It's been a while since I've written anything on account of my recent move...
But I'm all over advertising another wonderful project I've been published in: the Legend of Zelda-themed cookbook, Homemade in Hyrule (Vol. 2)! I got to write a piece based on Link's Awakening for its side zine "Kitchen Heroes." It's one of my favorite things I've written thus far. If I might be so bold... Some of the descriptors are peak.
Leftover sales for this latest volume of Homemade in Hyrule are happening now, and my fic (alongside many other wonderful pieces of writing) are available with any bundle. Leftovers are limited and only on offer until November 11, so I highly encourage you to pick up everything and enjoy not only my work, but all the incredible pieces of art, highly desirable merch, and delicious recipes contributed by dozens of folks from around the world!
Caramel swirls of fallen leaves ride a stiff breeze, scrawling cursive across bubblegum-blue sky. Autumn has come to Koholint Island.
Koholint is isolated at sea with a unique blend of critters (sentient ball-and-chains and fanged mushroom men among them), but it still experiences seasonal change. Summery beaches provide residents with a steady stream of fish and coconut palms, but the Mysterious Forest looming over Mabe Village is a distinct natural calendar.
Sparingly few sage trees pockmark a sunset sea of foliage: yellows, oranges, and reds blanketing the forest floor. Wild monsters prepare hidey-holes beneath mighty oaks to hibernate during the coming winter. They train their spears toward the canopy, gathering a harvest of red- and green-dressed apples until their arms strain from javelin tosses. Sprays of sugary fruit juice and maple sap sweeten the air.
In the clearing that opens to Mabe, away from patrolling monsters, a skulk of three red foxes dig and cake their noses chocolate brown. They clear crunchy sheets of leaves with sharp claws and sweeping brush tails in search of the most valuable bounty of the season. Soon one emerges with their prize: a Guardian Acorn, tapering five-segmented star body capped by a maroon call bell.
It gnashes the amber-tinged body of the acorn between ivory fangs before turning-tail and racing out of the forest.
Humdrum Mabe is eerily silent. Children typically at play are absent, as are Madam MeowMeow's beloved pets. The fox has free rein to race across town without steel chompers nipping at its orange-zest coat, each pad of its paws leaving a trail of prints in the muddied main path. It passes a Trendy Game shop whose whirring treadmills are at a complete standstill. Its eager pants may be the first signs of life this town has seen in time immemorial.
The fox ventures into Ukuku Prairie, back to the descending sun. Maple leaf boats drift lazily on the Key Cavern Lake, ripples disturbing stagnant, crystalline waters. Its fleet-footing makes it easy to hop over potholes and squeeze through overgrown tree roots. Soon enough, the fox skids into an alert, upright position. A mighty drawbridge stretches out from Kanalet Castle. Like Mabe, it is devoid of life. However, the castle masks this condition by virtue of stone and wood creaking against hearty winds, the same coat of arms rustling over numerous parapets.
Musk from hallowed halls and chipping, granular brick sends the traveling mammal back on its way. It scampers past Seashell Mansion, standing atop a nearby hill.
The fox picks up speed as Martha's Bay comes into view. Churning waters splash brine into Catfish's Maw, disappearing down the dungeon's gullet. This frothy body reflects the browns and sunset hues of its surroundings, though anyone who comes too close risks catching salty spray from break walls.
Determination fills the fox's slender, amber eyes; claws cut deep into the soil and kick up dirt as it charges. The Guardian Acorn's rigid shape strains between clenching teeth as the fox approaches the bank of a tributary to Martha's Bay.
A powerful leap tumbles the tributary's fence of stacked rocks—
It soars over rapids-wracked stalagmites—
And with a graceful landing, the fox continues toward Animal Village.
Unlike the rest of Koholint Island, homely Animal Village may as well be a bustling metropolis on this crisp afternoon. Dozens of people — human and anthropomorphic — are audible from leagues away. Saturated streamers decorate wooden stakes and a small handful of buildings.
A billowing orange banner hangs between deciduous trees at the settlement's entrance. It reads "Koholint Autumnal Festival", hastily marked by inkblot paw prints. Dotting each "i" is an acorn silhouette, the same iconography on posters and flags throughout the village.
Marin's siren song rings out over the ambient buzz of the crowd. She sways in her sky-blue smocked dress atop a stage erected outside Christine's home.
The fox never loses a beat, weaving between the legs of covered booths and festivalgoers alike. It draws a chaotic, winding path to reach a pop-up kitchen of boiling cauldrons and waxy tables in the field out by Animal Village's boarded well.
