It was a Friday like any other; the salty air resisted the rigidity of winter, picking up whatever survived of the humidity slain by December in its trail. The coastal town stood in a fixed point of reminiscence for the liveliness of their summer nights, or, in more honest terms, the money they brought. It may be that the plus-10,000 population of this rustic haven romanticise their existence by default, but if you’re fed cool breeze and crystal blue in place of bitter coffee and fume, there’s no escaping the theatrics.
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![VEGETABLE SOUP // JOHARA ALMOGBEL]()
It was a Nice Kitchen. Not to say that other kitchens weren’t nice, they were, they just weren’t quite as Nice as the Kitchen. All wooden counter tops, and lovely white cupboards, with little nooks and crannies, and filled with spices and shiny utensils, and a positively enormous refrigerator and large windows that let in the light with the prettiest view of the garden.
The ruler of the Kitchen was a woman, a kind, wonderful Deliverer that made great pea soup. Her name was Mother, and she had four unruly loud children. Of course, that might just be my point of view, and what am I but a poor pickle in a jar? Anyway, those boys were always everywhere, in the cookie jar, over the fruit basket, stuck in the Fridge… it was very dangerous in those days. The children are all grown up now, off to Soil knows where, where they are no doubt terrorizing the food community. Mother is also away, perhaps visiting another Kitchen, as she frequently did. How do you know all this, you ask? Hah! What a typical question a human would ask. You see, as befitting my status of a Preserved Vegetable, my jar occupied a very lofty position Up Top, on a shelf where I can see the entire Kitchen.
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