Necessity

May 10, 2007

Every day Roderick would create a desert that have never before been seen on Earth.

He had little choice in the matter – as a child, disappointed in the offerings of the local candy shop, he had sworn such a vow, a vow some whimsical deity chose to make binding.

It would be different if he actually had skill at the craft of confectionary – but no, he was merely passable. His works were inspired, but never fully realized. Each day a new genius thought would come to him, visions of peanuts and caramel and honey, ice cream and pie, strawberries and apples and peaches. The result was always edible, but it was never life changing. The first bite never shattered the world into an ecstasy of taste – it was simply nice, and he felt like it was such a waste devoting his life to this field without being able to capture a truly transcendental experience of flavor.

On the other hand, some days he would have been happy with something merely nice. The oath had been to create new desserts, after all, and whatever force sent him these ideas seemed occasionally more obsessed with invention over practicality. He had been staring at his kitchen for two hours already this morning, and still couldn’t bring himself to get started on the roast beef smores.

He would eventually, of course. But he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

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