It heels along the left leg of a boy in a green tunic and white pants, drooling all over the Guardian Acorn. Orange dander clings to the boy's leather boots as the fox plods circles around him.
Link kneels and pets the visitor with one, two, three tender strokes from crown to tail. He smiles as the fox sits, forelegs hoisting a happy head while its bushy tail sweeps through bristling yellow grass.
Whimpering grows desperate until Link holds his free hand to the fox's muzzle. It opens with a childish "mbleh" and leaves its sopping-wet acorn in Link's palm. The boy's smile stretches credulity as he fans one finger closed at a time around the slobber.
After a ringing yawn, the fox snaps its maw and scampers around Link one last time. It then heads into the main festivities, chasing rabbits under Marin's alluring tune.
Link stands and wipes the acorn clean against his leggings, staining canvas fabric a moist silver. He plucks the paddle grater from a nearby table cluttered with various kitchen utensils. Clinking tools knock around loose teardrop seeds and splintered apple cores, some already browning from oxidation. Each of the twenty extracted rods has lingering red flesh on both poles, and an assortment of twiggy stem sizes.
He lifts the lid off a speckled granite pot with a rag left on its knob handle, releasing a fragrant wall of tart cherry potion that's so sharp it smacks him in the face. He instinctively shields himself with a tunic sleeve, but his eyes water despite the protection. Donut hole apples simmer in blood-red liquid over the roaring fire. Link takes a deep whiff, careful not to let his pointy elf hat dip into the cauldron.
He grates the acorn to amber dust, sprinkling it across wrinkled apple skin.
The hulking form of Chef Bear overshadows Link from behind, drooping chef's toque askew over his rounded right ear.
"You should be more liberal with your dusting, Link."
Standing against the outline of a goliath brown bear, Link looks miniscule. He cranes his neck back toward the chef, holding a half-ground acorn flush against the paddle grater's thorny divots. Link's arms stretch over the cauldron's steam to make sure no residual dust escapes, even after he stops grating.
"Hm?" The simple sounds portray Link's boyish charm.
Broad tracks trail behind Chef Bear, five toes and five claws separated over the top of each yam-shaped instep. Only a few blades spring back from his heavy steps.
"You're getting a lot of spice on this corner apple here, see?" Chef Bear taps his rightmost sunflower oven mitt on the air above Link's concoction, closest to where the boy stands. Indeed, the top of that fruit is completely amber-brown, sharing little with its brethren.
Then, the hulking mammal twirls his mitt around the pot's rim.
"Try to space it out. If you want, I can lower this so it's easier for you to reach."
Link huffs. His cheeks remain puffed as he focuses on the task at hand. He flicks his head counter-clockwise to hoist the tip of his hat over his shoulder, and gets on his toes for a better vantage over the cauldron, it held above high, crackling flames on a well-staked tripod.
With drawn-out, heavy swipes like clothing against a washboard, Link starts to scatter the spice over a wider range. His legs quiver trying to stay extended in his boots, but he's careful not to let anything more than his loose tunic hit the hot granite.
Chef Bear folds his fuzzy arms, craning his neck this way and that (by means of leaning half his body) to absorb Link's technique. He hums approvingly.
"You know… A dozen years I've seen islanders grace our festival centerpiece with their signature meal. Riding the winds of change, giving us a guiding light to weather winter's chill." The bear's booming baritone washes over Link. "Never anything like this. I've seen apples skinned. Sliced. Sautéed. Never cored and basted."
Heroic Link's elven ears perk up in realization. He scrambles to the prep table under Chef Bear's watchful eye, steps as spry as the foxes that supply his kitchen. The boy swaps out his grater for a ladle crusted in dry cherry juice, and he discards the worn-down Guardian Acorn. Then he attends to his unusual stew and ladles tart, bubbling brine that washes nutmeg into the drink.
"Wherever you're from must have spectacular restaurants." Chef Bear claps a paw on Link's shoulder, puffy mitts protecting the scrawny human from undue scratches.
Link nearly stumbles into the burning granite with a grunt.
Upon recovering his footing, he shares a meager smile and nod with the grizzly.
Chef Bear lumbers back to his station of spinning plates — or pans, as the case may be. Earth quakes wherever his prints stamp the grass, and pots rustle in his presence. Half a dozen dishes are in active development as the evening draws near: split squashes, softening yams, sizzling brussels, and carrot disks. Charred spices waft on the autumn breeze.
Salt.
Fat.
