A Recipe for Disaster

By L. G. McCary

It all started with bacon.

“Look at me, bringing home the bacon for my lady!” Fred hung his jacket in the closet and followed me into what used to be my kitchen. He excitedly inspected the enormous metal box that had replaced our cabinets, refrigerator, oven, toaster, blender, and microwave. Everything but the kitchen sink, literally. The newly installed Meal-AI food preparation system hummed like a beehive.

“What do you think of Amelia?” He opened one of the many compartments. “Get it? A-Meal-IA?”

“You and your nicknames.” I hadn’t planned on a crew from Robotic Home Systems gutting my kitchen and replacing it with a robot with touch screens and voice commands, but such was the life of a mad engineer’s wife. “I’ll decide about ‘Amelia’ once we taste dinner.”

When the roast came out wrapped in bacon, I felt a twinge in my stomach. I must have accidentally added the option from the touchscreen.

“Ooh, roast! You’re just buttering me up, aren’t you?”

Extra butter dripped from the potatoes that came out next, but it was likely a coincidence. I let it go. After all, who could object to extra butter?

“Not bad for beta-testing,” Fred said with a wink.

The next evening, I found a trifle recipe with raspberries, whipped cream, and sponge cake, like my favorite dessert from our honeymoon in London. I couldn’t wait to taste Amelia’s handiwork.

“The whole meeting was one long argument about the costs of the AI matrix.” Fred tossed his briefcase on the hall bench. “And then Howard announced at the end that there was a problem with the algorithm, anyway. Wasted at least two hours. It was nuts!”

Something rattled in the guts of the Meal-AI. I opened the refrigerated compartment to find that the perfectly fluffy whipped cream of my trifle was now studded with pecans. “Uh, Fred? Amelia has a problem.”

He thought it was funny. I did not. I hated pecans.

“It’s not supposed to add ingredients unless you’re giving a command,” he said. “It must be a glitch in the audio programming. I’ll have Patrick push out a patch.”

“Until then, can you please be more careful what you say?” I scowled as I put the trifle back into the refrigerated compartment.

“Right. Or we’ll really be in a pickle.”

“Fred!”

The pickle-covered trifle had to go in the trash. I made Fred sleep on the couch.

Amelia made good coffee the next morning. I decided to have some eggs and sausage while Fred complained that the couch wasn’t the comfiest.

“I might have overreacted to your joke,” I said as I watched a robotic arm stir my scrambled eggs.

“Don’t beet yourself up,” Fred said with a wink.

Squish. My scrambled eggs came out pink and earthy-tasting. I hated beets, too.

“Fred!”

“Don’t go all bananas!” he hollered from the front door. “Olive you!”

Amelia’s banana bread wasn’t bad, but I left her olive tapenade untouched. Instead, I made more scrambled eggs and waited for that software patch.

“Patrick’s working on it,” Fred said that evening. And every evening for a week. For seven days, I endured the puns.

“We’ll make a mint from Amelia!”

Mint does not taste good on pepperoni pizza. I made Fred eat it, along with the lettuce-covered brownies after he said, “Let us eat!” I wasn’t sure that one was intentional, but it was an unforgivable crime against pastry.

I took to eating my breakfast after Fred left for work. Then he managed to mess up my coffee.

“Got a meeting with the big cheese this afternoon about Amelia.”

I don’t know why Amelia chose feta, but Fred laughed so hard he barely made it out the door.

It was time to end this. First, I made cheese-less coffee. I chose dinner and scheduled a visit from a cleaning company. I researched phrases and idioms.

When I greeted Fred with a huge smile that evening, I was ready. “Amelia made your favorite. Barbecued chicken with corn and baked beans.”

“You’re too good to me.” Fred rushed into the kitchen.

“Hey, orange you glad to see me?”

Horror spread across his face as a splashing noise echoed from Amelia’s hotbox. He wilted against the counter. “I deserved that.”

“A little chili outside today, huh?” I said mildly as I shut the front door. “I should turnip the heat.”

Squish. Thump.

Fred opened the hotbox to see globs of chili and chunks of turnip swimming in a pool of orange juice over his favorite barbecue.

“What a shame! No use crying over spilled milk, though.”

Fred yelped as milk splashed all over his work shoes. “I’ll call right now about the patch!”

“Oh, so now you’re trying to curry favor?” A cloud of curry powder sent us both into a coughing fit, but I wasn’t letting up. “I’d say you have some serious egg on your face.”

Splat. The egg narrowly missed his face and smashed all over the floor.

“But, sugar…” Plunk. That was a lot of sugar.

“You started this, Fred! If you wanted peace”—a shower of peas clattered on the floor between us—“you shouldn’t have been so corny!” A corn cob narrowly missed his head.

“Let’s make a dill!”

The distinct scent of pickles filled the kitchen.

“You’re ready to listen to raisin, Fred?”

It rained grapes—and grease. Amelia started to smoke. Time to drop the atomic bomb that would end the war. I backed up a safe distance into the living room.

“Thanks a lot for the Meal-AI, honey!” I yelled. A sticky cascade crashed over Fred’s head. “I think I deserve flowers for what you’ve done to my kitchen.”

Poof. A cloud of flour exploded over the mess of honey and other foods on my counters, floors, and husband. He wiped his eyes and sneezed.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” I tapped my foot on the kitchen tile.

“I guess you gave me my just desserts, Sherry.”

Splash.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L. G. McCary is a homeschooling mom of four and the wife of fellow Havok author Caleb McCary. She writes supernatural and science fiction with strong emotional cores, complex characters, and plots that twist your brain in knots. Her faith fuels her to create stories that ask tough questions, explore hard truths, and demonstrate the goodness and beauty of God.

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