Too Much Garlic

A new chef brings new flavors to the evening meal.

Too Much Garlic

          In the far-flung reaches of Idaho's wheat plains, where the wind whistles like a banshee in a choir, a strange stone manor sat, its turrets capped with black slate. Inside, the air was warm, the hearth a roaring orange heart, and the ancient family of Count Dracula. The very same nocturnal aristocrats who once ruled the misty valleys of Transylvania were gathered for their evening meal.

          For centuries, the Draculas had subsisted on a diet of rich, velvety blood. But after the last winter had turned the Carpathian peaks into an icy coffin, the family had migrated, following rumors of "blood as far as the eye can see." In Idaho, the Draculas discovered a new delicacy: a blood substitute sold in grocery stores under the name Vampire-Keen(TM). When mixed with ketchup, a mayonnaise derivative, and pickled pig's feet, it turned the bland, synthetic "blood" into a surprisingly tasty sloppy joe.

          Tonight was the inaugural sloppy joe feast, and the kitchen buzzed with the frantic energy of a first-time chef. Igor, the family's resident lab assistant/butler, had just introduced his twin sister, Igrela, to the ancient household. Hunched over, stocky, and perpetually smelling of cobwebs, she'd been persuaded by her brother to take over the kitchen after the previous chef, Sam, the poor victim of a blood spoilage incident, had been dismissed for opening the curtain at dawn.

          The Count, perched on a high-backed throne, raised a skeletal hand. "Proceed, my dear. Impress us as if your life depended on it."

          Igrela's eyes glittered. She had spent the past three days poring over ancient vampire cookbooks: The Blood Banquet, Midnight Morsels, and the obscure Ghoulish Gastronomy. She was determined to combine tradition with a dash of novelty.

          A steaming cauldron of water bubbled on the stove. Into it she dropped fresh, plump eyeballs procured from the local butcher (the butcher, a nervous man with a permanent sheen of sweat, had assured her they were "organically sourced"). One by one, the eyes bobbed like tiny, terrified buoys. As they cooked, Igrela whispered ancient chants to "seal the flavor," though most of the words sounded suspiciously like snippets from '90s pop songs. When the eyeballs were tender, she arranged them on a platter, looking up, drizzling them with a reduction of the blood substitute and a pinch of dried rosemary, a garnish the Count considered "surprisingly aromatic."

          In the adjoining kitchen, a dough rose like a waking giant. Igrela folded the Vampire Keen into swirls chilled to a gelatinous consistency, then baked the loaf until the crust sang a crisp, caramelized chorus. The result was a sweet, slightly metallic loaf that the Count described as "a delightful paradox of breakfast and a funeral."

          Now for the pie de resistance. Sam, it turned out, had not only been a negligent chef; he had previously served the Draculas' synthetic blood, and it wasn't even a name brand. This particular evening, Sam had volunteered his own leg for the feast by becoming a protein source.

          Igrela uncapped a jar of whole garlic cloves; each bulb as large as a crow's egg. She had never cooked with garlic before, but the ancient cookbooks warned that "garlic, when used sparingly, can add a depth of flavor that tickles the palate." Interpreting "sparingly" as "the entire jar," she pounded the cloves with a pestle, then she brushed the meat with a glaze of Vampire Keen(TM), garlic paste, and a drizzle of maple syrup.

          Inside the manor's grand dining hall, the table was set with ornate silverware (though the silver was heavily cursed to be Dracula-friendly), crystal goblets filled with chilled blood, and candles that burned a pale violet flame. The Count, his elegant wife Countess, their teenage son Junior, and a miniature imp named Fizz who floated like a mischievous hologram, took their seats, their fangs glinting in anticipation.

          "Igrela, you've outdone yourself!" the Count declared, tapping his silver fork against the glass. "Your eyeballs are... marvelously opaque, and this bread is... fluffily terrifying."

          Igrela beamed, cheeks flushed with pride, and presented the final dish: a golden, crackling leg of "Sam" perched atop a bed of roasted potatoes.

          The Count lifted his knife, sliced into the meat, and inhaled a fragrant puff of steam. "Ah... the scent of... something," he mused, before taking a generous bite.

          A moment of absolute silence fell over the hall. The Count's eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again. Fizz's little translucent wings fluttered in nervous circles.

          "Umm... Father?" Junior whispered, trying not to giggle. "Are you--are you okay?"

          The Count swallowed, his throat turning a shade of violet that matched his complexion. He coughed once, twice, then erupted in a sneeze that rattled the chandelier.

          The sneeze was so powerful it sent Fizz tumbling through the air. The Count's face turned a vibrant, almost comical shade of scarlet, and his trademark dignified composure cracked like a cracked mirror.

          "I'm... fine!" he rasped, attempting to regain his aristocratic poise. "It seems...garlic has been added."

          Across the table, Countess suppressed a laugh, spilling a splash of her blood substitute over the tablecloth. "My dear, you always did have a... sensitivity to spices."

          Igor, ever the dutiful brother, leapt from his seat, sweeping the displaced garlic cloves into a neat pile. "Quick! The anti-garlic spray!" he shouted, rushing to a cabinet marked "In Case of Garlic." He emerged clutching a spritz bottle, spraying a fine mist of powdered zombie eyelashes over the Count.

          The Count inhaled, his eyes twinkling with mischief again. "Ah, that does the trick. Next time," the Count declared, raising his goblet, "we shall stick to the classic blood substitute sloppy joe, and leave the garlic for the mortals."

          Igrela, cheeks still burning brighter than a sunrise over the Idaho plains, bowed deeply. "Thank you, Count. I'll remember no garlic."

          Igor clapped his twin on the back, chuckling. "Don't worry, little sis. You've got a great start. I am sure wherever Sam is, he would agree."

Word Count: 990
Prompt: "Too Much Garlic"