It Came From the Pantry
My Mother has always said, “A clean kitchen is a happy kitchen!” It seems like a load of rot when you're younger, but definitely hits home once you're on your own. She was to visit next week and I had committed the mortal sin of sloth by allowing my kitchen go to seed.
The sunrise danced across the sky while I sat by the window sipping on a hot cup of tea and scratching behind the ears of my lounging lap cat. I then shuffled around the cramped space with bedhead and puffy eyes to catalog the damage my inaction had accrued.
Most of the cleaning and tidying was a breeze, the real task began once I reached the pantry which may have not seen the light of day since the dawn of mankind. I approached with caution, taking a gulp of air before whipping the folding door open in one quick movement and immediately regretted it. A plume of unknown particles assaulted my senses causing me to gasp, spiraling into a coughing fit that bent me in half and left me breathless.
Once the dust had settled, I assessed the situation with a grimace gracing my features. The pantry was filled with miscellaneous baking supplies, leftovers from a short lived stint where I fancied myself a master pastry chef. A snap decision to toss everything made cleaning out the shelves a short affair, leaving only what I assumed was a package of flour in a dank corner on the floor.
It was a typical paper flour sack, or the remnants of one. The once white bag was now covered in a black unknown substance, an odious musty smell emanating from its depths. Plugging my nose, I leaned forward and prodded the back followed by a quick withdrawal, moving to drag it from the back corner once satisfied with its lack of reaction.
Hefting the offensive bag from the floor, I turned to carry it to the trash. A few steps later, the cat was fed up with the lack of attention and moved into my path to twine between my legs. The events that followed are a bit of a blur; I recall his body tangled between my feet and a tail underfoot. His yowl rang in my ears as I slipped backward to land flat on my back, coated from head to toe in the noxious flour and nearly coughing out a lung.
Inventory of bruises and body parts left me alive but sore, my ego taking the biggest hit. I proceeded to cough like a chronic smoker with emphysema as I made my way to the shower. The flour was a thick paste once it hit water; I felt like it was in every crevice, seemingly alive with how persistently it clung to my skin. Three more showers, I still couldn't get rid of the terrible substance and conceded to retire for the night.
Morning arrived like any other; I stretched like a cat after a nap and began to prepare for the day. I did not remember the flour incident until I crossed the threshold of the kitchen, a shiver passing down my spine as I felt lucky to be alive. Life continues on, and my stomach was rioting to be fed.
The refrigerator offered no options, and the pantry had been pillaged the day before. I found my mouth watering for a fresh blueberry muffin, momentarily regretting not buying some the day before. While pondering this, I turned to find a single muffin sitting on the table, looking as innocent as a baked good possibly could. My brow folded in confusion, cautiously approaching as my stomach grumbled its appreciation of the sweet blueberry scent filling the air.
I was unnerved by the situation, one doesn't often see muffins spontaneously come into fruition on their kitchen table. No one else was in the house; the cat surely didn't wake up early to surprise me with muffins. So where did it come from? Erstwhile my stomach boycotted my rationale and focused solely on consumption of the spongy confection in my hand. One moment of distraction and next I knew I had bitten, chewed and swallowed a large chunk from its side.
And then, it screamed.
And I screamed.
And the cat yowled.
And I dropped it.
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