Chapter 9

Big Broiling Birthday Brew

The party was, like I expected, a total smasher. It was awfully funny to see those wealthy pigs get loose. Too bad the firelord wasn't there, I was yarning to laugh him off because he would be drunk and do stupid dances or something similar. Well, I got a new chance to mock royalty; his come-back from Omashu three days later. They seemed to feel the urge to throw a feast for every stupid little thing concerning firelord Yuck-o, or whatever he was called. I sucked at remembering the names of boring people. When I got at the almost two kilometre entranceway, I saw Zama and decided to have a little chat.

'Hey Zama, did you get good feedback on the diner?'

'Hey… wait I've kind of forgotten your name.'

'Mera Lin.'

'Yeah, Mera Lin. They really appreciated the food, I even got a compliment concerning the garnishing. That's completely yours, of course.'

She gave me a somewhat overdone blink and a mysterious grin.

'I talked to Charzo, the head of the garden management. I could really use your help in the kitchen. He agreed, since you were "slightly tended to prune oblique".'

She giggled like a little girl who just told a gossip to her best friend, a really scrumptious gossip which was never to be told to anybody. Except for that friend.

'So, would you like to be my junior-cook? You said yourself it was a lot better than abridging trees.'

'But of course, it would be great to work with food all day.'

And to be rid of my annoying and scary employer, I added in silence.

Working in the kitchen was a lot tougher than I hoped. After a few days I began to realise it was hard working. A whole team of cooks relied on you. You just couldn't be slow, or your would be fired. And don't get me started about those nosy and intervening colleagues. There wasn't any time left to dream. Well, of course there wasn't anyone to dream of, but you know what I mean. Time was spend in a collective, up-tempo way. Sometimes I wondered if it was a good idea to let our nation be ruled by some people who where incapable to make their own food. Really, where was this world going?

The good thing about this job though, was that we could eat the leftovers. Lots better than my mothers stew; brewed with ache, complains, fear and misery. My mother always had something that ached, itched, bruised or a combination of those. At least I wasn't fragile like her. Instead, I looked like my father, which was worse than any itchy achy bruise on this whole earth. But enough talk about the bodies of my creators; much work had to be done before Thursday, the big day. The day on which mister royal reached a not-so-important age. Hurray.