Acid.
Heat.
The erudite mammal yanks his cleaver from a wooden block. He wipes the blade clean of splinters on his green apron mid-stride, and then hacks the tail off a lunker bass lying on a crude cutting board. One powerful slice is all it takes.
Before Link closes his granite pot, the fruit medley mingles with earthy vegetation in the air. A veritable potpourri descends upon the festival.
Residents of Mabe, Animal Village, and wider Koholint mingle across the prairie. Dampé sits cross-legged in front of nine freshly dug holes. Children from Mabe crawl on hands and knees alongside rabbits on their hind legs, watching the man shuffle genuine chamber panels around a three-by-three grid. His joints creak each time an arm raises or droops, the undertaker's body taking cues from his wards after so many years.
Droning explanations for which artifact configurations will and won't work drift over the crowd of youngsters, 'S' sounds whistling through Dampé's jagged underbite. His impatient audience plots when to pounce and get a turn with the puzzle pieces, some already trying to dislodge his trusty shovel from its stake in the ground nearby.
In a far corner of the village, a young goat girl fidgets restlessly across from the prolific Mr. Write on a matching pair of wood-block lawn chairs. Chittering animals all around are but white noise to the couple, engrossed in a conversation about Mr. Write's plans for an immense, industrious city that he hopes to build whenever he next visits the mainland. His gesticulations are planned five steps in advance, and he follows the recipe with mechanically precision. Christine's bleating laughter cracks the purple-and-red sky above as she throws her head back with reckless abandon.
The way her pink bow resembles Mr. Write's twin peaks of frizzy green hair show they're two peas in a pod.
Their birds, a pair of parakeets fitting the opposite person's color scheme, similarly twitter in a harmonious conversation atop each chair back. They suddenly take off in a cacophony of fluttering wings, flocking to the culinary smells on the breeze.
Mr. Write nearly jolts out of his seat in surprise, round spectacles falling. The commotion leaves his blueprints scattered until Christine hands him the recovered glasses. She glows, hooves kicking over the grass like a kid as Mr. Write cleans his glasses with a goat-printed cloth before he reaffixes the eyewear.
The parakeets pass over a wide, clumsily cobbled-together stall on their way toward Link and Chef Bear's outdoor kitchen. A raucous air permeates everything around this epicenter of the festival.
The Trendy Gamester paces the length of a single-file line stretching nearly all the way back to Animal Village's entrance, high-kicking goose steps back-and-forth. He pounds a metal spoon against the back of a worn pot, drowning out complaints about wait time. People don't have time to grumble when they're shying away to cover their ears.
"Step right up!" The Gamester cries, hoarse voice straining above the sounds of clattering kitchenware. He only pauses briefly to fix his mirrored lavender glasses. "Get your festival merch right here at the trendiest shop this side of Mount Tamaranch!"
Partying animals weave to-and-fro between slim gaps in the line.
At the front, portly Madam MeowMeow and alligator artist Schule Donavitch wrestle over the last in-stock acorn bobble head. MeowMeow's free hand grasps desperately for Schule's cap, sagging cheeks dark red from the effort. Meanwhile, Schule's claws leave restrained nicks and scrapes across MeowMeow's sunset sundress as he attempts to shove her out of the way. Plushies, children's toys, postcards, and more are knocked over as the titanic battle rages over the stall's main shelf. The lucky ones merely jostle around atop its wrinkling white tablecloth. Others fall to the dirt below.
A cinnamon fur rabbit pokes its twitching muzzle from beneath the stall's tarp. It emerges, narrowly avoiding Madam MeowMeow's wild kicking heels, and nibbles the corner of an abandoned postcard that's plastered with maple leaves.
Then, an ethereal crack of lightning singes the rabbit's cottontail, and sends it hopping off with pained yelps. Wisps of smoke trail in its wake.
The force of nature sends Madam MeowMeow's three pet Chain Chomps into a tizzy, and their metallic barks shock the queuing crowd. All three bounce into the line, round bodies thudding as they pound holes in the grass and whip their iron chain tails. Island residents scatter for fear of razor-sharp teeth, and the Chain Chomps rattle Dampé's chamber panels as they pass.
Town Tool's Shopkeeper smiles his off-putting gremlin smile from behind the stall, body crackling with residual power despite standing still as a butler. He looks pleased to have scared a thief away from his merchandise and pays no mind to the all-out brawl currently breaking his pop-up shop.
