Cookbook from Hell Reheated

by M. L. Buchman

  Definitely not a slow learner, the power and force of his thinking had influenced more than a hundred generations across as many different cultures since his seven-decade foray upon the face of the earth. But over the last twenty-odd centuries Plato had demonstrated a degree of stubbornness that even Michelle could respect.

  “A picnic basket?” For indeed he toted one, wicker with a cheery red-and-white checked cloth.

  “Greetings, Michelle. Yes, this is a picnic basket.” He stopped to chat.

  She could smell spicy mustard, the kind one would use on a good roast beef sandwich, and the bright tang of a good, kosher dill pickle.

  Assuredly his statement was an invitation to a semantic discussion that could wind on for days; the “beingness” of a picnic basket versus not being a picnic basket and the implications that the unknown possibilities of its contents beneath the red-and-white checked cloth might have upon the greater philosophical matrix of being or not being. Then they could travel on to the influence of odors, both perceived and not. The result left her tempted to inquire after the mustard and pickle smells that were making her mouth water.

  A natural segue would then be to discuss the efficacy of anticipation prior to the moment of perception. Plato and Schrödinger had hit it off famously and spent a decade discussing cats. Had there been any cats scampering about Hell—there weren’t, they’d long since left behind the need for such a place—Michelle would not have laid bets on the four-footed denizens average longevity during that decade of experimentation.

  With a slight smile of regret, Michelle declined the offer of a fine covered-picnic-basket debate. If not for Heaven’s invitation, she might consider it. She did want to be late, but her curiosity was too peaked to skip the dinner out of knee-jerk nastiness.

  “I assume you have a plan. What this time?”

  Plato wagged a finger, “Naughty, naughty. You are fully aware of the rules of the game and that function follows form and hence must be obeyed. If I told you, that might invalidate the entire conjectural structure.”

  She bowed slightly and waved her hand for him to continue on his way before she did.

  He bowed with far more courtesy than most showed in Hell, and wandered down the hills toward Hell’s Ocean, the blue now yellowing toward evening.

  How a man could challenge the software to a duel of wills for twenty-three hundred years and still hold his head high was beyond her. Well, not so much beyond her as a rather pleasant shock. No other mortals and few enough immortals possessed such determination.

  More than she did. She turned onto her own path and started climbing the long stairway to Heaven.

  Chapter 7

  It was still early when Michelle arrived at the Heaven-and-Hell’s Border meeting room. The new demon, sitting at the flaming admittance desk, let her in from Hell’s side without an instant’s hesitation. Perhaps his urgent dispatch was motivated by the fate of his predecessor, the one who’d failed to warn Michelle of the messenger’s arrival this morning.

  The demon bowed obsequiously actually placing his pointed head between his ankles. He didn’t rise from the position, probably, as indicated by his low moan, because he threw out his back.

  She knew she couldn’t hear his predecessor’s screams from here, but she could imagine them easily enough. The entire South Park catalog played on a continuous loop. After ten years she might reconsider the programming, maybe throw in a year or seven of SpongeBob SquarePants. Even she wasn’t cruel enough to hit him with Barney & Friends. That was a special Hell reserved for new parents who left their kids in front of the tube all day.

  She checked herself in the mirror on the back of the door to the conference room between Heaven and Hell. Not vanity, but she had a reputation from Hell to uphold and also the possible opportunity to make Heavenly mouths run dry by her mere presence. Christian Dior jeans that looked painted on, a Vera Wang blouse of deepest gold revealing serious cleavage, her black hair riffling loose half down her back, and startling blue eyes. Yep, she’d made grown men weep by merely walking past them. Fourteen billion years and the girl still had it.

  Michelle passed into the inter-realm meeting room, a luxurious expanse of tropical, without the rain. At its geographical center was a small table, that could seat hundreds or serve tea for two when needed. Though the latter always proved awkward because whenever only two people sat at the table, every denizen of the forest broke into the old Broadway show tune. And if you didn’t find a third and quickly, they’d launch off the finale of “Tea for Two” and continue through the entire score for No, No, Nanette with barely a pause for breath.

  It unnerved god so thoroughly that he always stood during meetings here, even when a dozen or more sat around the table. Whenever he became complacent, she’d just whistle the melody to “Tea for Two and Two for Tea” under her breath and he’d tie himself up in knots. A girl had to have some fun after all.

  # # #

  At the Heavenly gate to the jungle conference room—thick slabs of ornately-worked gold depicted the three horsemen and one horsewoman of the Apocalypse when they were just children—a divine escort waited for Michelle’s arrival. The Golden Gates swung back to admit her to Heavenly In-processing. The four archangels were looking pretty bored, even though she wasn’t nearly as late as she’d intended.

  “You guys really need to get a life. Form a barbershop quartet or something.”

  “Wouldn’t work,” Gabriel replied. “I play trumpet. And Uriel can’t carry a tune to save his wings.”

  “Heaven’s loss, dudes.”

