Wax

The Cuisine of Dreams

There once reigned a god who never knew what it was like to be full. He called himself the god of cuisine, once the greatest chef to grace the human realm, who'd ascended as an almighty deity upon his end.

The god of cuisine was hungry always. The growl of his stomach was enough to shake the earth and call upon the skies for thunderous storms and howling winds. His followers would leave offerings of exquisite nature—made from scratch by chefs all over the world—on his altar and there, he would feast.

From the greatest of grass-fed beef to the fattiest of tunas, the god of cuisine tasted it all. Every dessert. Every napoleon, cannoli, madeline; every piece of truffle, gold leaf; every bourguignon, lobster, bouillabaisse, potato dauphinoise. For centuries, he ate endlessly; loving every single dish offered to him by the human chefs and yet.

Yet, he was never full.

And so one day, the god decided to seek out the world's best chef. The one person in the human realm who could sate his never-ending hunger and rid of his suffering once and for all. He thus instructed his followers to host a competition in search of the Cuisine of Dreams. The winner would not only be crowned as the world's best chef, but also become the first and only apprentice of the god of cuisine.

Word began to spread across every land of the human realm and soon, the best chefs were gathered to serve the god of cuisine. Bright-eyed hopefuls found themselves drawn toward the prospect of a crown—a title recognized even by the gods above—and thus, a line began to form. Every participant would present a dish they made and thought worthy of the Cuisine of Dreams, waiting before the god as he ate.

"This isn't good enough," said He after every dish. And the more he ate, the more desperate he became. "They're all not good enough."

Distraught, the human chefs and followers began to increase the quantity and quality of every dish. No pasta was complete without two whole pieces of shaved black truffle and no charcuterie board was served without three servings of Almas caviar. Still, the god of cuisine could not be filled.

As time passed, every chef in the world had been given an audience with the god and every single one of them returned defeated. In fact, so much time had passed and so many dishes He'd stomached that in the end, everything had begun to taste the same. With the line cleared and no other chef in the world remaining to rise up to the challenge, the god of cuisine decided to put an end to the competition and call for a close.

Hearing this, a young boy came up to the altar with a lunchbox in hand. This, he presented to the god, gazing up at him with candles for eyes.

"Eat this," he said.

The god peered into his lunchbox, surprised to see something as ordinary as pieces of fried chicken. His followers were enraged and attempted to send the boy away for presenting such a mundane dish to the god of cuisine, clearly unworthy of being the Cuisine of Dreams.

"Wait," said He, holding up a hand. "Did you make this yourself?"

"No," said the boy. "My mom made it."

"So... what you're saying is... your mother is the best chef in the world?"

Candles for eyes did not quite understand the inference presented to him by the god of cuisine. "Maybe."

This made the god laugh. He gestured for the boy to be sat at his private table and dismissed his followers from the altar—surprising everyone thus so. For what did the god see in this boy and his plain old lunchbox of ordinary fried chicken?

No one knew.

"Try it," offered the boy once more when they were alone.

The god picked up a piece of chicken and bit into it with a resounding crunch. It tasted of nothing. And still, he hungered. This came to the god as quite the shock. He'd been so sure that after a long and tedious search, he'd see poetic justice in a young boy with candles for eyes—so sure that the world's best chef had been the one majestic entity with an iron grip on all of humanity: Love.

Alas, he was wrong.

"I'm sorry my boy," said the god of cuisine. "But this is not the Cuisine of Dreams. Still, I hunger."

"Will you cook me something, then?" The boy gazed up at the god who seemed old and tired. "How long has it been since you used the kitchen?"

Indeed, how long has it been? The god of cuisine himself could not come up with an answer. Decades; centuries; millennia, perhaps. He did not know. Memories of him as, once, the best chef in the world, were vague and forgotten. And so, he promised the boy that he would return with something for him.

Some time would pass before the god emerged from his kitchen with a dish he thought worthy of the Cuisine of Dreams and yet, the boy was nowhere to be found.

In his place was a mirror.

And as the god sat at the empty table with his dish and gazed into the looking glass, he saw, staring right back at him, a pair of candle eyes that were none other than his own. And right before him—the dish that would sate his never-ending hunger and fill the hole in his heart. 

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A/N: I'm so very sorry it's been such a long time since I last wrote. I never like to admit that I 'don't have time to write anymore' because while that could very well be a reasonable excuse to many, it is not to me. Writing has become such an integral part of my life that I may very well feel ill from not doing it for some time. In fact, I never wish to stop. 

It takes bursts of inspiration to fuel the writer in me nowadays, very much unlike the me of the past, who could somehow persist throughout the weeks and pull through every word despite how I was feeling. I have come to look at writing in a different light--very much less of a duty and more of a long lost friend at the back of my head as I go about my daily life. Working. Eating. Sleeping. 

I have so much in store for Vanilla and Leroy; and also for other series in my head like Flight School and a completely new book I wish to start (god forbid). And yet, the anxiety that it produces... knowing that I have so much in store and so much to write and deliver, how I'd ever get there and hoping I'd keep up the quality of my work, all that anxiety--I have come to cast it away. 

I will no longer feel the pressure to write. And this is my biggest apology to those who have been waiting so diligently, so religiously for a snippet of something every week. I apologize greatly. From the bottom of my heart. 

Please know that this is not giving up. I wrote about a thousand words today for the next chapter of Wax. I just take much longer to do so because I feel less pressure to write now; a part of me having come to terms with time as an abstract entity that should not, ever, be an enemy of mine. 

Thank you for reading this. And for staying. If I should ever feel the insane drive to write every single day, I shall do so. If I should ever feel the slow of a hundred words a week, that would have to be the case. For now, I will settle for a happy in-between. 

-Cuppie