Baking me crazy

I was destined to be Tuesday’s lunch, my devourer in a hurry with no time to sit and eat.

Today is Saturday, as the calendar under the clock reminded me every time that damn door opened for no reason except to check if anything inside had magically appeared. Which it hadn’t. She looked five times yesterday, if anyone's asking.

So ironically, there I sat, waiting for the slow decay of time to remove all usefulness from me. And it was coming- boy did I know that.

I could sense spots spreading, like a teenage boy hitting adolescence, and my splotchiness had nearly consumed my entire skin, until…

No wait! I should start at the beginning. After all, one does not have their dessert before their dinner.

She bought me in a hurry, literally snatching in the store as she motored past, breaking me off from my brothers with barely a backward glance, her other hand already full of toothpaste, drain cleaner, breath mints, and a muffin from the in-house bakery. He looked pretty smug, the chocolatey bastard, and why wouldn’t he? They always get eaten.

Once home, I was unceremoniously dumped on the counter, and after everything else was put away in the freezing-cold white monster, it became apparent that I was on the menu.

Yes! A duty fulfilled, a stomach replenished, potassium aplenty for my human.

But then she strolled off to the lounge, and I was left to gently sweat in the heat of an afternoon sun. Lovely on my skin, I waited patiently, sure to be consumed that evening.

She hurtled down the stairs in skin-tight half-pants and brightly-coloured shoes two hours later, taking 'em two at a time, and shoved me into the cupboard of cold, up high where there seemed to be more room. Shutting the door, she headed outside, without my nourishment. Exercising without me? Just plain silly. And where was my basket?

She trudged in that evening, opened the door to my winter prison, and just stared, looking everywhere but at me! Somehow, I had lost my place at the front, and felt myself wedged between cold-cuts in a bag and last night’s leftovers. This was not my section! Where were the colours, my fellow fluorescent buddies?!

I looked for greens and reds and yellows, even oranges in my desperation, but it was all whites and browns and artificial skins up here. Lentil dahl and me? Not exactly a classic combination. Unbelievable. Eventually, she grabbed some green liquid ooze in a bottle, and slammed shut any hope of a rescue and release.

This pattern continued…for the next four days!

I shivered and sweated in my prison, cut off from any natural time to grow. Having been dumped into a giant cryostasis chamber, awaiting resurrection, my chances didn’t feel good. And they started to look worse as the week went on.

My fellow inmates weren’t much fun, and as the days dragged by they were all grabbed and prised and squeezed and selected by her hungry hand.

One-by-one, my potential pairings disappeared, leaving me with little hope of a rescue via partnership. My prime was now behind me, so I tried to position myself as elegantly as possible when catching the step of feet on floor, light with thoughts of food.

Strawberry yoghurt- a wasted opportunity when she chose a kiwi as a topping instead.

Frozen berries below me- she went for powder and dust from a large black container.

Chocolate pudding- gone within a day, no delicious sidekick required.

Stuck on the wrong shelf, I despaired of ever getting out before my inevitable disposal into the dreaded Bin of Discards.

But then!

She opened the door this morning, and as she reached to the back for her daily dose of ooze, her fingers brushed my skin. I felt them recoil, not expecting my skin inside the winter cabin of white.

She grabbed me and surveyed my sorry mottled being, with a look that can only be described as puzzlement mingled with distaste. I braced for the inevitable toss, as had befallen several of my elderly inmates, spinach being a common victim.

But her brown eyes lit up, and with her other hand she closed my cell door and reached for a recipe book.

What was this? A last-minute reprieve?

My skin tingled in excitement as I joined an odd and varied crew on the bench where I had been four days before. Upstanding and solid flour, eggs that refused to stay still, golden and malleable butter, a pinch of crackly salt, refined and delicate sugar, and a hint of smoky, sultry vanilla essence.

She hummed to herself, then came at me with a knife, splicing my skin delicately, leaving me bare and exposed, my silky white flesh for all to see. No shame though- for this was my true self. I said goodbye to my brown casing, then before you could say “split” my body was mashed.

In a large basin my comrades and I were thrown together, twirling around a brown wooden spoon until I became something more than just me. I had changed colour, texture, and appearance, and more than that, I had been used!

Bits of me were carefully laid in a series of cool, metallic circles, row upon row, with a greased lining that let my new, squishy form slide in easily. Mixed in a wonderful mush, she sent me into the electric fire, where I rose and swelled and browned.

***

And so we come to this moment, where reminiscing is replaced with relish.

Now once again I lie on the bench, cooling off from my toasting. Steam pours from my pores, and boy, do I smell good. She has prised me from my circle, and leans on the countertop, gazing at me. I know she wants this.

Her fingers delicately poke my top, and she nods in satisfaction when I spring back. She picks me up, blowing on her fingers, and I think

Nom nom nom.