  Michael and his brothers brushed herds of minor officiates aside and made sure all the white paperwork was stamped with white stamps on white desks and duly authorized in white. Taking the “We’re not the dark side” thing a bit far, but, hey, whatever amused them. At least they did it so quickly she barely had to stop walking before stepping onto the golden carpet-paved roadway and was whisked through the fields of Elysian. A glance down showed that her patch of carpet was not moving either from beneath her feet or in relation to the yellow pathway on which it lay, yet it transported her along with vertigo-inducing rapidity.

  No time to smell the myriad-colored poppies that blanketed the softly rolling hills or to take a taste and see if the apples in a passing orchard were even half as sweet as they smelled. A light rain freshened the air without making her the least bit damp. She thought she spotted a rusted Tin Man behind one of the trees, but the carpet whisked her along so neatly she couldn’t be sure.

  The carpet had hurried her along so fast that she arrived at his gates exactly on time, which kind of pissed her off after all that focused moseying.

  Actually, they were His gates. Some works of art were so majestic that even demeaning jokes fell aside.

  The gates soared skyward from beneath the earth at her feet to the very, well, Heavens of Heaven. Ten thousand generations of carvers had been allowed to indulge their passion upon the edifice, the bison of Lascaux thundered by in a herd ranging a thousand yards down the wall. The disconnected Eye of Providence sat aloof atop a pyramid of intertwined Chinese stone dragons rendered in living crystal so that they writhed and fought without ever shedding the outer shape of their tetrahedral domain.

  The most magnificent work of art in the history of humanity, she could easily spend a half century and never discover all of the gate’s intricacies. She’d have to do that some time. Some other time when an Italian dinner didn’t await her arrival.

  She rapped her knuckles against an Ionic column that appeared to hold up the very Heavens. But the gates didn’t open.

  A small bell pull dangled before her with a scrawled note. “Ring if you don’t want anything.” That was all.

  God’s idea of a sense of humor, a twist on Winnie-the-Pooh’s problem. Knowing god, she’d have to achieve some metaphysical state of “unwanting” before she could receive a Heavenly answer
to the damned door.

  Michelle kicked the gate, hard. Right between an armored polar bear’s eyes.

  The bison and dragons scattered. The bear merely growled, but then the gates began to swing inward, splitting the polar bear’s face in two, off center. Both his three-quarters and his one-quarter continued to snarl at her as she stepped into god’s private domain.

  Inside the gate a choir of angels broke into a lively rendition of Billy Joel’s “She’s Always a Woman.” They rocked the intro, but were barely through the first line about how her smile could kill before the band leader caught himself and reconsidered the appropriateness of the lyrics.

  He quickly tapped his baton and waved the choir to silence before they could describe the hazards of her eyes. They switched over to an instrumental Benny Goodman big band-styled number that sounded suspiciously like the James Bond theme for Live and Let Die. An all-girl violin band of angels carried the melody.

  When the gates clanged shut with a stentorian tone that shook the ground like a low-grade earthquake, several of the angels lost their places. The polar bear’s rear end, as soon as its parts were rejoined, farted his contempt at her.

  She moved on quickly.

  The majesty of god’s home had always been in the gates themselves. She’d liked that about him. Showy for the folks who believed that the One God must be showy, but the man had lived in a simple Italian-style villa that would have looked like a guest house on most estates. He had never been ostentatious, even if his job description ranked off the top of the scale.

  A shout drew her attention to what would be a gatekeeper’s cottage, a charming little two-story, no more than six rooms. St. Peter waved her over.

  “Hey Michelle.”

  “Hey yourself. I’m headed over to his place, are you joining us?” She strolled down to shake his hand.

  He’d lost the thin beard he’d managed as an apostle, revealing a good chin and boyish dimples when he smiled.

  “It’s good to see you, Michelle. Why don’t you come in for some wine?”

  Being even later for a meeting with god worked for her. She strolled on over, while behind her the chorus kicked into a rock-and-roll dirge about the Devil with Blue Jeans On. Damned Heavenly choir. She considered going over and kicking some angel butt, but that had never ended well in the past.

  A little alcoholic buffer wouldn’t hurt.

  Not at all.

  Maybe a bottle or two.

  She aimed one last scowl in their direction that didn’t even dent their halos, then turned to look at Peter’s house.

  He had a sweet little place. The entry hall was actually a small art gallery of tasteful prints. One in particular caught her attention.

  “Is this a Rubens? It’s magnificent.”

  “Yes,” Peter stood next to her to admire it. “An original.”

  “But that’s Anne of Austria. And she’s nude. Louis the XIII would have executed Rubens if he knew she’d posed nude for him.”

  Peter shrugged, “Let me just say that I don’t know who was more surprised at the painting’s absence from Rubens’ luggage as he left Paris, the King acting on a tip or the artist himself.”

  “You stole the painting?”

  “I saved the artist’s life.”

  “You stole the painting.”

  Peter shrugged. “Perhaps I did a little pilfering, but it was for a good cause.”

  A thief from Heaven. Michelle had always thought Peter a bit of a stick in the mud, but this was a new and intriguing side of him.

  The guest house kitchen was as wonderful as one might expect from a Heavenly abode. Wide kitchen windows revealed a large herb and vegetable garden backed by sloped fields rising toward the lofty mountains of Heaven. The kitchen was painted sunshine yellow, sporting glass-fronted cupboards and long maple counters. It was laid out to be both cook-friendly and social-friendly.

