The Cook in the Kitchen

A short story

This story is one I submitted to one of NYC Midnight’s writing contests. I don’t remember the prompts, but they had to be something amusing to result in the following tale.

The Cook in the Kitchen

Betty Norman held the dusty cookbook angled toward the sunlight spilling through the thrift shop’s window. Her husband Eustace tromped up behind her, his arms filled with a dozen mildewed copies of Popular Mechanics magazines and five dull-brass cabinet knobs. He propped his chin on her shoulder as she traced the spidery handwriting in the margins of the cookbook. Betty flipped through the yellowed pages. She tapped a brown stain on the cover, shaped like the state of West Virginia. “I bet there’s good recipes here.”

Smiling, Eustace agreed. “This one might do the trick.”

At home, she stashed her purchase between a worn Fanny Farmer cookbook and a hardcover copy of The Joy of Cooking. The shelves on the bookcase sagged beneath the weight of thousands of recipes. Despite all this instruction, Betty had never grilled a steak she couldn’t burn to bitter charcoal, had never baked a cake that rose above the batter. If she put eggs on to boil, the water would simmer away until the pan ran dry, without so much as firming up a single yolk. When it came to cooking, she was cursed.

Her mother hadn’t meant to put a hex on her. Betty’s mother had never let her help in the kitchen. Two cooks would spoil the broth.

Later that night Betty woke to the clink of silverware, and the hushed whisper of drawers sliding open. In the dark kitchen she discovered the new cookbook on the counter, surrounded by a dusting of flour. A stove burner blazed blue flame. Betty rushed to turn it off. A pale woman wearing an apron stood reaching for the refrigerator door.

“Hey!” called Betty.

Just then, Eustace stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light. The woman disappeared. “You fixing a late-night snack?” He pointed to the open cookbook.

“Not me.” Betty shook her head. She picked up the cookbook and shook the flour from the pages. “We brought home a ghost.”

Sighing, Betty pulled a thin, cloth-bound volume from the shelf. She opened it and ran her finger across the bold, block letters scrawled across the margins as she said, “Mom. I need your help again.”

Betty stacked her mother’s cookbook atop their latest purchase. She and Eustace went off to bed, certain the ghost would be gone. Betty’s mother never allowed anyone else in the kitchen.

THE END