First Cook

When my time came, I didn’t know if I was ready. I had waited for this moment for a few years and had pictured exactly how it would play out.

My mother told me that morning. “It’s your day today. Make me proud.”

I had hoped they would let me know at least a week or so in advance so I could mentally be prepared for the most important event of my life.

The morning sun sprayed through the tall trees casting sharp shadows on the festivities below. Merry pots boiled on the fires, the aromas intoxicating. My three year old sister ran towards me giggling. I wiped the snot that was precariously balanced at the end of her nose and lifted her up in a hug. The human contact gave me the much needed assurance.

My cooking pot was at the far end of the clearing. It looked sullen and combative. Wasting no time, I lit the fire underneath.

I foraged for the vegetables I had planned for this day.

Thirty minutes later, my pot matched the intensity and enthusiasm of its companions, emanating enticing smells. But mine would soon be different, very different.

The families milled around in anticipation. My father stood tall and straight amongst them, his eyes glinting in pride.

I made a big ceremony of it. Then I proclaimed “I am ready.”

The crowd parted, like a knife had sliced through the middle.

They brought the man in. Kicking and spewing hate. He cast his baleful eyes upon me.

I looked away but my mother made a sound. I turned back and steeled myself.

“Put him in,” I said, scaring myself with my calmness.

I WAS ready.

A Flash Fiction prompt on someone cooking for the first time led me to this story