Sprinkle Hunt 4

You run onto the stove, almost tripping over the burners. The heat flares up around you and you race past. Breathless, you reach the end of the stove. There is something on the wire rack next to the stove. Is that... a pie? How peculiar. You climb up onto the wire rack. Yes, that would be a pie.

You pull yourself up, onto the crust. Its cushy underneath your sore feet. This pie seems comfortable. You let down your guard and relax. Its a pie! Its all good! You walk around on top of it. It is enjoyable. You bounce up and down a little, like you are on a trampoline. How fun. Up and down, up and down, you really like to bounce! Wow, that was a high jump! You land back on the pie, laughing, and... WHOOOOOOOSH! "ARAH!" you yell, falling on the ground and rolling to the side to prevent the flood of hot air that just came whooshing up out of the crevasse in the crust. Its like a geyser, but without the water. And its scary. The channel of air lasts about 20 seconds, and then it stops, abruptly. You turn your head to the left. Another crevasse. You move to the side, just in time, because another fountain of air just spurted up. You scooch to the crust and lean up against it, avoiding any and all of the fissures. You observe as they sporadically explode, counting the number of seconds they last: 22. You are calm enough to notice something else: the smell. But the odor throws you off guard. Raisins? In a pie? That's preposterous. But... your nose has never let you down. You sniff again. Raisins, yes, and lemon, and... walnuts! WALNUTS! WALNUT WINGS! Oh, glory day! Oh, this is great! But, as always, a problem. The walnuts are in the pie. Under the crust. And, as you think about it, you realize it would not be a good idea to just tear into the pie, because there is probably a lot more hot air in there, and it could burn you. So. Now what? An idea hatches into your mind. What if, what if you managed to pull the wings out of one of the crevasses. Sure, they are deep, but if you could pull the wings out of the side, rather than the bottom... It might work. Yes, why not? Why not! It is dangerous to stick your hand into a chasm filled with hot air but if the hot air is not coming out... You become more confident with your idea. You move near a fissure. You wait a few moments, and hot air begins to rise. You move your head away, waiting it to be over. "20,21,22," you count out loud, and then plunge your hand down. You can feel the wrinkly raisins and something hard, oh! You grab the walnut and pull it out. Oh. This is only a piece of walnut. It couldn't be the wings. You wait until the next expulsion, then repeat the process, pulling out another chopped walnut. Again, and again, its just pieces. But you don't lose faith, you are confident this is where the walnut wings are. And you are rewarded. You pull out a walnut, it's not chopped up. You look.

The walnut looks like butterfly wings. Yes, yes, those ARE the walnut wings. You clutch the first of the Sacred Objects. And you laugh. Hysterically. Because you did it. All by yourself. Finally, you accomplished something. Its marvelous. You look around, as if receiving applause from an audience. As you turn your head from side to side, nodding to acknowledge the support of your fans, you notice something on the stove. Something that wasn't there before. Three things, actually. All white and round. Your curiousity is intrigued. You stand up, walk around the crevasses and step off the pie, and off the wire rack. You trot over to the stove. Right there, in the front. Eggs. And... what's this? Something is on one of them.
It looks like a crack. It also looks like the crack is looking at you. It looks like an eye. The EYE OF EGG? No, it couldn't be that easy. A Sacred Object couldn't be just sitting there, out in the open. You know that. But you can't deny the eye. So... It must be it. You congratulate yourself on your good luck. Hurrah! Now all that's left is to find the FLOUR FLOWER. So you roll the eye of egg on before you and clip on your walnut wings and on you go!

