The Recipe

Blue and clear glass canning jars with the lids reused, were washed and placed bottoms-side up in the dish drainer in preparation. Yes, there was enough room on the shelf high above the food products and deliberately out of reach. The red step ladder was placed beneath and the curtain pulled back to disclose the space that would soon be closed up for good.

Bitterness went in the first jar with the lid fastened tightly and the jar pushed all the way to the left. Jealousy was next and the contents were siphoned down as the jar was tapped repeatedly on the counter to get the product to settle. Anger, resentment and jaded went into wide-mouth containers. It seemed she had bulk of those, though spite, malice, fury, cynicism, and annoyance ran a close second. Every pain and poison was poured and ladled into their new glasses houses. Some blue, some clear – they each had a home and would hereby be measured by volume, not by weight as they were far too heavy to carry any longer.

Hatred, in its abundance took up the space of three jars – the biggest ones. Four quarts each made a full dozen in quarts of poison. Shameful. What was left after that, she swept from the floor and wiped from the counters into a dust pan. This was promptly emptied into the toilet and flushed. Twice. Regret, envy and worry were the last to go and were layered like a sand sculpture, revealing swirling folds of red-hued pain now encased in the tallest of glass testimonials. She guessed that this might cure her affliction with heartburn hereafter.

And then – like a cookie crumble-crusted and cream-filled hot pocket of goodness, she started again. Faith was the bottom layer and a requirement for this home-maker guru. Courage, adventure, and determination were mixed to a fulfilling base. Spunk, bravery and valor would be blended with spirit to develop a savory crust but would be set aside for the moment. Flavors and energy had to marry while she folded mojo, moxie and grit in on themselves to balance such a rich concoction. These were her most favorite ingredients – splashes of moxie and drizzles of mojo.

The nourishment was sure to be satisfying, yet leave her hungry for more. It was designed this way as an ideal fuel source. The taste would be inspiring; the delivery impeccable. She gave thanks in advance for what she already knew would be bestowed upon her. Joy, peace, contentment and calm were whipped to a stiff peak and refrigerated only until she could pour on the mojo, moxie, and grit sauce, which had become exquisitely aromatic. Lastly, she grated a fine coating of trust over the top and set down her tools.

A step back. Idyllic temptation.

While it baked to a convection perfection she would draw closed that curtain on the top shelf and wipe down the counters. And salivating in anticipation, something about her just knew that this was the answer all along.