The Recipe Whore.

There was little time left if she was to make it in time to browse the selection a bit and ruffle up the cooks before choosing which one to go home with. She had over-napped in the afternoon, and the thought of being late made her heart race and stress shoot down her spinal column. She could have left immediately after awakening- groggy, unkempt and atrociously plain- but, no. Tonight, she needed to be a goddess. She revived her tired eyes with a splash of cold water, did her hair up messily in what she hoped was a sexy, cascading tier, and shrouded herself in her goddess apparel. When she added the final touch of mascara and light pink lip gloss on her dark, thin lips, she came close to looking like a mix between a bony gypsy and a manager of a health food store, but looked attractive nonetheless. 1

“Owen, I’m leaving darling!” The large, middle-aged man on the recliner grunted.2

“I believe that by tomorrow, I’ll have something new for you to try. Does that sound good, baby? Another little food critique for you!” His lumpy form shifted, and he threw the “OK” sign over his shoulder. She grabbed her small notebook, jingling and beaded like practically everything else adorning her layers of colored fabrics and leather straps, tucked a leopard-print pen dotted with small rhinestones into the spiral, and drove her small Toyota truck to the Potluck.3

She stepped into the community center with an air of confidence, believing herself to be the most exquisitely-dressed of all the smelly vegan punks circulating the tables of garbanzo beans, tofu and celery. She sniffed the air, hoping to sense a cuisine lovely and bold enough to overcome the strong bodily musk generally strewn about the room when these sorts of people were inclined to convene. Surprisingly enough, a warm, spicy aroma wafted into her flared nostrils and she closed her eyes. She let the odor cloud her brain, and as she identified each feature of the fragrance- garlic, pepper, white wine, parmesan- she had almost revealed the recipe before even tasting the dish. It was looking as if she need not even bother trying anyone else’s entry. Pity, she thought, dessert chefs were usually her favorite. Finally, she put on her most dazzling grin and decided to find out every aspect of this creation. She slid stealthily past the tattooed and the pierced, and spotted the pie, still untouched, on a blue and white checkered cloth at table three. The cook was not readily identified; she had looked the full circumference of the tables, so she glanced at the propped card bearing the chef’s name: “Frank De la Rosa- Eggplant Risotto Torta.” A sigh escaped her lips- the name was much too beautiful- and she fought the desire to take a tiny bite right then and there from the golden melted layer of cheese on top. The glass pan was set inside of a snugly fitting cloth sleeve, so try as she could, she could not make out any of the ingredients that might lie underneath the cheese covering. She touched the arm of a thin woman with dreadlocks and an apron trying to cross the room and spoke in a smooth, kind tone, 4

“Excuse me, Miss, do you happen to know where—” The woman looked up in surprise and stopped her mid-sentence. 5

“Kitty!” She threw her arms around the startled woman, and snagged her purple scarf with the spoon in her hand. 6

“Wow! How are you?” Remembrance spread across Kitty’s face and she smiled back, pretending the spoon she was trying to untangle from her scarf was of no significance. 7

“Oh, I’m fine…” Small talk continued and she soon became uncomfortable, not being able to remember the woman’s name. 8

“Look, um…” she grappled once more within her memory then gave up, the creator of the Eggplant Risotto Torta being a far more important mission, 9

“Darling, I just saw the most incredible looking pie on table three- do you know whom I may inquire for the recipe?” The woman nodded and laughed. 10

“Oh, Frank! I’ve been dying to try it-- not until the judging starts, I’m guessing. Yeah, he’s been around here. He’s the guy with a big kanji tattoo on his arm- short, blondish, little goatee? Still doing your thing then, huh?”11

“Yes, still at it.” Kitty smiled politely, but felt a little miffed at the word “thing.”12

