If a Chicken and a Half

Isabelle stood over the stove stirring the bubbling brew with her favorite wooden spoon, the long handle worn smooth from her touch. The large cast iron pot radiated heat from all sides, warming her stomach through the soft cotton of her T-shirt.

With one long tapered finger she touched the words on the worn page, the paper dark and stained from years of use; some corners dog-eared to mark a favorite recipe. Isabelle had found the book in a used book store while on vacation in New Orleans, almost lost between Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray’s newest tomes.

The small leather bound book was no larger than the average paperback, and it felt good to the touch, almost warm and the moment Isabelle held it in her hands she knew she had to take it home. Some of the writing inside was smudged beyond legibility, verifying that it was handwritten and not a copy; someone had spent a great deal of time creating it.

Isabelle had brought the book home in her purse, not trusting it to her checked luggage, and was home only one day before she chose a recipe from it’s pages and headed to the grocery to get the ingredients. The resulting roast duck with caramelized carrots and onions in a sweet brandy sauce melted in her mouth and elicited blissful sighs from her with every bite.

It had been two weeks since she had tried that first recipe, savoring each meal in the quiet solitude of her small London flat, pairing it with a wine that complimented it perfectly and following it up with a sweet pastry from the corner café.

Today’s meal was stew with chicken, veggies and cream. The list of herbs for this recipe had been strange, asking for things she’d had to order on-line, and the cooking directions had been very, very specific on the order in which to add the ingredients.

Isabelle had followed the directions perfectly, adding a little extra chicken since she had it, and as she tossed in the last of the herbs, chopped honeysuckle blossoms, a column of blue light erupted from the pot. With a gasp she staggered backward until her hips hit the counter opposite the stove, her topaz colored eyes wide.

The blue light flickered like a strobe, silver smoke and red sparks joining in the visual fray, the brightness increasing in intensity until Isabelle finally had to shield her eyes. She could hear the light, hear it sizzling through the air like lightening, and the sound grew louder and louder until she thought her ear drums would rupture.

As unexpectedly as it began the light and sound stopped and Isabelle staggered from the sudden silence. Blinking into the normal white light of her kitchen she stared wide-eyed at the nude man curled up in the middle of the floor. He had olive skin, warm and brown as though kissed often by the sun, and waves of dark hair crowned his head, the long locks spilling across the gray linoleum like silk.

He groaned, and at the sound Isabelle scurried away, pressing her back against the refrigerator and holding her wooden spoon out to ward the man off as he slowly climbed to his feet. When he stood before her it was all she could do not to let her gaze wander, with such a feast for the senses it was nothing short of a miracle she managed to hold his green stare.

“Who are you?” Isabelle asked, a tremor in her voice.

He smiled at her; white teeth flashing as his rich laugh enveloped her. “You tell me, you made me.”

Isabelle frowned at him, confused, and with another laugh he pointed at the cookbook that lay open on the counter. Moving slowly toward the book she picked it up and scanned the page, stopping when she reached the small, blurry footnote at the bottom: “If a chicken and a half is used, the results will be extra delicious.”