Fiend!

My garbage smelled foul as I lifted the lid and threw in the wilted shards of the peonies. I could smell you rotting inside. And I wanted nothing more than to purge you, yes, you, even in your decaying state, from my kitchen. Heave you into a darkness deeper than the first one I condemned you to on Sunday morning.

You. Yes. You! Flat. Thin. But I did not stop there. Oh no, there was the tasteless punishment to be inflicted upon you.

Into the deep. To be forgotten about. Until your stench reached up and assaulted my senses and sensibilities.

Pancakes. Fiend! How you torment me.

My Jungian shadow clasping my eyes by way of my nostrils with visions of you sliding from my nonstick pan into a plastic grave. Oh you scoungrel! How you mocked me the very next morning at breakfast appearing on his plate. How beautifully you presented yourself. Tinged with lemon and ricotta, accessorized with blackberries and strawberries, showered with a deep amber maple syrup. I sneered at you as I tasted your fluffy flesh, secretly hoping to be able to snarl that most hurtful of all nouns in the English language--BISQUICK!

My body instead sagged at the truth. You could not be sullied with such ugliness. Such a thing could not prostitute that kitchen. No. You, fiend, were beautifully created with the most basic and simple ingredients. My enemy. My achilles heel.

I remember your presence years before tart with grated apples. How you mock me with those memories. One day I shall conquer you again as I slide my spatula swiftly under you, flipping until you are perfectly golden brown and sweating with just the faintest hint of melted butter. One day I shall have revenge on you that now mocks me from that rotting grave.