“Thanks…” Kitty patted her bony shoulder, returned the spoon, smiled, and drifted back into the crowd. She weaved back and forth, peering at people’s arms, and craning her neck to get a good angle at the individual faces. The group was thin, so it was apparent after making a couple rounds of the room that he wasn’t there.  Still determined, she looked over her shoulder, and satisfied that no one was paying attention, slipped down the hallway into the men’s restroom. She crept up silently and looked around. Two men were using the urinals. One was tall, black and enrobed in striped, ceremonious-looking linen. The man behind him was a dwarf in comparison, with longish wavy blonde hair, and a goatee that was tied at the end with a rubber band. She waited impatiently behind her little corner, smiled awkwardly as the taller man left the restroom, giving her a perplexed look, and locked the door behind him. The shorter one had not yet noticed her, and with the other man gone, she could now see the thick black kanji markings on his upper arm. While he was washing his hands, she stepped forward so that he could clearly see her in the mirrors. He did not notice her for a moment, but after shutting off the faucet, his gaze jolted upward to the colorfully-clothed, beaded woman with gold jingling jewelry, half relaxing, half posing on the peeling bathroom wallpaper. He simply dried his hands on a paper towel, threw it away, faced her, and waited with polite confusion.13

“Frank?” she asked with what she believed to be a coy smile.14

“Uh, yeah?”15

Amused by his uncertainty, she glided forward and took his hand. “Oh, love. I’d be absolutely thrilled if you told me that I could be the first to try your marvelous creation on table three. It is you, of course who made the Eggplant Risotto Torta, isn’t it? Otherwise I’d feel so embarrassed…”16

“Oh, yeah, that’s me,” he assured her, “so… wait, why do you want to try it?”17

Kitty was annoyed with his apprehension, and snapped, “Darling, it smells fucking divine.” She felt a little remorse for her rudeness and moved closer to him, trying this time to be gentler. 18

“Honestly, Frank,” she cooed as she stroked the tiny, greasy ponytail on his goatee, “The thing is, I would really like to have that recipe” 19

She slid a finger down the neckline of her shirt and pressed against his chest, “And, I’d be willing to pay for it.” 20

Frank still looked mystified. “I don’t think it’s really something that I could sell—Oof!” Frank was taken aback. Kitty’s hand was gripped firmly around his groin, and she gazed seductively into his eyes.21

“Oh. Ok.”22

Not much more than seven minutes later, Kitty was trying with little success to spit as delicately and glamorously as she could into the nearest urinal. She prided herself on her speed.23

Frank zipped up and sighed, “So what’s your name again?”24

“Kitty. Kitty Morse. So nice to meet you, Frank,” she purred into his ear.25

“Right, evaluation will start soon… how about I meet you out there?”26

“I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a copy of the recipe,” she said sweetly.27

“Look, I don’t really do that. You’re the first to try my recipe… and then…”28

“Would it be too coarse of me to ask if we could go to your place afterward? I’d absolutely love to see your kitchen,” she interrupted.29

“Well… yeah. Sure. See ya.” He awkwardly gave her a little kiss on the cheek and left her leaning on the sink, digging through her clutch for breath mints. She found the tin, popped a handful in her mouth and rushed past the short line of angry, curious young men outside the door. Once in the main hall, she found a metal fold-up chair in a quiet area and perched upon it with a noisy screech.30

Kitty had been in the middle of a private argument with herself about whether or not she should bother looking for other recipes, when a disembodied voice boomed over the feedback of the poorly-planned audio system:31

“Would all guests please rally towards the judges table; there will be a short speech preceding the tasting.”32

Kitty rushed ahead of the group to get a good look at the elders with long white beards and braids taking their seats at the front of the room. She shot a piercing stare in order to notify each one that she would have made a far better choice as judge than any one of them, and that she had better receive a letter come next event. However, the small assembly of men and women were much too busy shuffling papers and looking important to notice, and her message was missed. The most ancient of them all, a World War Two veteran with thin wire glasses and kind eyes coughed, coughed, straightened his calcified backbone and fumbled with his tiny clip-on microphone.33

“Everyone ready, then?”34

He waited for the since-grown multitude to assume comfortable positions and quiet down. Kitty was relieved not to hear any more feedback. The man smiled, lifted his papers, and began his pre-written speech:35

“Fresh produce, as well as an increasing number of grains, is taking up more and more space on our collective dinner plate, pushing aside hefty portions of meat once thought of as necessary to a well-rounded diet…” Kitty drifted out of focus. 36

