It had been two months since Chuck had returned home from school as a graduate, and yet the moment his mother’s rooster crowed, he still tried to turn off his bedside alarm. His hand landed heavily on the empty nightstand, rattling the contents within. Aww, man… just one morning to sleep in, that’s all I’m asking…
Of course, he knew he’d regret actually staying asleep. With a heavy sigh, he pealed himself off the twin-queen bed, yoinking his tail from the crevice between the two length-wise beds. His feet found the floor first and slid into his oversized, fluffy house slippers. He grabbed his custom-made mittens and soon his covered hands found the floor too.
He missed the barracks back at the boarding school. The fifteen-foot ceilings of the all-boys dorm meant he could just barely stand up. Here, with the nine-foot ceilings, he had to walk on all fours, butt up in the air and tail hung low like a struck dog.
A trip to the bathroom had the overgrown lizard on his knees to drain the proverbial lizard. This was about the same from school, except at least here he didn’t peer over walls into other stalls. The only thing new was the need to take off then put on the mittens to get around. No room in this old home had ceilings over nine feet. At least the school had a minimum ceiling height of eleven feet, just enough to walk hunched.
With his morning business done and hands washed and recovered, he padded his way towards the kitchen to get breakfast started.
“Hey, munchkin! I was about to--”
“Sit your butt down, before I tell Dad,” Chuck interjected. The woman in front of him was just a run-of-the-mill human. Five foot, three inches tall, she had luxurious brunette hair and the biggest blue eyes with barely a hint of wrinkles. Mimi, as the town called her, had a plethora of remedies for beauty - and the touch of her skill as an enchanter assured they worked.
The woman was a third the height of Chuck, but sure enough this was his mother; Mia-May Hamsley. “Okay, okay, I just thought I’d give you a break!” She held her hands up in mock defeat. “Besides, you may be some hot-shot chef in the making, but I still know how to cook!” Despite her age, she stuck her tongue out at Chuck like some middle-grader who had just been told off.
Chuck gave her a deadpan with a cocked brow. Luminescent blues just stare her down. “Fine, fine, I’ll go!” She gave up her place at the stove with a playful sigh of defeat. She strode over to wrap one of Chuck’s arms in a tight hug. “Potato cakes and fried ham, please?”
“I have a better idea,” he chuckled. “Go tell Dad I’ll have breakfast ready in about thirty minutes.” He craned his head down to place a kiss atop his mother’s head. “Spicy or mild?”
“Mild please!” She chirped. “Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll at least do those for you, okay?”
“Sure, Mom. Sounds like a fair trade.” She finally released his arm and took her leave. “Love ya, Mom,” he called. She responded in kind, leaving him to his morning routine.
Chuck shifted to walk about on his knees, head ducked low and tail held out for a solid counterbalance. First, he pulled out a dozen medium-sized russet potatoes. He gave each a firm poke with his round-tipped thumb-claw for firmness. Satisfied, he plucked a knife and made quick work of cubing them, skin still on.
With the potatoes in a colander, he gave the vegetables a good wash, then into a pot of water to boil. He added a few pinches of salt, a dollop of butter, and a few drops of hot sauce. He snapped his fingers and pointed finger guns at the yet-to-boil pot of potatoes. “I should take you in for premeditated murder, ‘cause yer gonna kill it!”
After the momentary self-praise, he moved to the next big contender. From the fridge, he pulled a pork belly fresh from yesterday’s slaughter. While the potatoes were boiling, he took a thinner knife between two fingers and expertly peeled away the larger ribbons of fat and cubed the hunks of meat.
Once he had cut the fat content down, he plopped the fat into a pan on low heat to render and melt down nice and slow, along with a pinch of salt.
The meat was last, and he made a speedy step of stuffing it into a manual meat grinder, rendering it down to ribbons of ground pork. He hated this grinder though. It was so tiny, and even though it was solid steel, the gears were delicate and he always seemed to torque it a little too hard and jam something or another.
