This post is part of Writer’s Digest February Flash Fiction Challenge. Flash Fiction is a short, often under 1,000 words, style of writing. I hope you enjoy my 28 contributions!
Day 4 Prompt: Write From a Kitchen Items Perspective
When Amy first pulled me out of my box, she said, “It is so beautiful!” A couple days later, sitting on her cool, dark granite counter, she pointed at me, exclaiming to her friend, “Did you see the new mixer Mike got me for Christmas?” It wasn’t until a week later that, in the midst of a cloud of flour, confectioners sugar, and baking powder, that I saw my shiny, metallic label in the reflection of a mixing bowl. My name was KitchenAid. I was tall, strong, shiny silver, and, dare I say, beautiful.
I was pre-programmed with a variety of speeds and settings and came complete with a bunch of different attachments. I could whisk egg whites into soft meringue, knead flour and yeast into bread, and cut thin sheets of dough into stringy pasta. I could do all the heavy lifting so that whoever used me could enjoy delicious, savory, or sweet treats created right in their own kitchen. I admit, I was a little conceited, but at my price point, who wouldn’t be?
You could imagine my dismay when I quickly realized that Amy was – how do I put this lightly – an amateur. Here I was, this incredible feat of engineering excellence, being filled and prodded and used by a culinary half-whit. I soon learned that her interest in baking was sparked by a recent binge of The Great British Baking Show and that her experience making even the simplest things was virtually nonexistent. She would turn my mixer on too high, let it run too long or not enough, or use the wrong attachment. Complying to her commands, I must have thrown pounds of flour all over her counter, overwhipped dozens of eggs, and under-kneaded mounds of bread dough.
The first few times she butchered a recipe, I was annoyed by her lack of baker’s intuitiveness and inability to comprehend the instructions. But, sensing her frustration and hearing her mumble self-deprecating phrases to herself, I began to have a change of heart. A couple days later, Amy was back in the kitchen, resilient and determined. I saw her concentrating on the recipes and more carefully measuring out the ingredients. She would mumble little prayers under her breath as she would pour items into my bowl and flip my settings. I noticed Amy growing into a baker and I resolved to help her become one.
Over her next several baking sessions, I did what I could to help Amy succeed. If she left me on for too long, I would emit a high pitch whirring sound, reminding her I was still mixing her concoction. If the butter was too cold to fold into the dough, I would launch it out of my bowl onto the counter, allowing it to soften a little more. If the mixture was getting too thick, I would slow down and rev my little engine, until she would add some more liquid. We were making a great team and I was getting increasingly satisfied watching her grow.
About a month after I first met Amy, she pulled out a recipe for an egg bread. He previous attempts at bread hadn’t been successful, despite my best efforts. She leaned against the counter and read over the recipe card a couple times, pulling out the ingredients and she read each line. I saw the yeast, flour, eggs, and the other ingredients pile up in front of me. She pulled me forward from my place against the backsplash in the corner of the counter and began measuring out the water and yeast. She poured both in my bowl and covered me with a cloth. I could feel the yeast bubbling inside me, activating and frothing. A couple minutes later, she added the oil, the eggs, and brown sugar, turning me on a low setting, just like I taught her. She began adding the flour, a little too quickly at first, so I whirred loudly until she slowed down adding the additional cups. My bowl was warm, and my fixture mushed the ingredients together until I was able to pull the sticky dough away from the walls. She covered me with some plastic wrap as I hugged the dough, feeling it grow inside me.
I nestled the dough for about two hours, the heat and moisture causing it to double in size. This was a good sign; this hadn’t happened before. Amy took the dough out and set it on a baking sheet, braiding the recently separated strands together. She tossed the baking sheet into the oven, whispering another one of her baker’s prayers as she did so, set the timer and walked out of the kitchen, backwards, her eyes fixed on the glass window. I saw her come in no less than five times to peer into the oven while it baked. Based on her smile, things must have been going well. Minutes before the timer beeped, a delicious, warm scent wafted throughout the kitchen. It smelled heavenly.
Admittedly, the anticipation was killing me. The timer rang out and Amy ran into the kitchen. She flipped the oven off closed her eyes momentarily before slowly opening the oven door. The most incredible smell poured out into the kitchen, wafting throughout the house. Amy knelt down and opened her eyes before squealing with excitement. She pulled the tray out of the oven to reveal a beautifully browned, tall, plump loaf. She yelled excitedly for Mike, who jogged into the kitchen, alarmed by Amy’s shriek. “Look, look! I did it!” she called.
From behind, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek. “It looks beautiful, honey.”
I saw tears in her eyes as she prodded the loaf lightly, marveling at its construction.
A little later, as she bathed my bowl and attachments in warm, soapy water, I thought to myself that Amy and I might actually make a great team. She dried my pieces and put them back on my stand before pushing me back into the cozy corner on her countertop. She looked around at the array of appliances, including me, with a big smile on her face before walking out of the kitchen.
