A Witch's Sandwhich

A short piece about a witch in need of a snadwhich

         She could hardly bare to tear herself away from the mystic knowledge of the tome. Her craft and practice attempted to consume her, but her need for nourishment trumped all other occupations. She could no longer deny the low grunt like roar of her stomach, she had to eat.

         Her kitchen was the polar opposite of her study room, where books and notes towered for days as research progressed, breads, vegetables and fruits hanging from baskets, gathered in cloves on the counter top. Her stove stop was cleaned and cleared and the counter top was organized down the length of the room to the fridge. The decor was simple and elegant for a normal muggle.

         She found herself staring at her reflection in a pan hanging above the island where a second cook range was. Regardless to the distorted stretched image, she could clearly see the smooth curves of her young 17 year old face, her soft pink lips, dark brown eyes and her deep reddish hair. She was never one to obsess over her looks, as long as she maintained her personal hygiene. Studies were her minds obsession; knowledge, perfection, and practice.

         A tearing pain broke her from thoughts of further study and research. She had to eat, but what was the simple question. She sighed as she leaned her back against the cold tile of the counter top. She eyed the breadbasket with deep pondering. She reached into the deep void of the refrigerator to gather a selection of cheese and meats. She laid the carefully folded zip lock bags on the counter adjacent to a thick wooden cutting. She dug into the drawers almost without batting an eye, sharp clear memory pointed her to the knives that she sought. Her hands softly grasped the fluff of the freshly baked Italian loaf. The knife sliced through the loaf with purposefully thin accuracy. Slicing well into the middle the loaf, she opened the zip lock of meat, realizing that she had forgotten garnishing. After silently cursing her simple mistake, she returned from the fridge smearing a faded yellow paste of mayonnaise and mustard across a slice of bread. She crafted tiers of meat slices, chicken, roast beef, smoked turkey, honey ham, topping with two perfectly square pieces of Swiss, a clover arrangement of fresh pickles and a pinch of black pepper.

         As she folded the slices together, she reached across to a bag of baked sour cream and onion flavored chips, popped the bag and carefully laid a crescent line around her sandwich. After replacing the kitchen to its original state, she took a look at her masterpiece. How else could such a stimulate mind survive, if not for the carbohydrates that it needed to be pumped with? A simple sandwich crafted with this single purpose was the first step in her never ending journey for mastery of her witchcraft.