Once he was finished wiggling and jostling the arm of the grinder back into a functional position, he tackled the meat with a hearty helping of salt, pepper, a pinch of cumin and a pinch of garlic powder before washing his hands and getting into the mix knuckle-deep. After the first round of mixing, he cracked in two eggs, mixed again, then went to quickly stir the potatoes as they bubbled away.
The fat had rendered down, and now he added a pinch of salt, a dollop of maple syrup, a spoon of brown sugar - nearly dropping the tiny utensil in the process. He gave it another stir and let it slowly warm back up again.
Had he the ability to sweat, Chuck might have broken one with the rising heat in the kitchen. He took the bowl of pulverized sticky meat to the stove, took up another pan, and began rolling up the meat into little sausage-like rolls. Again, employing low heat, he tossed a number into the pan and covered it.
The fat mix was bubbling away once again. He added in pinches of flower with one hand, while whisking with the other. Slowly, a thick roux was forming.
This was crunch time. He kept stirring the roux while the other hand lifted the lid off the pan of sausages to give them a roll. After the lid was back on, he took a tiny fork to poke the potatoes. Soft as a cloud! He mentally cooed to himself.
While still wisking, he took the pot by one handle and stretched that impressive wingspan of his to dump the potatoes into a colander in the sink. “Don’t go nowhere,” Chuck warned the potatoes - as if they’d sprout legs and run off.
The roux puffed up wonderfully, so it could finally come off the heat. The sausages were mostly done, and slightly crumbly. Perfect! He turned off the heat to let them steam a bit longer. “Final stretch,” he urged himself cheerfully.
The colander of potatoes were pulled out of the sink and dumped into a bowl. He took up a potato masher to mash and crush the starchy cubes. Into the mix he added a bit of butter, a touch of milk, and a pinch more salt.
Chuck believed in seasoning every step of the process, in moderate amounts of course.
By the time he had mashed and splashed his way to a bowl of thick mashed potatoes, they had cooled just enough. He brought the bowl to the sausage pan and pulled up the crumbly rolls with a spatula.
He pattied out the mashed potatoes, laid a sausage roll in, added a bit of goat cheese to one side, and the sweet roux to the other. The potato patty was rolled around to capture the sausage, roux and cheese within… and then tossed into the sausage pan to fry in the grease.
Of course, he could not finish one meal without interjection. “By all the stars in heaven, that smells divine.” He could hear his father from down the hall, walking through, minding his own business when he was struck by the smell.
“Five minutes, Dad. Actually, could you help me set the table?” Chuck called out.
His father almost stormed into the kitchen. “Gladly.” Anyone else might have looked at this six-foot, well dressed man and assumed him a butler with how ready he was to work. Xvartantu, or Varta, as the town called him, was always a man of rather posh fashion.
This six-foot-nothing, salt and pepper haired man shared Chuck’s luminescent blue eyes. Otherwise, he looked like a well groomed human. So far was that from the truth: behind that faux form was a well aged dragon with Olde magic running through his draconic blood.
Yet… here he stood. Ready to move plates and platters like a busboy. He waited silently, patiently, until Chuck filled a platter with twenty of his odd fried potato rolls. “Eight, eight and four. I’ll grab the syrup and hot sauce.”
“Don’t overwork yourself there, son.” His father teased as he took the heavy steel tray and made off for the dining room. Chuck took up the condiments and awkwardly followed on his knees, ducking still beneath the frames of each wide door, or crawling through those too narrow for his broad shoulders.
His mother was already seated, his father was sorting plates. He had taken Chuck’s orders, giving his wife four - probably more than she could even eat - and eight for both himself and his son. Varta may have a human form, but it was little more than an illusion, he still ate meals fit for his true grandeur.
“I see; king of the castle has picked out the fluffiest,” Chuck chuckled.
“Listen here, I just plated them randomly - it was fate that the thicc-with-two-C’s cake found me,” he smirked wickedly. “Now hush up and take a seat. If we don’t eat, I’ll start gnawing on your arm.”
He may be a beast in disguise, but he’s still a dad… aweful jokes included. Chuck was still grinning, the thick, leathery hide of his maw turned upwards at each corner.
