This is not canon.
Not even remotely. But ideath was kind enough to give me her kitchen god after I wrote my last odd little thing, and I find myself thinking about it a lot. Here is a short little story to thank her and welcome the god to my home.
I got home from work, clucked at my robots, and picked up #61 from where it lay sprawled on the carpet. "Hello, 37. Hello, 179." I looked toward the window. "Hello, kitchen god."
"About time you got here," it answered immediately. "Now hurry up and preheat the oven before the dough collapses. Like last time." I slung my bag off my shoulder and obediently turned the oven on, setting it to 350. I never put anything inside, but the god doesn't seem to notice.
The kitchen god is a dried out lemon with cloves for eyes and a few bottom teeth made of rice. It was made by a friend in a house full of warmth and light and yeast, but that kitchen was being smashed and rebuilt and wouldn't be deity-friendly for a while. So now it was living with me. After years of blessing the compost and watching over the sourdough starter, it was going through a very unpleasant system shock.
Contrary to intuition, a small god can live and even flourish in an atheist household. I don't know how that works.
"You have the most unresponsive herbs I've ever met," it grumbled on the second day, "and they don't stay put like they should. It isn't right. How are they going to photosynthesize under these conditions?"
"These are a new kind of herb, very carefully tended for generations," I said soothingly. "We've bred them to pho-- er, synthesize electricity. I have several electric suns spread through the apartment. They're all in fine working order." It didn't seem convinced. Or maybe it was ignoring me again.
I bought it a plant of its very own, which seemed to do some good. It kept saying what a good example the basil was setting.
Despite my efforts (which included giving the kitchen god a secret IRC account, of which I'm sure it would disapprove), the robots weren't at all interested in theological outreach. Whenever I brought up the subject, I thought I detected a vague disdain. "You should show more respect," I told them. "This god is part of a rich tradition which is barely younger than organic intelligence itself. You could be ambassadors." But so far, nothing had gotten through to them.
And really, it was my fault. Years of cheap ramen, frozen vegetables, and canned ravioli hadn't launched any passion for the craft, art, or even science of cooking. Food was firmly stuck in the "messy biologicals" ghetto of the robot mind, and in my own. Faced with this comeuppance, I wasn't sure what to do.
I looked at the god again. It was mumbling to itself, predicting the bread would have too much salt. "What if I made tomato soup tomorrow?" I asked. "Should I use cream or coconut milk?"
"What?" it snapped. "I'm trying to -- oh."
It was silent for a moment.
"Coconut, my child."
I got home from work, clucked at my robots, and picked up #61 from where it lay sprawled on the carpet. "Hello, 37. Hello, 179." I looked toward the window. "Hello, kitchen god."
"About time you got here," it answered immediately. "Now hurry up and preheat the oven before the dough collapses. Like last time." I slung my bag off my shoulder and obediently turned the oven on, setting it to 350. I never put anything inside, but the god doesn't seem to notice.
The kitchen god is a dried out lemon with cloves for eyes and a few bottom teeth made of rice. It was made by a friend in a house full of warmth and light and yeast, but that kitchen was being smashed and rebuilt and wouldn't be deity-friendly for a while. So now it was living with me. After years of blessing the compost and watching over the sourdough starter, it was going through a very unpleasant system shock.
Contrary to intuition, a small god can live and even flourish in an atheist household. I don't know how that works.
"You have the most unresponsive herbs I've ever met," it grumbled on the second day, "and they don't stay put like they should. It isn't right. How are they going to photosynthesize under these conditions?"
"These are a new kind of herb, very carefully tended for generations," I said soothingly. "We've bred them to pho-- er, synthesize electricity. I have several electric suns spread through the apartment. They're all in fine working order." It didn't seem convinced. Or maybe it was ignoring me again.
I bought it a plant of its very own, which seemed to do some good. It kept saying what a good example the basil was setting.
Despite my efforts (which included giving the kitchen god a secret IRC account, of which I'm sure it would disapprove), the robots weren't at all interested in theological outreach. Whenever I brought up the subject, I thought I detected a vague disdain. "You should show more respect," I told them. "This god is part of a rich tradition which is barely younger than organic intelligence itself. You could be ambassadors." But so far, nothing had gotten through to them.
And really, it was my fault. Years of cheap ramen, frozen vegetables, and canned ravioli hadn't launched any passion for the craft, art, or even science of cooking. Food was firmly stuck in the "messy biologicals" ghetto of the robot mind, and in my own. Faced with this comeuppance, I wasn't sure what to do.
I looked at the god again. It was mumbling to itself, predicting the bread would have too much salt. "What if I made tomato soup tomorrow?" I asked. "Should I use cream or coconut milk?"
"What?" it snapped. "I'm trying to -- oh."
It was silent for a moment.
"Coconut, my child."