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Authors: Julie E. Czerneda
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chips.
I reached behind the DâDsellan dictionary and grinned, letting my tongue hang out one side of my jaw. Just enough . . .
Just then, an alarming popping sound alerted me to the peril of leaving any appliance unsupervised. I loped back to the kitchen, chips in one paw, only to find the pot of noodles had grown an intimidating mushroom of foam, fingers of it dripping down to the hot surface to spatter, pop, and hiss. As I hurried to contain the disaster, the tube of pseudo-cheese ruptured with the heat and sprayed over the side of the pot, forming a rapidly blackening crust. Some landed on my snout and arm, repulsively sticky.
First things first. I grabbed the handles and yanked the pot from the heat. The foam grumbled as it subsided, but no longer threatened to spill over the entire kitchen. I remembered, belatedly, to turn off the unit, adding a tang of scorched fur to the ambience as the attractive fringe under my forearm failed to clear the heating surface. Formerly attractive, I whined to myself, using a damp towel to extinguish any still-smoldering hairs while assaying the damage. Iâd have to trim the rest to match. On both arms. I could hear Ersh now: A waste of good mass.
Meanwhile, the pseudo-cheese had completed its escape from the tube and formed a nauseating puddle on the countertop. And down the front. The resulting combination of smells overpowered my presently sensitive nose. I cycled reluctantly . . .
My Human-self didnât care for the smells of burned starch, singed fur, and liberated cheese product either, but its duller olfactory sense let me ignore the combination. However, this form wasnât as large or strong as my birth one. Wiping droplets of water from my skin, I considered the now ominously large pot of boiling water, noodles, and dying foam. A little protection was probably in order before attempting the next stage.
After making sure everything but the empty oven was safely off, and damming the runaway pseudo-cheese behind a line of spice jars, I went to my room and pushed through the double row of silk caftans filling my closet. Behind was a wall, as one might expect, but unlike those at the back of most closets, mine was a second, concealed door. I keyed in the code, worrying what the pseudo-cheese was doing in my absence, and didnât delay any longer than it took to reach in somewhat blindly and grab some clothes suited to this form.
Back in my room, I realized Iâd grabbed my winter coat and a pair of shorts, but had no time to pick anything else. Cooking was dangerous stuff.
For a wonder, the cheese had behaved. The noodles, however, were now a sullen mass at the bottom of the pot. I shoved my sleeves out of the way, already too warm in the coat, and stood on tiptoe to decant most of the water. Steam immediately billowed up from the sink and I blew frantically to keep my line of sight free. The noodles didnât budge, even when I shook the pot.
I wasnât going to be defeated by pasta. My steam-dampened hair trailed into my face as I heaved the pot down to the floor, somehow keeping it from crushing my toes. The noodles were too hot to touch. No problem. I found the utensil in one of the drawers that Paul used to pick up and turn animal parts on the grill. The toothed edges bit into the lumpy mass in a most satisfactory manner.
I was able to pry loose enough noodles to fill the bottom of the fluted Iftsen baking dish weâd been given by a grateful client. The rest appeared permanently attached to the pot and I wasnât about to argue. Outside it went. Letâs see how you like the weather, I told it, only to discover conditions outside as close to balmy as Minas XII could provide. At least I could be sure that would change.
Meanwhile, the puddle of pseudo-cheese had cooled and thickened, but I scraped and pushed until most fell onto the noodles in the dish, forming little mountains of yellow-orange. The next step was, in my opinion, the only
I reached behind the DâDsellan dictionary and grinned, letting my tongue hang out one side of my jaw. Just enough . . .
Just then, an alarming popping sound alerted me to the peril of leaving any appliance unsupervised. I loped back to the kitchen, chips in one paw, only to find the pot of noodles had grown an intimidating mushroom of foam, fingers of it dripping down to the hot surface to spatter, pop, and hiss. As I hurried to contain the disaster, the tube of pseudo-cheese ruptured with the heat and sprayed over the side of the pot, forming a rapidly blackening crust. Some landed on my snout and arm, repulsively sticky.
First things first. I grabbed the handles and yanked the pot from the heat. The foam grumbled as it subsided, but no longer threatened to spill over the entire kitchen. I remembered, belatedly, to turn off the unit, adding a tang of scorched fur to the ambience as the attractive fringe under my forearm failed to clear the heating surface. Formerly attractive, I whined to myself, using a damp towel to extinguish any still-smoldering hairs while assaying the damage. Iâd have to trim the rest to match. On both arms. I could hear Ersh now: A waste of good mass.
Meanwhile, the pseudo-cheese had completed its escape from the tube and formed a nauseating puddle on the countertop. And down the front. The resulting combination of smells overpowered my presently sensitive nose. I cycled reluctantly . . .
My Human-self didnât care for the smells of burned starch, singed fur, and liberated cheese product either, but its duller olfactory sense let me ignore the combination. However, this form wasnât as large or strong as my birth one. Wiping droplets of water from my skin, I considered the now ominously large pot of boiling water, noodles, and dying foam. A little protection was probably in order before attempting the next stage.
After making sure everything but the empty oven was safely off, and damming the runaway pseudo-cheese behind a line of spice jars, I went to my room and pushed through the double row of silk caftans filling my closet. Behind was a wall, as one might expect, but unlike those at the back of most closets, mine was a second, concealed door. I keyed in the code, worrying what the pseudo-cheese was doing in my absence, and didnât delay any longer than it took to reach in somewhat blindly and grab some clothes suited to this form.
Back in my room, I realized Iâd grabbed my winter coat and a pair of shorts, but had no time to pick anything else. Cooking was dangerous stuff.
For a wonder, the cheese had behaved. The noodles, however, were now a sullen mass at the bottom of the pot. I shoved my sleeves out of the way, already too warm in the coat, and stood on tiptoe to decant most of the water. Steam immediately billowed up from the sink and I blew frantically to keep my line of sight free. The noodles didnât budge, even when I shook the pot.
I wasnât going to be defeated by pasta. My steam-dampened hair trailed into my face as I heaved the pot down to the floor, somehow keeping it from crushing my toes. The noodles were too hot to touch. No problem. I found the utensil in one of the drawers that Paul used to pick up and turn animal parts on the grill. The toothed edges bit into the lumpy mass in a most satisfactory manner.
I was able to pry loose enough noodles to fill the bottom of the fluted Iftsen baking dish weâd been given by a grateful client. The rest appeared permanently attached to the pot and I wasnât about to argue. Outside it went. Letâs see how you like the weather, I told it, only to discover conditions outside as close to balmy as Minas XII could provide. At least I could be sure that would change.
Meanwhile, the puddle of pseudo-cheese had cooled and thickened, but I scraped and pushed until most fell onto the noodles in the dish, forming little mountains of yellow-orange. The next step was, in my opinion, the only
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