He sat down, not quite ready to see if his father was joking or actually starved after Mom’s attempt at dinner the night before.
Of course, he knew he’d regret actually staying asleep. With a heavy sigh, he pealed himself off the twin-queen bed, yoinking his tail from the crevice between the two length-wise beds. His feet found the floor first and slid into his oversized, fluffy house slippers. He grabbed his custom-made mittens and soon his covered hands found the floor too.
He missed the barracks back at the boarding school. The fifteen-foot ceilings of the all-boys dorm meant he could just barely stand up. Here, with the nine-foot ceilings, he had to walk on all fours, butt up in the air and tail hung low like a struck dog.
A trip to the bathroom had the overgrown lizard on his knees to drain the proverbial lizard. This was about the same from school, except at least here he didn’t peer over walls into other stalls. The only thing new was the need to take off then put on the mittens to get around. No room in this old home had ceilings over nine feet. At least the school had a minimum ceiling height of eleven feet, just enough to walk hunched.
With his morning business done and hands washed and recovered, he padded his way towards the kitchen to get breakfast started.
“Hey, munchkin! I was about to--”
“Sit your butt down, before I tell Dad,” Chuck interjected. The woman in front of him was just a run-of-the-mill human. Five foot, three inches tall, she had luxurious brunette hair and the biggest blue eyes with barely a hint of wrinkles. Mimi, as the town called her, had a plethora of remedies for beauty - and the touch of her skill as an enchanter assured they worked.
The woman was a third the height of Chuck, but sure enough this was his mother; Mia-May Hamsley. “Okay, okay, I just thought I’d give you a break!” She held her hands up in mock defeat. “Besides, you may be some hot-shot chef in the making, but I still know how to cook!” Despite her age, she stuck her tongue out at Chuck like some middle-grader who had just been told off.
Chuck gave her a deadpan with a cocked brow. Luminescent blues just stare her down. “Fine, fine, I’ll go!” She gave up her place at the stove with a playful sigh of defeat. She strode over to wrap one of Chuck’s arms in a tight hug. “Potato cakes and fried ham, please?”
“I have a better idea,” he chuckled. “Go tell Dad I’ll have breakfast ready in about thirty minutes.” He craned his head down to place a kiss atop his mother’s head. “Spicy or mild?”
“Mild please!” She chirped. “Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll at least do those for you, okay?”
“Sure, Mom. Sounds like a fair trade.” She finally released his arm and took her leave. “Love ya, Mom,” he called. She responded in kind, leaving him to his morning routine.
Chuck shifted to walk about on his knees, head ducked low and tail held out for a solid counterbalance. First, he pulled out a dozen medium-sized russet potatoes. He gave each a firm poke with his round-tipped thumb-claw for firmness. Satisfied, he plucked a knife and made quick work of cubing them, skin still on.
With the potatoes in a colander, he gave the vegetables a good wash, then into a pot of water to boil. He added a few pinches of salt, a dollop of butter, and a few drops of hot sauce. He snapped his fingers and pointed finger guns at the yet-to-boil pot of potatoes. “I should take you in for premeditated murder, ‘cause yer gonna kill it!”
After the momentary self-praise, he moved to the next big contender. From the fridge, he pulled a pork belly fresh from yesterday’s slaughter. While the potatoes were boiling, he took a thinner knife between two fingers and expertly peeled away the larger ribbons of fat and cubed the hunks of meat.
Once he had cut the fat content down, he plopped the fat into a pan on low heat to render and melt down nice and slow, along with a pinch of salt.
The meat was last, and he made a speedy step of stuffing it into a manual meat grinder, rendering it down to ribbons of ground pork. He hated this grinder though. It was so tiny, and even though it was solid steel, the gears were delicate and he always seemed to torque it a little too hard and jam something or another.
Once he was finished wiggling and jostling the arm of the grinder back into a functional position, he tackled the meat with a hearty helping of salt, pepper, a pinch of cumin and a pinch of garlic powder before washing his hands and getting into the mix knuckle-deep. After the first round of mixing, he cracked in two eggs, mixed again, then went to quickly stir the potatoes as they bubbled away.