Sprinkle Hunt 3

You wake up, startled. A fierce brusque wind blows to the south, against your face. There is a brightness from above, shedding light on the counter, but it is devoid of warmth. You stand up, renewed, and ready to continue your journey, despite the unfriendly weather, and overall circumstances. You trudge ahead, against the wind, hardly making any headway. The wind stops for a brief moment, and you almost fall over. You look ahead, and there is a barren tundra out before you. Is that really what you crossed, last night in the dark? It looks desolate and unwelcoming. But you must press on, despite the resistance of the wind. Progress is slow, and you have to bow your head down and squint your eyes. You look up for a moment. What is that?!? A huge whirlwind, sweeping through the air, coming straight for you! Is it dust? Sand? Sugar? Noooo. You feel more wind in your face, and the debris in the air coats your face. Its flour! The storm is nearly upon you! You duck down, crouching in the fetal position on the counter, covering your face against the flour... you feel it rushing against your back... okay, the worst is over. You remain down for a few minutes more until you know that it is safe. But then you resume your walking, thankful to be out of danger, and yet still marveling that you managed to come out of that. Quickly, you begin to tire, and the wind shows no sign of stopping.... but then... it stops. What a miracle! You straighten up and survey the landscape, cocky and smiling. And then your smile fades.

Flour is scattered all across the surface of the counter, a windswept pattern of hills and mountainous terrain. The wind must have piled up the flour, and now you have to cross through the ridges. You sigh. The winds are obviously not on your side. You wish the mystic spoon could have made them nicer. But this is no time for wishful thinking and you really must continue. You walk and walk and walk, through the paths in the flour mountains, past the monotonous landscape. This is terrible. This really is. But things might be looking up because now you can see a high blue peak in the distance, one that was too far away to see earlier. Finally, after many more hours of hiking, you reach the base of the peak. It is a cylinder, but a peak nonetheless. You become dizzy just looking up at the top. A notion pops into your head: if you were at the top, you would be able to see many different things... many Sacred things... maybe even many Sacred Objects... Oho, that is one fantastic notion! But wait, there is a problem. How do you plan on reaching the top of this peak? You can't scale a smooth vertical wall without equipment or experience or whatever else you need to be able to scale a smooth vertical wall. You just can't do it. Disappointment reigns supreme... again. You sit down at the base of the peak, leaning up against the wall, looking out at the flour terrain in the tundra area. Wait a minute... wait just one minute... FLOUR! The FLOUR flower! How could you not have remembered? And, oh no, you've already past all the flour! Will you have to backtrack and search all over for a flour flower? Say it ain't so! That would be so terrible! You bash your head against the cylindral peak. You make up your mind just as your forehead begins to bleed. "NO!" you say. You seem to be angry. You begin to yell. "NO! I will NOT go back! You CANNOT make me! NO!" You turn and run off in the direction of the stove, without giving one look back.

Ketchup: A Great Saga Part 2

Alright now, we've introduced you to your life in the fridge. That's your personal life. That's your life that starts and ends in the fridge. Don't even think about dragging it across the food products. It's all about professionalism. It's all about keeping your cool. You should know that by now, young bottle. So I won't waste any more of my time. Let's get started.

