The Little Creme-Bruleeing Dragon by Zion Brown
There was a little dragon that liked to creme brulee, and creme brulee he did. Every morning, the little dragon would wake up in his quaint little home, which happened to be a vintage Victorian dollhouse on the windowsill of his family’s apartment. His human family, of course, they let him stay. They were fond of him as he was of them, but they rarely crossed paths, rather, the company of knowing the other was there was plenty to maintain a content co-living situation. And so, the little dragon remained largely unbothered on the sill, in the very elaborate dollhouse that once belonged to one of his humans, long ago. It was gorgeous inside, really, with a full grand wooden staircase and several tidy opulent rooms. But the little dragon made good use of his house’s tiny grandeur, he’d host dinners and sleepovers for the other dragons in the neighborhood. He was content; he had made his dollhouse a home. Now, the dragon had to make a living for himself of course. And so, every afternoon, after dressing himself and fluffing his tiny duvets, he’d set off for work. Before leaving his house, he glanced at himself in the mirror and realized the buttons on his chef’s coat were mismatched, which he promptly addressed before grabbing his hand bell and dashing out the door. He was the head dessert chef in the restaurant on the first floor of the apartment building, and it made him more than proud to bear the title. After riding the elevator for a while, (his favorite way to commute), he’d wander into the still-closed restaurant and slip into the kitchen. He was aware of his size, and how he could go unnoticed by many well-intentioned line cooks, so he rang his bell three loud times, a signal to the buzzing human chefs that he had arrived. Like every day, he was greeted by smiles and laughs, and everyday conversation about the weather. Even the saucier, obsessed with his task and nothing else, seemed to become a bit more childlike when the little dragon bid him a good afternoon. And that’s how it was, before their dinner prep, the warm afternoon sunglow in the kitchen was amplified by the joy that the little dragon somehow carried with him every day. Soon, it would be opening time, the little dragon’s favorite time of day. Dinner was unusually busy that day, but the little dragon was more excited than anything. The dining space filled with pairs and families trysting and rendezvousing warmly, and the ambiance of the room, like every night, was perfectly curated for the perfect dining experience. People were dining on their first or second courses, and relaxing int he elegance of it all. Steak or bitter greens or figs could be found on any table in sight, and the aromas all traced back to the kitchen, where the little dragon prepared for his evening debut. He dusted off his chef’s coat, and in the palm of the restaurant owner’s hand, they stepped into the dining room. “Who ordered the creme brulee?” the owner said, hushing the guests to a murmur. The man’s playful grin showed that it was that time of evening, and the locals in the restaurant knew what was about to happen too. Visitors looked around, confused yet anticipating the surprise to come. And in the blink of an eye, the little dragon had leapt out of his hand, and started his mission. Each table was already set with the perfect number of custard ramekins, sprinkled with a generous amount of sugar on top. The dragon started at the first table, perched gracefully on the rim, and breathed his fire onto the sugared custard. Despite his size, his strength and heat pulled through, and the sugar soon was a bubbly coat of crystal over the dessert. The guests at the table grinned and clapped as the little dragon completed the rest of their custards, ech with an impeccable crackly sheen on top after his firing. This, was what the dragon lived for. Soon enough, he had flown to another table of excited guests, awaiting their freshly bruleed sugar like the rest of the tables in the space. He would spend the evening doing his job and doing it well. He knew what to look for, beyond his stream of fire. He knew how toasty his legs should be on the rim of the ramekin so the cream would not melt, he knew the pattern of bubbles to look for to melt the sugar evenly but densely, and all the while, being the entertainer of the century. Smiling at the parents between rounds, winking at the couples, and telling jokes to the kids. Soon, despite how long it felt, desert finally began to wrap up for the parties of two and three and four, and couples ordered their wines and trickled out of the restaurant for the night. And when, after work, the little dragon rested his tired head on his pillow, after having a cup of iced tea (to cool down his head from all the fire), and cuddling his stuffed ladybug, he thought about the long night, how his wings almost got snagged by a handsy toddler, how he might've overdone a few possets as his fatigue progressed through the evening, all the things that went wrong. But he yawned, and smiled, knowing that it was all worth it to get up and do it again tomorrow. |
"Martini Assembly Line", Courtney McKenna
On Tiger Balm by Audrey Nguyen
When I was little, the scent of Tiger Balm would always linger around the house. One could count on it decorating a low shelf, alongside dusty wedding pictures and my sister’s most recent art projects. Instead of candles, each room was equipped with a glass jar in case of an emergency. You get headache, you use Tiger Balm. You get mosquito bite, you use Tiger Balm. You get stomach ache, you use Tiger Balm! I’m sure if I asked her, my Bà Nội would tell me it could fix a heartache too. For those who have never experienced its wondrous works, the best way I can describe it is as a glorified Vicks Vapor Rub, almost exclusively used within the Southeast Asian communities. It’s quite simple, actually. There are only four ingredients: camphor, menthol, eucalyptus oil and clove oil. Yet my Bà Nội swears there’s something more to it—beyond the balm’s physical properties—that heals the mind and body. Maybe it’s the magic of Vietnamese grandmothers and the residual powers that lie in their leathered hands. Maybe with each gentle swipe of a finger, they enchant the balm with their ancient knowledge. Maybe that’s the true difference between a new jar and one that’s been loved to the point you can see through the bottom. Regardless, there’s something potent lying in those balms. As a child, it was never a point of pride for me. I always took care to screw on the lid as soon as possible before it would overwhelm the air with peppermint. Middle school me often left it to rot at the bottom of her backpack, though I don’t blame her. Children always look for something to point their fingers at, and my biggest fear was to be the subject of their intense curiosity. I’m certain the packaging wouldn’t have helped either; a gold lid imprinted with characters I still cannot read; a hexagonal glass jar with a label that’s even harder to decipher; a poorly designed tiger slapped right in the middle. Anyone could admit that the Tiger Balm shelf in the back of the supermarket looks like something right out of a dynastic medicine shop. Yet as strange and archaic as it might appear, I also cannot deny the relief it brings me when I do use it. Along with the harsh cadences and broken tones of the Vietnamese language, the household is never complete without the punch of Tiger Balm. I can still remember my mom crouching next to me, lifting it to my nose as I keeled over the toilet. Nothing felt better than the cooling sensation of her slender fingers tracing it in circles along my stomach as pain dissolved into numbness. I can still feel the skin of my back drawn tender and pink from my Bà Nội kneading the Tiger Balm in with her Gua Sha tools—a classic attempt to exorcize the flu from the body. And I’m sure there are many more memories that I’ve forgotten along the way. So even if it is embarrassing at times, like the clumsy sounds of my native tongue, there is always something nostalgic about the magical potion of my childhood. The funny thing is, I doubt there’s any scientific explanation for Tiger Balm’s miraculous capabilities. Yet I choose to indulge in the ritual of it nonetheless, like the habit of hushed hands clasped around a rosary, simply for the sake of believing in something. I hope to be the little old lady scowling at my grandchildren, even if my only proof is the words that were once whispered down to me. You get headache, you use Tiger Balm. You get stomach ache, you use Tiger Balm. You get heartache, you use it too. Because maybe it’s not actually about what is, but the hope for what can be. Maybe it’s in our shared, often blind devotion, that we can find comfort in the fact that we know very little. If nothing at all. "I'm Paying Attention", Niki Chen
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