The fat had rendered down, and now he added a pinch of salt, a dollop of maple syrup, a spoon of brown sugar - nearly dropping the tiny utensil in the process. He gave it another stir and let it slowly warm back up again.
Had he the ability to sweat, Chuck might have broken one with the rising heat in the kitchen. He took the bowl of pulverized sticky meat to the stove, took up another pan, and began rolling up the meat into little sausage-like rolls. Again, employing low heat, he tossed a number into the pan and covered it.
The fat mix was bubbling away once again. He added in pinches of flower with one hand, while whisking with the other. Slowly, a thick roux was forming.
This was crunch time. He kept stirring the roux while the other hand lifted the lid off the pan of sausages to give them a roll. After the lid was back on, he took a tiny fork to poke the potatoes. Soft as a cloud! He mentally cooed to himself.
While still wisking, he took the pot by one handle and stretched that impressive wingspan of his to dump the potatoes into a colander in the sink. “Don’t go nowhere,” Chuck warned the potatoes - as if they’d sprout legs and run off.
The roux puffed up wonderfully, so it could finally come off the heat. The sausages were mostly done, and slightly crumbly. Perfect! He turned off the heat to let them steam a bit longer. “Final stretch,” he urged himself cheerfully.
The colander of potatoes were pulled out of the sink and dumped into a bowl. He took up a potato masher to mash and crush the starchy cubes. Into the mix he added a bit of butter, a touch of milk, and a pinch more salt.
Chuck believed in seasoning every step of the process, in moderate amounts of course.
By the time he had mashed and splashed his way to a bowl of thick mashed potatoes, they had cooled just enough. He brought the bowl to the sausage pan and pulled up the crumbly rolls with a spatula.
He pattied out the mashed potatoes, laid a sausage roll in, added a bit of goat cheese to one side, and the sweet roux to the other. The potato patty was rolled around to capture the sausage, roux and cheese within… and then tossed into the sausage pan to fry in the grease.
Of course, he could not finish one meal without interjection. “By all the stars in heaven, that smells divine.” He could hear his father from down the hall, walking through, minding his own business when he was struck by the smell.
“Five minutes, Dad. Actually, could you help me set the table?” Chuck called out.
His father almost stormed into the kitchen. “Gladly.” Anyone else might have looked at this six-foot, well dressed man and assumed him a butler with how ready he was to work. Xvartantu, or Varta, as the town called him, was always a man of rather posh fashion.
This six-foot-nothing, salt and pepper haired man shared Chuck’s luminescent blue eyes. Otherwise, he looked like a well groomed human. So far was that from the truth: behind that faux form was a well aged dragon with Olde magic running through his draconic blood.
Yet… here he stood. Ready to move plates and platters like a busboy. He waited silently, patiently, until Chuck filled a platter with twenty of his odd fried potato rolls. “Eight, eight and four. I’ll grab the syrup and hot sauce.”
“Don’t overwork yourself there, son.” His father teased as he took the heavy steel tray and made off for the dining room. Chuck took up the condiments and awkwardly followed on his knees, ducking still beneath the frames of each wide door, or crawling through those too narrow for his broad shoulders.
His mother was already seated, his father was sorting plates. He had taken Chuck’s orders, giving his wife four - probably more than she could even eat - and eight for both himself and his son. Varta may have a human form, but it was little more than an illusion, he still ate meals fit for his true grandeur.
“I see; king of the castle has picked out the fluffiest,” Chuck chuckled.
“Listen here, I just plated them randomly - it was fate that the thicc-with-two-C’s cake found me,” he smirked wickedly. “Now hush up and take a seat. If we don’t eat, I’ll start gnawing on your arm.”
He may be a beast in disguise, but he’s still a dad… aweful jokes included. Chuck was still grinning, the thick, leathery hide of his maw turned upwards at each corner.
He sat down, not quite ready to see if his father was joking or actually starved after Mom’s attempt at dinner the night before.