blood sugar levels and ease anxiety. It is a great source of antioxidants, has anti-inflammatory properties and aids in digestion.

  Witchkin can add cilantro and coriander, the seed from the plant, into potions for protection, keeping secrets, and peace.

  Harvest this plant when it is about four to six inches long.

  Excerpt from Hex-Ed

  My mom rounded the corner of the small foyer and stepped into the kitchen, bringing with her the smell of cumin, chili powder, and garlic. Everything happened in slow motion. I fell back on my butt and moved the bright yellow vibrator behind me, but not fast enough. Mom’s gaze followed my hand.

  If she knew what she was seeing, she at least had the diplomacy not to react. She held a foil-wrapped pan in her hands. Droplets of rain clung to her auburn hair and wool jacket.

  The smile on her face looked as though it was firmly tacked in place. “I’m sorry. I hope I’m not intruding, dear.” Her gaze raked over the mess I’d made. My pink and purple striped sock dripped a puddle of brown ice cream onto the linoleum. Nuts, bolts, and batteries surrounded me. A dress and a sweater from the wardrobe lay on the floor.

  Discreetly, I opened the cupboard behind me and shoved the vibrator inside a pan.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said in as cheery a voice as I could muster. My fake enthusiasm sounded strained, even to my own ears. “Um… .”

  She set the tray on the oven. “I got off work early and baked wet burritos. I thought you might want some.”

  “Thanks.” My face flushed with warmth. Wet burritos. Heh. I had to get my mind out of the gutter. “That’s really nice of you. Unexpected. You should have called.”

  “I did, but it went straight to voicemail. I think your battery is dead again.” She reached over and unhooked a hanger from my ponytail. She placed it on the counter next to the sink full of dirty dishes.

  I picked myself off the floor and found my cell next to my purse. My sock left a sticky trail on the gray linoleum. The phone needed to be recharged. What was it about me and batteries?

  “Are you hungry? Should I serve us some dinner?” Mom opened the cupboards above the counter before I had a chance to answer.

  She fluttered around the kitchen, talking as she scooped out a serving of cheesy comfort food and set it on a clean plate. “I made the salsa myself with those tomatoes I canned last summer. And the cilantro and chili peppers are from my garden.”

  My mom always made the other Master Gardeners jealous with her ability to grow produce, even this early in the spring. Between the homegrown, organic vegetables and how delicious her cooking was, her food tempted me like crack.

  Mom chattered away. “I thought you might need something nice. Special. After a day like today, well, who wouldn’t?”

  After a day like today? My throat went dry. As if the shame of being fired from an unpaid job wasn’t bad enough, as if the horror of being caught by my mom on the kitchen floor with a vibrator wasn’t epically awkward, I prayed my mom hadn’t somehow discovered my failure as a teacher.

  “Mom.” I stood frozen with trepidation. As much as I appreciated the comfort food, her timing was suspicious. “What do you mean by ‘a day like today?’”

  She turned toward me, cheese dripping from the spatula in her hand. “Oh, sweetie, I wasn’t trying to pry. I got a call from your Aunt Linda this afternoon, and she said she was talking to her friend who works in the counseling office at Skinnersville High—”

  My mom knew. Dad’s sister-in-law worked at the district office.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said before she could get any further. “They didn’t believe me, but I wasn’t the one behind the banana incident.” I sucked in a quivering breath. Even if I didn’t believe what I was saying, I wanted her to. I didn’t want her to think I could make bad things happen.

  I didn’t want her to know my secret fears that I might have been responsible for Missy and Derrick’s death. My sister’s pink rhinestone high heels peeking out from under the house flashed before my eyes.

  “I know, honey.” Mom hugged me around the shoulders, making me feel better for about five seconds before she went on. “You don’t think they’ll ban you from the entire district, do you? Will someone file a complaint with that teacher standards place?”

  Last year when I’d been doing my observation for student teaching, the principal had reported me as being grossly incompetent and unfit to be a teacher. Aunt Linda’s friend had told her, who told Mom, who told me. I called Teacher Standards and Practices Commission and refuted the allegations. Fortunately, TSPC had dismissed the principal’s claim since they didn’t think I could have possibly turned a classroom full of eighth graders—obnoxious, disrespectful eighth graders, I might add—into toads.