Ketchup: A Great Saga

Part 2

Techniques for Food Products

Meatloaf. The most elementary of food surfaces. It's flat. It's solid. It's a blank canvas for you. What do you want to do on it? No, you can't get artistic. We as ketchup bottles must stick to technical. What was that? You feel a little fancy? You feel like breaking the rules? Do you feel like paying the consequences? Do you feel like having the food product you tainted, thrust aside out of sheer revulsion to your mess? Right. I didn't think so. Now, listen up, here is the most basic of all ketchup squirts: the blob. The blob is a thick mass of ketchup. It doesn't require much effort from you. It doesn't look very pretty either. But if you are starting out, you want to play it safe, it's ok, it's ok. The blob is perfect for dipping, so if you have french fries, its the best style to use. Next we encounter the glaze. The glaze is an even coat. Its not very pratical. But it looks good and sometimes it is bakeable. To explain further, some people but ketchup on their meatloaf and then bake it all as one and then the glaze become permanent. However, I feel that that takes away from the defining characterists of the ketchup, one of which is moistness. This next one is for those of you who feel you are super special. It's the swizzle. I know, I know. Its impressive. But it takes superb control. One mistake, and it is ruined. You cannot expect to move onto this beauty unless you've mastered the blob and the glaze. So hold up. Let's go with step by step instructions for this here technique. 1. Turn upside down. You should have that down by now. We don't want you to stand upright, bursting ketchup into the air, and staining someone's walls with lycopene. 2. Breath out. This is imperative. We don't want you to lose your cool. Just relax. 3. Let out a line of ketchup while slowly rocking back and forth, and while moving yourself forward. This is multitasking, yes. Ok. Now finish off with 4. a quick flip to the upright position. Alright everyone, that's how you do it. I wouldn't expect you to have that down on the first try. You've probably spilled all over yourself haven't you? heh. Amateur. Practice hard, maybe next time you'll get it... better. There is one rule for the swizzle: Do not use it excessively. Catsups who swizzle on their fries are considered fancy and snottish. And no one wants to think of the aristocracy while chowing down on greasy fries. The swizzle is only acceptable for foods that taste best with minimal ketchup. Alright? Alright. Thank you. Thank you for your time. Remember, you too, can become an exceptional Ketchup. It just takes time, perserverence, and rigorous discipline.

The Prodigal Power Bars

This is a story of the power bars. Around two years ago, my brother, Ben, was in leadership, in high school. He was also in cross-country. He did some event or thing, something for one of the mentioned extracurricular activities and, anyways, he brought home these power bars from school. They tasted disgusting, but they were supposed to be full of energy. Ben kept these things in his room. I don't know whether he thought he would eat them or whether he just wanted to have them around or what, but he did keep them. When he shipped off for college, the power bars got put in his closet. And there they have sat, so docilely, for two years, until a few weeks ago. We had to get into Ben's closet and they got taken out. So just imagine: a box of twenty-something power bars. They lived the high life in the high school, were surrounded by hungry teenagers. They were full of energy, what is more appealing. Wow. They were the bomb. Then. Then they got taken to a house. They sat in a box, all day, every day. Their numbers did not diminish. There was no hope for them. They just sat there. Then they get shoved in the closet, in the dark, for a year and a half. Ben comes home on vacation, probably doesn't eat any. Probably doesn't give them a second thought. (And who can blame him?) They suffer tremendous disappointment. No one cares about them. Even if anyone knew about their sorry existence, no one would care about them. That hurts them. Finally, they get taken out of the closet. Okay? That's intense. Now back to the present. I'm in a video class, at school, and my group is making a video about a magical power bar. So, when we started filming (if you want to call it that) we needed a power bar prop. I passed by Ben's room after school and there it is: A giant box of power bars. So I take, like, 5 to school. And there it is! The power bars finally came home to their first home: high school. Oh, the glory days. Now, they don't taste good at all, but, some things just don't change. They expired a year ago. But someone in my class still ate a part of one. And then spit it out into the garbage. And whenever we have to open up a power bar, it smells like an antique. I don't think the power bars notice the revulsion with which they are looked upon. To them, its being back amongst teenagers that really makes them happy. I guess the Power Bars give us a hope that really, you are never too old, or expired to return to the good times.
Note: These power bars aren't really prodigal, because, at no point in their lives have they actually been prodigal, but their story is somewhat similar to the story of the Prodigal son, from the Bible, you know. The power bars leave their home, have a rough time, then come home, like the son. So that's why I call them prodigal, even if they aren't.

