W i s p

by A. Raby

The overly plump woman smiled at the young boy. The kitchen was warm, a slight breeze blowing through the open back door. She looked pleased to cook for her small charge.

“First, you must warm up the skillet,” she said.

Her small hands, so out of place on her body, grasped the cast-iron skillet with strength. She set the iron down over the gas glames, still smiling at her little boy. The dimples showed in her cheeks. The boy dragged a stool towards the stove to see what would happen.
“Grandma, what’s next?” he asked, his eyes wide with curiosity and wonder.

“For now, we wait on the heat. It won’t take long. But while this is working, we’ll whip up the eggs.”

She moved around his stool, at ease in her too small kitchen. This colorful kitchen was decorated with various chickens, butterflies and sunflowers on as many surfaces space would allow. She spun a bowl from its place in the cupboard, eliciting a giggle from the boy. She set it down and turned to the refrigerator. She picked the eggs from the door as if plucking berries from her garden. She made them dance across her palm, smiling widely at the childish sounds of amazement. She unceremoniously pulled out a fork and placed it next to the bowl.

Gripping a single egg, she struck it sharply against the edge of the bowl. CRACK! The sound seemed to echo in the small kitchen, and the little boy jumped. The egg was cracked all the way through, yet no yolk seeped out.

“Grandma, how’d you do that? Why isn’t it leaking?”

She turned around and let him see the full crack around the egg.

“Magic,” she said.

Of course, the boy believed her. Why wouldn’t he? She turned back to the bowl and drained the egg into the bowl with a well-practiced and fluid motion. The next three eggs cracked and drained into the bowl in rapid succession. She placed the eggshells into a small basket near the sink.
“Why do you keep the shells? Mom always throws them away.” Even at his young age, he was trying to reconcile the differences he saw between his mother and grandmother.

“Ah, your mother loves nature, but not as much as I. What comes from nature must go back. Later, we’ll mix the shells with what’s left over and plant it beneath my lilacs.”

“Will we get egg plants?”

Her laughter rang throughout the small house, startling the cat on the refrigerator. The boy smiled, missing the joke he told.

“Oh no, kiddo,” she said, speaking through her laughter. “They’ll just make my lilacs happy. Now, to make a proper scrambled egg, you have to whip it just right with a fork. like this.”

She began to rapidly stir the fork in a small area of the bowl. The yolks looked like a yellow hurricane in the bowl.

“Now, while I’m doing this, get a pinch of pepper. You know where it’s at.”

The boy scrambled down the stool and over to her pantry. It took only a moment to find the rectangular and black metal can. He carried it back to her.

“Okay, now get yourself a pinch and throw it into the yolk while I stir.”

He carefully poured a small pile in his hand, and set the can down. He pinched a bit of the black powder between his little fingers. His hands were a lot like hers, but neither noticed. The woman suppressed a giggle at her grandson’s carefulness. His face scrunched in concentration as he kept his fingers together, careful not to lose a single grain. Then he threw the pinch into the still-mixing yolk.

“What a wonderful job! We’ll make a cook out of you yet.”

The boy beamed as he dropped the leftover pepper to the floor and dusted his hands.

“Remember, food can bring a family together, even if they’re not very happy with each other,” she said. She kissed him on the forehead and turned back to the stove. The boy clambered back up the stool.

​