She shifted, flipped open her notepad and rubbed her thigh. It was an increasingly habitual characteristic that Kitty had developed into a now purposeful gesture. Ever since she had discovered that the itch in her leg, a result of anxiety or boredom, would not subside without physical attention, she practiced in the mirror until the motion of bending down slightly, finding the right spot, and moving her hand down, and down, over and over again, looked very suggestive and deliberate. It was no coincidence or negative consequence that uncomfortable situations often led to Kitty catching the eye of some handsome young thing. At this moment, Frank was forced to put his hand in his pocket to hide his growing limb, and focus all his attention on the old man rambling on about vegetarianism and good health.37

“Our appetite for red meat has decreased dramatically, though we do still enjoy poultry or fresh fish on occasion. Those who are about to embark on this new taste adventure will find the experience rewarding on more than the culinary front…”38

Kitty scribbled away in her notepad: 39

Prideful old geezer40

Everyone is a vegetarian here, who in hell are you trying to convert?41

Your nose hairs must have started strangling your brain42

Christ I’m hungry 43

She looked up from her doodle of a banana with arms and legs as the crowd gave a luke-warm round of applause. All cooks spread out, stood directly behind his or her respective entry, and watched the line of crooked, grey-haired geriatrics made their way to the tables. Kitty swept past the judges table and stuffed the written sermon into her notebook. There must be some good material in there somewhere. She stood close to Frank and his Torta so that she could dive-bomb the dish after each judge had raised their shaking, gnarled hands to their quivering lips, smiled, and moved on. In all, there were about twenty contestants, and at least two of the seven judges would taste each plate. Kitty knew she had made the right decision when all seven judge came back to taste Frank’s recipe. Even those haggard, walking corpses knew a damn good Torta when they tasted it, despite the fact that heir tongues must have had a total of three taste buds apiece. She yawned, clapped, rolled her eyes at another pointless speech, gave a phony smile to Frank as he pinned the blue ribbon to the tablecloth, and snatched the bowl he handed to her: first, as promised. It was only a slight trouble to stop salivating from anticipation, but oh, how wonderful it was when she closed her thin, leathery lips over that warm forkful of onion, pepper, parmesan, tomato, eggplant; what superb undertones of wine and garlic…but... 44

“Saffron,” she mumbled to herself, “needs saffron, and, good lord, fucking sun-dried tomatoes. These fresh ones aren’t cooked through - just nearly a disaster.”45

It was still incredible. A beautiful collection of flavors and textures, all in practically perfect proportion. Frank had talent, it was evident, but he lacked vision. Or creativity, or something. At any rate, it would soon be in Kitty’s hands, and she need only work with it a smidgeon to make it exquisite- to make it hers. 46

The potluck wrapped up quickly. Each vegetarian could only hold one portion of food apiece in their shrunken, deprived guts, and many dishes (for example- the sushi rolls made of tofu and olives served by a diseased-looking teenager) sadly didn’t get the chance to be devoured by the tasters. All cooks and guests collectively decided that it was about time to pack up, and meandered casually out the hall. Kitty saw the trickle out the doors, and scurried. She rushed Frank and his empty bowl to the parking lot, and avoided much time-consuming small-talk and chatter with acquaintances with her pure aura of self-importance and urgency. She leapt into her car and followed Frank’s Volvo into a forlorn neighborhood of tall, impressive houses and long stretches of lonely desert. She approached the driveway and sighed at the grand, two-story lodge at which she was going to work for the night. They got out of their cars together and strolled up to the front door, where Frank unlocked it and shuffled in, oblivious to Kitty’s intense gaze and charade of interest and lust.47

“Want a beer?” Frank yelled from within the dark. Kitty still wasn’t sure whether to go in or not- he seemed to not even notice she was there, and besides, she couldn’t see a thing. She tentatively inched her way in and called out as her sandal snagged a rug and she crashed into a corner of some furniture. The lights finally clicked on. Frank looked amused at her crumpled form, wincing and trying to rise from the edge of his bulky, abstract shelf. 48

