This is my entry in Ali's Writing Prompt Wednesday challenge. See the rules here.
The pile grows. Mostly magazines. Men's Health. GQ. Runner's World. Field and Stream. Seriously, Field and Stream. The man's never been out of Manhattan.
I find a couple Playboys and a Penthouse tucked in the back of his nightstand, and turn to the most rumpled pages. No big surprises. Silicon and airbrushing. These are tossed on top.
And then there's the cookbook. I take my time with the cookbook. Each page is torn from the binding and crumpled, dropped around the perimeter. Certain pages receive special treatment. I tear these into shreds and then shred the shreds.
"Well, it's close, but still not like Mom's. Did you call her for advice? Maybe you should try this one next time. She says even a child could make it."
I click the lighter and hold the flame next to the recipe kindling I've made. The edges catch, quiver and hold the fire. It spreads to the rest. Pages fan, an image becomes clearer, prettier then it blackens and curls in on itself.
That damn paprikash. I'll never have to cook it, or eat it, again.