Sprinkle Hunt 2

We left off as you had just finished talking with cookie. You learned that you needed to go east. And so east you go. You walk along the counter, shuffling your feet along the smooth surface. You encounter a few monuments along your trek, such as Toaster, and Coffee Maker. They tower over your weak little stature and you feel small and insignificant amonst such machines. You walk in a steady direction, but so far, you have not met with any food product who can assist you, or any other clues to the missing sprinkles. Far ahead in the distance you can see the wall, a deadend to the counter. Was compass cookie's advice really that accurate? What if he was just lying about knowing which way to go? How could a conglomeration of flour, sugar, and eggs glow, anyways? How could you have been so stupid to believe him??? You almost punch yourself; its so humiliating to have trusted a cookie. You look around. You realize that you really don't want to go east at all, you want to go south. So you change directions and take a turn, ignoring the path that compass cookie set you on. The light above seems to have faded. You can hardly see where you are going. You want to stop because you have been walking a long time now. But then you remember your sprinkles, and you speed up, almost running. Suddenly, you feel a bump under your feet, and then they fly out from under you! You are falling through the air now, flailing about, unable to feel anything around you. When will this stop? What will become of you? Your life begins to flash before your eyes when- OOMPH! Something swoops up from under you, rescuing you. You don't feel anyone, though. It seems as if... as if gravity has stopped... or maybe... wait, you feel your hair flowing in one direction. That's very odd. It must be... wind. A strong wind, or air current, or something like that must be carrying you. WHUP! The wind stopped, dropping you back on the counter. You are dazed, and so you think you must be hallucinating when you hear a noise like a peg leg hitting the counter. A faint glow comes from the distance and suddenly... a wooden spoon hobbles up. She peers at you with psychic eyes. How peculiar... this must be the mystic spoon that compass cookie had mentioned. He must not have been quite the liar you thought, about that, anyway. "For what do you seek?" says the spoon. You are taken aback by her raspy voice. "I seek my sprinkles," you reply. She hobbles up closer to you and her piercing glare makes you feel somewhat uncomfortable, so you squirm. However, the spoon does not understand your subtle hint, and remains, still, very close to you. "You did not follow the cookie's advice... did you now? DID YOU?" The mystical wooden spoon rears up to her full height, intimidating you, and making you fidget even more. "no" you manage to say, though it costs you great effort. "Then you must make an even longer journey to find what you seek. Your lack of confidence in the compass cookie has cost you your time. You should have listened to him, YOU SHOULD HAVE STUCK TO THE EAST... but now... now, if you do not resue your precious sprinkles, the blame is fully upon you. The captor of your sprinkles will take advantage of your weak nature. He now has time to lock them up before you reach him and the only way to release your sprinkles from eternal captivity is to collect the Sacred Objects. These Objects are of the indigenous peoples of the kitchen. They have certain powers... I have spent my whole life studying these powers. Only the Sacred Objects have the ability to truly help you defeat the kidnapper of your sprinkles. Find them, take them, learn from them. Now, to see which of the Objects you must seek, peer deep into the crystal ball nature of my wooden spoon head.

"Peer deep within... past the clouds and haze of the future... now... what do you see...?" You peer deep. You look, and you see... a flying figure... a cracked eye... a flower... You tell the wooden spoon of these things. "Ah..." she says. "The WALNUT WINGS. The EYE OF EGG. The FLOUR FLOWER. You must find these things. You must take them. You must use them to defeat the evil and rescue your sprinkles. Once you have them, continue east. Do not waver. Do not be dissuaded. I summoned the winds to save you when you turned the wrong way. I cannot do that again. No one else can help you now. You are all alone." As the mystic speaks, she walks backwards, and suddenly, she is gone. You feel sad, and lonely, and ashamed that you doubted the cookie. The quest for your sprinkles has turned into such a huge deal. Now you must find these, what? 'Sacred' Objects? What is that about? You consider ignoring the mystic. No, no, that would not be wise. You need all the help you can get and there is a slight possibility that these Objects can help you. You decide to take a short rest before you continue, however. You lie down on the cold hard counter, and sigh, "Thank you, mystic wooden spoon." And then you drift off to sleep...