  I blamed the students making out in the back of the class for triggering the episode. I had spotted the couple using their class time to study each other’s tonsils with their tongues. I wondered what was wrong with these kids. Did they have to add heavy petting to their list of things to learn at school?

  I didn’t know if it was the topic of one-point perspective drawing got them all hot and bothered or if this was a normal occurrence at a middle school.

  “Separate those two so I can keep teaching,” Mrs. Smith had said to me and turned back to the chalkboard.

  I wove through the tables to the students. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need you to separate.”

  “Fuck off,” the boy said.

  “You can go to the principal’s office.” I pointed to the door.

  The two teenagers laughed and left like it was a joke. I didn’t even know their names. Most likely they would continue making out in the hallway.

  The class was unruly, throwing pencils at each other and Mrs. Smith. They weren’t listening, and she didn’t know what to do with them.

  Mrs. Smith called me up to the board to finish the perspective drawing she’d started so she could write detention slips. As I faced the chalkboard, I felt the air shift. Currents of electricity raced under my skin. When I turned back, the class had turned into toads.

  I ran out, screaming and in panic, afraid I was having a mental breakdown. The commotion drew the attention of the administrators, who came rushing in to find a classroom full of ribbeting amphibians.

  That was the first day I’d met the district psychologist. When I’d returned to the classroom after crying in the bathroom, I’d found him chiding the students for “playing a trick on me.” He assured me in his grumpy way that my students couldn’t possibly have turned into toads. I didn’t know where Mrs. Smith had gone to.

  “Did you actually see them transform?” he asked me.

  The truth was, I hadn’t. My back had been turned, and I was writing on the chalkboard. It could have been a trick. I wanted to believe it was a cruel joke and nothing more. The psychologist went on to chastise me in his snotty way about my classroom management techniques and scolded me for leaving the students unattended. He didn’t chastise Mrs. Smith when she came back with the principal, even though she was the one in charge who should have been supervising the students, not me.

  His explanation about the toads would have sounded reasonable to someone who didn’t believe in magic. I had desperately wanted to believe I couldn’t have done such a horrible thing. Still, I had doubted my innocence in the matter.

  The toads had been high on the list of weird. However, today took the cake. That was harder to deny. Everyone had seen the dancing bananas. I had seen them transform. Magic was real.

  Mom patted my back. “You aren’t going to graduate if you keep getting blacklisted from schools. You’ll lose your scholarship.” If Debbie Downer and Ne
gative Nancy had gotten together and had a lovechild, it probably would have been my mother. Was it really such a stretch to see where my worrying superpowers came from?

  I pulled away. “Mom, it’s fine. There are plenty of high schools in the area. I can intern at one of them. It was just one bad school and one bad day. That’s all. They didn’t listen to me when I said I didn’t do it. It wasn’t fair, but life isn’t fair, so I have to suck it up. Only, I wish someone out there would believe me when I told them the kids were punking me.” That was the logical explanation my therapist would have approved of. It was the rational scenario my mom would believe. Too bad the principal had insisted I had been the one playing a trick on the kids.

  Mom cooed and smoothed a hand over my blonde hair. “I know you didn’t do it, honey.”

  “Thank you, Mom.” I was hoping I didn’t hear a silent “but” in that sentence.

  “But… .”

  There it was.

  “Have you considered teaching might not be the career path meant for you?”

  She was right, of course. I was dangerous. Unpredictable. Pretending I wasn’t a magical freak meant I was putting the people around me at risk. I didn’t want that to happen to school children—or anyone else. What if that sex-ed lesson earlier in the day had resulted in another pornado?

  But the idea of giving up teaching art felt like taking a sledgehammer to my dreams.

  My voice rose in panic. “I’ve always wanted to be an art teacher. How can I just abandon that? Plus, what artist can actually make money selling her art? Dad was always telling me—”I swallowed the hard lump that formed when I thought of him. “—to pick a career where I could actually make money.”

  His death three years ago was still so recent it pained us both.

  I suspected Mom knew the moment he’d died. It had been a sunny spring day. She’d been whisking eggs in a glass bowl, making a cheese soufflé for dinner, and dropped it on the floor. She’d looked so frazzled and lost, I’d offered to clean it up for her as she cried in the bathroom. An hour later the police had showed up and told us the news. She’d denied it when I asked her how she’d known.