As Chain Chomps tear across the festival, they draw the attention of Prince Richard's sword fighting class in the pool south of Animal Village. Four frogs croak a bellowing alarm and Richard commands his pupils with a resounding, "Charge!" He and his thirteen warrior-children gallantly trudge out of the pool with a kicked-up spritz of fragrant droplets. Richard's sword glints in the setting sun's pumpkin shade (which can't be said of the long sticks carried by his protégés).
Link squishes as close as possible to his boiling cauldron with feline flexibility when Richard's army storms by in a flurry of pitter-pattering footsteps like cackling fry oil.
As the heavenly scent of dinner reaches Marin, her button nose turns skyward. She hums a "Ballad of the Wind Fish" refrain while the cartoonish beckoning finger of the impending banquet draws her off stage, all-but-levitating. Her strappy sandals clatter down the stairs and across crunchy grass in a solo samba.
Tarin follows, barely able to keep pace with his best waddling jog. He stands a full head shorter than his daughter, but his bushy beard and tomato nose follow the symphony of smells up high in much the same way.
Link is so consumed by his baked apples that he fails to notice the duo for close to a minute after they arrive. He jumps out of his skin when Marin calls his name.
"This smells soooo tasty," she chirps.
The petals of Marin's hibiscus hairpiece bounce each time her ginger locks sway from shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped over her ruby necklace. Tarin agrees as he passes out of Marin's shadow. His rotund figure makes it hard to see the family resemblance, until one catches the matching glint in their eyes.
"Yes, you must let us have a taste!" Tarin hikes up the mushroom-stuffed mountaineer's pack.
Link assuages the jolly man with a sly smile and a hand on his shoulder.
Tarin takes the hint and backs off, joining his daughter arm-to-arm so they can watch Link work. The green-clad boy uses his ladle to carefully bob an apple from the pot. Pantone juice oozes from a few folds where geriatric skin cracks, collecting in the scoop like a soup dumpling. Link blocks the breeze with an outstretched hand to steady his delivery, but ultimately dumps the load onto the top plate in a stack of wood-carved platters. Despite his best-laid plans, it's a messy spectacle.
The apple sags on mushy skin along its side, compressed breathing as sweet-tart juices dribble from the hole where its core ought to be.
Link — carefully — cuts the apple in four cardinal directions from its gape. Then he hands its plate to a star-struck Marin and Tarin with his best customer service smile.
"Bon Appétit" is written in the silent boy's eyes.
Marin balances the plate from below with both hands, giving Tarin first crack at the steaming treat. He greedily takes a slice with plump fingers, only for its spongy body to bleed more fruit juice from the webbing of his palm down a luge track of arm hair.
He juggles the apple back-and-forth to a medley of pained sounds. "Oh! Ah!" Soon, it cools off enough for Tarin to suspend it between both index fingers and thumbs. "I gotcha now…" Marin giggles as she watches her father stretch out his lips in a kissing motion to meet the treat where it's at.
Chomp.
"Augth!"
Tarin drops three-fourths of his slice as the quarter bite scalds his tongue. He hops between feet with an unsteady gravity and fans his lips as he opens, closes, opens his mouth like a fish.
"Hh. Hhhh!"
The man nearly stumbles backward into one of the other campfires, but Chef Bear lays a mitt on Tarin's spine and pushes him out of danger with all the might that his immovable ursine frame commands. In his bumbling, Tarin swallows the too-hot bite, and he collapses belly-first on the field in groaning pain. Fly agaric mushrooms scatter from his pack, forming a maze of white-spotted, scarlet landmines, a veritable cereal floating in yellow grass.
A cinnamon rabbit thief with a singed tail easily conquers the maze to claim Tarin's discarded slice.
Learning a lesson from her oafish guardian, Marin takes a moment to blow on the literal apple of her eye. Once she feels confident, Marin picks up the piece and pops it in her mouth like a lollipop, starting with the maroon-gradient base that's most engorged with Link's bubbling potion. Her dark eyes flutter shut as she gnaws through a burst of mingling spice burn, cherry sour, and apple sweet.
Link grins, brown arms of his undershirt crossing his tunic.
"Oomph, Leenkh…"
She clasps her hands over her necklace again and hums like a songbird, reducing the apple slice to pure grain between her molars. She scrapes her right sandal back to tickle her toes in the grass, turning ever so slightly away.
"It's soft and mushy around the edges, easy to chew through." Her speech is no longer completely encumbered by the snack, but still comes out muffled as she holds the rest in her cheeks like a squirrel. "But the middle still has a crisp bite! It's like a game: When will you really have to chomp down?"
