Terror Tuesday: The Dinner Party

I hope you like this stew,  I made it just
For you and lovely Karen. It's so rare
To have such neighbors one can really trust.
Have more, I do insist. I mean it.  There
Is plenty, and I'm proud of it.  You taste
My secret additive, I bet! You two,
No fooling you! What's that? No, no, don't waste
A moment while it's hot. No, really,  you...
Your kids are fine.  Whatever do you mean?
They're outside in the yard.  See them at play?
I do not like your tone.  Don't make a scene!
I'd never harm them.  Cook them? Oh, I say!
That's horrifying! What? That's what you'd like?
Excuse me, then.  Oh no,  please,  no,  don't strike--

Throwback Thursday: Husbandry

Mab Mittel strode beside a tiny plot
Of grain of unknown origin. The seed
Had blown into her hut. She'd found a spot
To plant it on the sly, where none would need
The space. She watched it grow, her careful eye
And most discerning nose, both found it sweet.
The kernel it produced was flavorful
And even lucious. Soon she'd named it "wheat"
And pounded out her little crop, to pull
Its flavors from its chaff and straw to make
A powder. which she wetted down and left
To bake beneath the sun. When she did take
A bite of what she'd made, ideas soon came
To make it better. What should be its name?

Terror Tuesday: Ingredient Shopping

A table, unobtrusive, set with sweets
Of ev'ry hue and kind, was set beside
A beat-up van, one scarred by roads and streets
Much rougher than this town's. To it was tied
A sign "Big bake sale; all of local make
From fresh ingredients." "Come here and try
A piece of my world-famous Cowboy Cake--
Or is it Plumber Cake? I'll check. Hey, Cy,"
She said to someone in the van "What did
This feller do again? Ah never mind.
We're in Wyoming; odds are that the kid
Did somethin' like that. Cowboy Cake is fine.
What do you do, young lady?" Her lips curled.
"No, wait, don't tell. I've never tried Cowgirl!"

Throwback Thursday: Strange Cargoes

Home once again from trading, Cadno brought
Strange things 'most ev'ry time when he returned.
His Ogma did her best at home, and sought
To make good use of what she never spurned:
His gifts. 'Twas cruithneacht this time, a grain
He said had to be ground and milled, and then
Baked up with water somehow. It was plain
That this was what he wanted. He had been
A good provider, so his Ogma tried
Her best. There were some failures; luckily
He'd brought a lot. Then one day Ogma cried
In wonder, breaking off a piece to see
If this was what he'd meant. It was! And so
Came wheat to Britain, if not yet to grow.

Terror Tuesday: A Culinary Catastrophe

They'd been a dime a dozen at the store,
To introduce them to the market. New
Foodstuffs are hard to launch, indeed. What's more:
The things were an unwholesome shade of blue,
And just a little, tiny bit too big
To fit in standard cartons. "But they cook,
They scramble, boil or fry like chicken egg,
And have a lovely texture and, here look:
It's right here on the package: with a taste
More suited to the modern palate." She
Had shopped last night in unbecoming haste.
Her hungry fam'ly only could agree
To try them. Six weeks later, all were dead,
A Saukha chick emerging from each head.