“Well, do you have any wine?” Kitty meekly questioned, brushing at her hair and dress. Frank turned and walked towards the kitchen of brushed steel and impressive oak cabinetry.49

“Probably have some left,” he called back, “I made some this winter. Good shit, you’ll like it.”50

Kitty followed and watched, appalled, as he took a jug out from the refrigerator and set it on the counter along with a cracked mug that said “BOB’S WIFE’S MUG.”51

“Oh, sorry, want any ice?”52

Kitty slowly shook her head, and tried not to look disgusted. Frank didn’t care. He poured her drink and took a beer out of the refrigerator for himself.53

“So, uh, you married?” he asked and took a swig. 54

Kitty picked up her mug and downed the whole brew in three giant gulps. She hated when they wanted to get personal.55

“Yes,” she replied coldly, “Why do you ask?”56

“Oh…” Frank poured her some more and looked contemplative.57

“I guess you look the type, is all.”58

“Are you?”59

“Oh, no. Just broke up with my girlfriend a while ago. She was a bitch.”60

Kitty was on her second mug full of sour, rancid wine, starting to feel far more relaxed, and thought, why not? I’ll chat with the oaf before getting the recipe. He might trust me more. She shelled off layers of clothing until she was wearing only her small, tight, green dress. She kicked off her shoes and let them fall from the barstool.61

“I’m sorry to hear that, Frank.” Frank was also on his second, but in far better condition than her.62

“You a vegetarian?” It somehow seemed a relevant question for Kitty to ask.63

“Ha, not really. I’m more of a steak and potatoes kind of guy. But healthy shit is good too, you know?” Frank belched. Kitty giggled in a repulsed sort of way.64

“Well, health is what it’s all about though, isn’t it? The cavemen didn’t eat because they were bored, or depressed, or wanted to do something nice with the family. Their bodies needed nutrition, and that’s what they got, when they could. We’re past the point of spears and gazelle and barbarianism, and Christ, I think the country should really get out of this despicable cow phase.”65

“Yeah, well, sure. Whatever.”66

Kitty raised an eyebrow, finished drinking the third mug of Frank’s concoction, and pushed the mug away so that Frank would not pour her anymore.67

“Well, I’m not really vegetarian either, if you want to know the truth. My mother taught me how important nutrition really is, and so I really believe I should be, but I think I may be iron deficient, because I want red meat so much. I’ll only eat it… oh… once a month or so. I’ll supplement myself every day, along with my other vitamins. So that I won’t crave it as much.”68

Frank was a little lost on this subject, so he simply opened another beer and nodded. Kitty went on; she was very apparently passionate and buzzed.69

“But iron isn’t the only thing I crave. Don’t think any less of me, please, but I’m probably calcium deficient as well. Now when I say I crave, it means the same thing as ‘my body craves,’ because ever since I was little, my mother, Nicole, taught me how to be in tune with my levels of toxins, vitamins and Ph. She hadn’t perfected it, but I nearly have. I’m going to write a book about it some day- after I’m done with this one.”70

“You’re writing a book?” Frank immediately regretted his feigned interest.71

“Just a deal I got with HarperCollins Publishing Company. I’m doing a vegetarian cookbook. I’ll get enough from it to get my next shipment of vitamins. I go through a lot. 25 different minerals and nutrients I take a day, ever since I could swallow them. Nicole taught me well.”72

Kitty looked distant, and talked softly.73

“I’m starting on Omega 3 now. It’s important, you know.”74

Frank and Kitty left the kitchen and sat in the front room for a while, listening to German waltzes and admiring the furnishings and wall paper of the room. Frank drank four more beers. Kitty ordered him to take off his pants, and they fucked on the orange shag rug, Kitty inquiring about his cooking technique at every possible interval, until Frank passed out. Kitty tried to drive home, but pulled over halfway to her house and slept in her car on the side of the interstate. She awoke in the morning feeling cold and achy, clutching her notebook, spattered with the dried, crusted droplets of Frank De la Rosa drunken misfire, containing the secrets of his Eggplant Risotto Torta.