Sprinkle Hunt

Its Saturday night, and you are baking in the kitchen. There is one lone flickering overhead light on and it barely illuminates the recipe. A solitary figure, you sift the powdered sugar necessary to make the frosting for your Fairy Drop cookies. Spread out on the counter are the many other ingredients, such as almond extract, vanilla extract, butter, and milk. The food coloring and sprinkles are set out nearby. You hear something. You turn around, scanning the room. There is nothing there. Curious, but you must have been imagining. The distraction has ruined your focus. You glance back at the recipe, reading the next step. You need the butter, so you look across the counter and... something is different. The butter... it's there, but it should be between the milk and the sprinkles... OH NO! the sprinkles are missing! WHAT? How could this have happened? You are astounded, frozen with shock. You frantically search the kitchen, throwing open cabinents and ripping open boxes of wheat thins. Where could the sprinkles be? Gaaa! You've checked the entire room, but no sprinkles! Wait... do you hear that? Listen closely... a small whispering sound. You can't locate its source, but as you listen you are able to distinguish certain words. "follow... follow the sugar trail... the sugar..." What? A cryptic message?? What good is that? No, wait... Look!A sugar trail! Follow it! Follow it and see what will follow! You must find the thief and seek out the fate of the sprinkles! Don't be scared; you must avenge your sprinkles! Now onward! You follow the trail. The sugar pieces glow luminescent in the dim light, creating a haunting picture. Will this path ever end? It goes on and on, for miles it seems. You grow tired, and the sugar grates on your feet. The path finally curves around the blue container and brings you to the stove. It doesn't continue. Dejected, you look around. There doesn't seem to be anything around but the cookie sheet with raw cookies on it, the ones you had placed there before any of this happened, forever ago. You go over the cookies, thinking maybe you have overlooked an important clue. You sit down next to a cookie, and sigh, because it really does look hopeless. You feel the warmth of the heated oven underneath your feet, and it feels nice, but not nice enough to stop you from crying. "Oh, little cookie, I wish you could help me!" you say in desperation.

"Oh but I can," the cookie responds. You jump up in surprise, gaping. "What?!?" "Yes," says the little tyke. "Not only am I a Fairy Drop Cookie but, since you have stamped me with one of those crazy food stamp mechanisms/utensils that don't really have names, I am also a... COMPASS COOKIE... and I can totally help you find your way." You are overjoyed. You dance up and down, because you seem to have so many friends that are willing to help you! How great! "Well, little one, how will you help me? What do I need to do?" The cookie has an immediate response. "I have four points, north east west south. One of my points will glow with the light of a million moons, highlighting the right way for you. You simply need to press your hand in my center, and think, very intensely, about what you have lost. That's it." You do as the compass cookie has instructed, pondering the sprinkles and all the great hopes you had for it, as well as all the great times you had spent with sprinkles, like at Christmas when you decorated the special holiday desserts. Weren't those good times? Oh! One of the points of Compass cookie is glowing. Wow, that is bright, and... whoa! You have to cover your eyes, the light is so blinding. "You must really want what has been taken from you," the cookie says. "I have never glowed as bright as that, in all the minutes of my existence. Your way is certain. You must go east. I have other advice for you, too. Find wooden spoon. Wooden Spoon is a mystical utensil and she will help you if ever you need more assistance. I wish you the best of luck in your quest." You thank cookie, but now you must be on your way. Continue to the east!

Apple and His Hair

This apple slice has peanut butter hair. He's full of attitude and his leaning stance is highly masculine. He probably rides a motorcycle and, if he had hands, they would most likely be oily from 1. fixing up cars in the garage or, 2. fixing up his greasy hair. His name is James because he looks like a mixture of Jimmy Neutron and James Dean.

Anyways, I just thought the apple looked cool. It must be the hair.

This other apple slice is tough to figure out. I would leave it out of this post but I think it would feel neglected and sad, so I think I had better include it with James.