As Marin pauses to swallow, dipping her head into a hand to project modesty, Richard flaunts past Chef Bear's station with the iron tails of three Chain Chomps in tow.
A pair of excitable students hold the prince's white cape out from either corner, and wave their arms to make it billow. The rest of his army celebrates a few paces behind.
"And the flavor!" Marin chimes up, posture exploding from its modest start.
She moves her hand, and Link sees slivers of apple skin caught between her teeth.
"I've never tried cherries in my fruit salad before, but I have to now!" Marin's eyes sparkle as she laughs; as does the maroon dye on her tongue. "It tastes like it should be really tart, but getting absorbed into the sweeter apple cuts that down. Instead, it's like… Um…"
Marin's hair sashays as she circles her hands around one another like a paddle wheel charging her own brain.
"No… That's not it… More like… Hm…"
Link smiles at the display, watching smoke practically waft out of Marin's ears like an overwrought oven. He can only stand content for so long before thoughts of his dish begin creeping up his neck, hairs bristling like a cat on alert. The tunic-wearing boy slinks back to the cauldron as Marin continues to mull things over, hiking up in his boots to draw more cherry juice like water from a well.
He focuses on the bubbling apple soup so quickly that Marin is able to catch him off guard by tackling his left shoulder.
"I got it!" She latches onto his free arm. "It's like autumn. You get all the beautiful trees and critters from summer, but that cool chill from the coming winter makes them more exciting and colorful. Just like your cherry juice makes the apples burst with tongue-tingling flavor!"
"Ha!"
Link pumps the arm that Marin holds, molding her hands around the slight bump of his muscle. His sterling smile and bright eyes, barely hidden behind tufts of blonde hair, betray the triumphant sense that somebody understands his vision.
Marin pulls on Link to hoist herself up and keep her balance while glancing into the pot. She doubles back when her hibiscus threatens to add an extra flavor to the mix.
"Next time I'd add more of that brown spice, though." She pats Link's shoulder. "It really does wonders to ground everything with an earthy undertone."
He offers an approving thumbs-up and nod.
With that, Marin moves away. But she doesn't merely go about her life. She twirls off with all the grace of a dancer pirouetting across a stage, commanding all eyes under a performance designed for her innate charisma. The loose ends of the red ribbon tied around her waist flap in the breeze with lightly cracking whips.
"I'm so excited by this new sensation you've brought us, Link!" She plants her feet by the prone body of her father. "So excited I feel I could… No, I must—"
Marin folds her hands at her hips and bows her head, exuberant energy drawn into the ground so it can scatter amongst blades of grass.
Then, she lifts her gaze to the increasingly starry skies above.
An unfathomably large constellation twinkles in Marin's eyes, a whale of lights sailing through inky black.
She begins a heartfelt rendition of "Ballad of the Wind Fish".
Like moths to a flame, festivalgoers begin migrating across the field. Many carry torches, continuing their conversations in circles of buttery light that splash life onto the damp, cool earth.
The pair of parakeets dive into flapping wings, landing on each of Marin's shoulders. They join her chorus line. Notable figures flock to the trio's smorgasbord of an audience: Dampé clambers in like a creaking Stalfos, tending to a spade-shaped bruise on the back of his head. Madam MeowMeow's wild swaying is more joyous as she comes clutching a scuffed acorn bobble head to her bosom, worn and covered in scratch marks, the thing wobbling weakly on its springs. She's joined by the largest of her Chain Chomps, BowWow, who calmly ferries a brunette toddler with a gnarled stick sword. The great Prince Richard guides BowWow's chain, regal pep of a recent conquest in his stride. Meanwhile, Mr. Write shyly wipes his flushed cheek using his glasses-cleaning cloth, hoping to hide a kiss mark behind rote motions. Christine prances right alongside him, giddily hanging off his elbow.
Soon enough, they're all drawn to Link's crackling campfire, sparks rising to join the celestial whale.
"Looks like it's serving time, boyo." Chef Bear booms as he hypes Link up with an oven mitt on each shoulder.
"Hm!"
Link spends the rest of Marin's performance running between his cauldron and the table, delivering the remaining nineteen apples to Chef Bear so they can be sliced, plated, and disseminated to a growing crowd of Koholint natives. When the hero has an apple in his ladle, his steps are short, considered, cautious — feline tightrope walking across clothesline wire. No room for error.
But when he races back to get his next delivery, with bounding leaps across the grass, his curling, jubilant lips are unmistakable.