  She’d have considered copying the layout, but she never cooked so there wasn’t much point. But this kitchen made her want to feel as if she cooked, without actually, well, cooking.

  “Wow! Smells great in here.”

  He offered her a glass of white then returned to the chopping block. He capped and cleaned a red bell pepper with the ease of long practice and diced it up in moments. She knew the red ones were sweet, great when roasted and served on toasted baguette with a slice of fresh mozzarella cheese, but that was about the height of her culinary art. And even that always tasted better when someone else made it.

  “Maybe I should eat here instead of up at the great master’s house.” She settled into one of the deep, floral-print armchairs that circled a large hearth sporting a fire that crackled cheerily, yet didn’t throw too much heat on this fine eternal-spring evening. Just about perfect. Of course, this was Heaven, so what did she expect?

  “Actually,” Peter crushed some garlic, “that was the plan.” He glanced up, blushed, and glanced back down.

  Michelle sipped the exquisite Oregon Pinot Noir, so subtle that it kept her palate intrigued long after her attention had moved on. Moved on to contemplate the meaning of Peter’s hastily averted glance.

  “Here.”

  Peter nodded without looking up from his mincing.

  “With you.”

  He nodded and minced more intently. Even she knew he was rapidly moving from mince to mush.

  “The bastard! God’s gonna stand me up? ME!” Her voice rattled the kitchen windows and Peter winced, dropping his knife to cover his ears.

  “No. No. It’s not that. Honest.”

  “THEN EXPLAIN IT TO ME!” The windows blew open and several wine glasses shattered in their cupboard, though thankfully the one clenched in her fist survived. These jeans were new after all.

  “I sent the invitation!” Peter squeaked out.

  That knocked her back in her chair.

  “Why’d you say he invited Me then?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yes you—”

  “No. I was careful. I said His name. And then told you about the invitation. I, well, we can’t lie here, you know that. Not even when we’re visiting, you know…there. Where you live.”

  “Right. He always liked his rules… Wait. You were the messenger? Then why didn’t I recognize you?”

  He squirmed a bit.

  Her glare was sufficient for him to reconsider.

  St. Peter pulled a pair of sunglasses off the kitchen window ledge and slid them on. His face shifted. It was still him, but it wasn’t. His curly brown hair went blond, his features squared, his chest filled out.

  The Heavenly Messenger pulled them back off, and St. Peter shrugged sheepishly.

  “I didn’t trust anyone else to communicate with you.”

  St. Peter.

  He could get past her gate guardians, he was one of the few people in all existence who could. Maybe she’d let the gate-guardian demon off with only five years of South Park and one year of Lost in Space.

  Chapter 8

  “If this software isn’t a game, what is it?” Valerie had tried to follow even half of what E-Squared was talking about. He’d talked through the matzo-ball soup, dumbed it down for her over one of Uncle Joshua’s potato knishes, dumbed it down another level over Aunt Anne’s blintzes. Now, over a piece of her aunt’s special carrot cake that E-Squared had somehow teased her into sharing, she could mostly follow him.

  Initially he’d made her feel stupid, not a familiar or comfortable feeling. But she’d slowly come around to realize that as good as she was at editing, he was equally so in his field of computer stuff. And as passionate as she was for the integrity of the written word, E-Squared was equally so about technologic innovation.

  “What is sitting on your computer,” he aimed a finger out the deli window in the direction of her apartment, “isn’t like anything else out there. I’v
e hit the gaming and research sites often enough to know. Did you watch the show when the computer won Jeopardy?”

  “A computer won Jeopardy?”

  E-Squared opened his mouth. She was sure it would be some scathing comment about what world did she live in anyway. She knew right where she lived.

  Instead he laughed.

  “What!” She dropped her latest forkful of cake back on the plate knowing she’d never get it past her clenched teeth.

  “I followed every stage of development, every article regarding the technology that I could lay my hands on. I can’t begin to tell you how it fascinates me. Yet it’s a whole aspect of my life that not only don’t you know about, but you don’t need to. Here I was thinking how all-fired important that technological step was to the whole world, and it doesn’t touch your life—at all. Puts me right in my place.”

  Valerie no longer felt stupid, but she did feel a little foolish. Okay, from this moment forward, she was going to assume that E-Squared, no, that Eric was truly trying to help and wasn’t looking down on her for not being some techno-geek.

  “So, what’s so amazing about this computer that won a game show?” See, she could maintain a civilized dialogue, even about computers.

  “What’s so amazing is that it is the most advanced natural-language recognition system that’s ever been invented. It uses… No, never mind. You wouldn’t care about that. It was smart enough to take all of those weird pun-based, double-entendre answers and turn them into the correct questions, and beat the best players in the history of the game. For lack of a better description, it understands and can respond to the complexities of the English language and idiom.”

  “It can’t write, can it?” As much as she hated authors and their DNA-deep inability to comprehend a simple publishing deadline, she actually loved writers and the written word. She most certainly didn’t want them replaced by computers.