Soup

The kitchen was her battlefield, and God was her commanding officer.

These church potluck fundraisers were getting out of hand.  It was Lionel who hatched the fateful idea to turn them into a competition.  Bridget refused flat-out to call him Pastor Lionel.  What kind of pastor plays blues saxophone or wears his hair down to his shoulders or drives a motorcycle?  And anyway, he was only an assistant pastor.

But the potlucks, held on the last Sunday of every month under a white canvas tent in the fellowship courtyard, had torn the First Evangelical Lutheran Church of the Confession into four distinct nation states which were now on the brink of mutually-assured annihilation.  There was the Commonwealth of Aubrey, who exported primarily in casserole.  She had started out the year strong as first runner-up with a ham and scalloped potato hot dish but failed to crack the top three ever since.  Aubrey was sweet and honest but not a serious competitor.  The United Erin Emirates posed a more significant threat.  A powerful global force with a lethal stockpile of wraps and salads, Erin had made church potluck history by taking the top honor twice in a row.  You wouldn't think it to look at her, but Erin was merciless, tactical and, above all, a sneak.  There were chilling rumors of a homemade sun dried tomato pesto which kept Bridget up at night.  And last, the great evil, the Tarragon Terror, the People’s Republic of Charlotte. Although her talents as a home cook were undeniable, Charlotte’s greatest weapon was utter unpredictability.  Bridget studied her dishes endlessly for patterns and found nothing.  Macadamia nut brownies one month and barbecue brisket sliders the next.  She was diabolical and power-mad, right down to her black and rotten core.  Charlotte held six blue ribbons to Bridget’s five, a fact that wiggled and writhed in her stomach like a Longspine Sea Urchin.

It was August now, and tomorrow’s contest would be definitive.  Anything less than divine inspiration wouldn't cut it.  If Charlotte took a two point lead, the resulting cataclysm of horror and destruction would put anything in Revelation to shame.  She would have to tap into unknown reservoirs of inner-strength to overcome her enemy.  Not for First Lutheran, not for the Sunday School field trip fund, but for the very fate of the United Kingdom of Great Bridget!

She sipped the broth from her cherry-red ladle and closed her eyes, check-listing each flavor for presence and harmony: bitterness from the greens, sweet onion, some mild heat from the handful of boiled bunny tail radishes she had run through a potato ricer.  Her heart sank.  It was all so… calculated.  The best thing that could be said about this soup is that there was nothing particularly wrong with it.  She became short of breath and balled her fingers into a fist.  They felt numb and useless.  She stepped back from the range and knelt down on the cold linoleum, bowing her head.

“Lord, I am Your humble servant, and I am lost.  This soup was supposed to glorify the Holy Spirit, but I let my pride take over.  I am at a moral crossroads.  Please send me a sign.  I beg You for guidance.”

She felt a wave of heat from her left shoulder and a golden glow radiated from her right.  A small, red devil leaned into her left ear and hissed, “You know you’re better than that tramp.  Get some stew meat and dry rub it with Cardamom and sea salt, they’ll laugh Charlotte out of the congregation and exalt you as their queen!”  The angel plucked her tiny harp and sang her divine message with a lilting soprano, “Your Lord commands you to wash Swiss Chard in white wine vinegar and throw it in at the last minute!”

Bridget struck like a cobra, snatching the two heralds out of mid-air.  She slammed them onto her cutting board and began to quickly chop them into quarter inch chunks.  Their tiny screams only lasted a few seconds.  She slid the delicate, bone-in morsels straight into the pot and reduced the heat to medium low.

“To God be the glory, great things He hath done, so loved He the world that He gave us His Son,” she sang to herself, stirring gently.

“Something smells terrific in there,” Harold would later say from the living room.  Bridget would just smile, her eyes burning like a million iron furnaces.

Reviews

[M.E.Lyle]

Like Woody says, true professionalism. A great story with a great ending. One thing, and I hate bringing it up because you are truly one of the great ones, but, and there is always a but somewhere, Revelation is singular. A lot people make the mistake of using Revelations instead of Revelation. I only know this because my dear sweet wife keeps hammering it into my thinning skull.
Great work.

[Dillon Flynn]

Good call, thanks!

[Woody]

one immediately sees that this was written by a professional. in comparison, what I write is mere amateurism.
I'm no great critic but I enjoyed the read a lot Dillon. I like the way you ended the story. unexpected, the way I like them!

[Dillon Flynn]

You're too kind, Woody. I dunno what "professional" is supposed to mean in this context, but I assure you that nobody's ever paid me to write fiction. See what I did there? You paid me a compliment and I told you why you were wrong. It's like I'm incapable of just saying, "Thanks, dude!"

[Woody]

haha you're welcome. well I'm like a million other people who adore stand up comedians who are quick-witted and can make the whole place roar out with laughter.