Cookie Commotion

Heyyyy! We's cookiez are throwin some crazee partay on the table next ts'day. We's gonna have some great times. Lasts times we's had some party, snick'doodle towdally fell off onto the chair, man, it was crazay. He's had to gets some reparational surgery in the crazy house since then. We's went to go visits 'im dis one time and like, its wazzis insanity. Yeahh... But likes, we's gonna have a DJ from the fridge comes and shakeses us up. I think Choc-Chip booked his sec'nd cus, Choc-syrUP. He's one hard partiers, I tellses you, man. He plays them tuneses from lawk, ts'day til the nexted ts'day. Maybes even we gets liek, Frostthe-ing to come and we's can dip in him fah some extras recreational stuffs. Sugah's gots some good relationships with Frostthe-ing, you know hows them sugar cookiez gets with their frostin', man. Raisin'daRoof might even stops us by, and dose raisin cookees sure are squareses some timeses. Da only fooles we's not invitin' are dose fricken stores-bought, fact'ry-made cookees. Deys some idiots. Deys don't know some how to partay. Deys don't dance til the lite. Deys are 'ristocratic. Deys are snobses. We's don't want nuthin' to do wid dem. But its gonna be some greats timeses if you hits us up at da party dis ts'day. 'member, is at da table. You's come, you's enjoys youself. Us cookeez, we's don't discrim'nate. We's are just likin' to partay up da kistchen. Pieces outs nows, man.

Monty and his Slices

This is a loaf of pound cake. This is a very distraught loaf of pound cake. His name is Monty. As with all cakes, he was pregnant with slices. Monty could not decide what fate would befall his pieces. Would they be an afternoon snack? After dinner dessert? An unhealthy breakfast? Perhaps they would be beautiful, or maybe hideous. Monty was worried. He wanted his slices to be amazing tasting. He wanted people to eat them. He wanted his slices to make someone happy. He did not want some slacker slices who sit in the Tupperware container all week long, accumulating bacteria, age, and even mold. They would disgrace his name. His reputation would be tarnished. As Monty sat on the wire rack, he pondered the future. He glanced over at the bowl next to him. What is this? Strawberries? In winter? Monty was overjoyed. Strawberries were promising. Not only did they look fashionably fabulous, but they were tasty. His pieces going to have many blessings and not only would they look nice, if the cutting went well, but-OH! Monty inaudibly groaned in pain. The knife! He was getting cut!The first piece was thin, too thin. It was too premature. Would it still be eaten? And the first piece, too! This did not look well, it forebode tragedy. Monty was almost crazy with anxiety. But, okay, the next piece was cut, and it wasn't so puny. It was actually sort of gorgeous. The next three pieces were great, too. And then, oh, the knife cut a tiny sliver of a piece off, a crooked sliver. What? Monty was confused. Who would want such a small piece? Now Monty saw, the piece was being added to his stunted firstborn. He chuckled in relief. He looked over at the nearby table. There seemed to be a commotion. A sibling rivalry! One of his pieces was competing with the other in some sort of beauty contest. He watched.

One piece was Clarisse. She was had strawberries scattered on her surface and around her plate. It was very artistic, or so thought Monty. She even had a sprig of greenery sprouting out of her top. Monty blushed to think of the frivolity, but it did his heart proud to see how pretty she looked. Clarisse looked very appetizing and Monty was astounded that she was really, at heart, just a piece of pound cake, like himself. She looked like she was a gourmet creation, and not fraught of humble beginnings.



The other piece was Emily. She was rather plain, and her strawberries were heaped in a rainbow-like arc over her surface. Her crust was a very becoming golden brown and the juice of the strawberries on her was a nice touch. Emily was a humble piece, and she did not really care about superficiality and fashion. It was odd that she was even in the beauty pageant competition at all. But Monty was proud of her effort to be nice-looking, even if it failed.




Monty watched as the winner of the competition was announced. It was Clarisse. It was no surprise to him, and he was happy for Clarisse, but he was sad for Emily, too. They were finally taken away to be eaten, and Monty was happy that his pieces had achieved the glory of being devoured. He was shoved into a Tupperware not soon after and, while it was sad to be put away, his fears for his slices were also put to rest, with the belief that pound cake, ugly or beautiful, cannot help but be eaten.