I recently watched Elf again. Its not necessarily a great movie, but seeing a 40 year old acting and thinking like a child helped to shine a big bright light on the dramatic difference between how we act and think at one age, then how it completely changes at another. At some point we stop having fun in the same ways. At some point there is shame in what we say and do.

For the most part the change I have gone through is subtle enough that I don’t notice. I can remember back to my youth. But those memories are through current eyes and I’m certain the tone and meaning of what I originally experienced is lost. However there was one point in my life where the change from child to adult was as sudden as falling off a waterfall. One moment I was a child, the next I acquired the shame of an adult.

Every year I loved to dress in a stupid costume and go out with my parents on Halloween to knock on doors and get candy.

“Oh how cute” they would say. “What are you supposed to be?”

I don’t even remember what any of the costumes were, which is probably for the best. I’m still waiting for my parents to break out the big book of pictures compiled for the sole purpose of embarrassing me in front of my friends. The one that shows me demolishing my first birthday cake or my silly Halloween costumes or me naked in any number of exposing poses, but it never comes. It’s odd that my snap shot memories are mostly based on sit-com sociology rather than physical proof. Regardless either the pictures don’t exist or they have been lost in the many moves and moldy sheds. There are a few pictures I have seen. One my girl friend has. A stunning image of a person I don’t recognize at age five-ish, then a few more school-picture-day photos of some more people that resemble me, but I don’t recognize.

The memory of my changing needs no image to recall.

One year I got all dressed up in my costume. It was a Jawa from Star Wars. I made the cloak myself and had these cool yellow sunglasses with red LED’s in the middle of each lens and it looked pretty cool in the dark with the hood up. Now that I think back I remember as I made the costume something felt different but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Like I was nervously waiting for something but I didn’t know what it was. Anyway on the big night I got dressed and set out with my dad down the mostly darkened street. But instead of walking up the steps to the first lit porch I stopped. Suddenly for the first time in my life I felt that what I was doing was silly and embarrassing. Not just any something, but the same something that I had been doing every year since I was three. But this year instead of walking to the door and claiming my candy I turned to my dad and said.
“This doesn’t feel right anymore.”
We turned towards home and walked back in silence. I never went trick-or-treating again.

Looking back it must have been a profound moment for my dad. How many fathers get to actually see their son shed the ideals of a boy. Witness a sudden shift in personality as the Jawa suit is discarded and left lying in the warm October air in front of the first door.

I’ve often relived the experience and asked myself the same questions. What changed? Why was it that the year before it was fun to trick-or-treat. Something that I looked forward to and was excited about, then 365 days later the same activity felt uncomfortable and unnecessary.

For every measurable change, how many have occurred without notice? Can I ever really compare my current mind to that which existed as a child? I remember that night I was a little fearful of the sudden change, but relieved that I didn’t have to dress up in a silly costume and walk around hearing people say. “Oh how cute.” And “What are you supposed to be?”

I don’t have the answer, although I’m certain it has something to do with sex.

I look forward to few things more then sitting down to a hot, heaping, tallow dripping plate of skillfully prepared Enchiladas. Some of my happiest memories are of near comma inducing pleasure as I shove solid euphoria into my mouth, settling into the steady rhythmic mantra of ecstasy while my spirit roams free in its quest to find Enchildament. Chicken seems to work best. But good Enchiladas are as hard to find as a hooker on a golf course. Everywhere I go its wet paper towels wrapped around fatty beef flavored yarn and topped with tasteless sauce of an unplaceable color. Without texture or taste the only evidence of it existing at all is a little warmth and a lighter wallet

There are two restaurants where I can enjoy what they menu as Enchiladas, Baja fresh and Favela’s. Neither are particularly excellent, just the few places where the meal is worth at least half of what I’m charged. Baja it seems has caught on to my addiction and went through great trouble to completely eradicate any sign that they had ever served enchiladas. I visited one after they had changed the menu and ordered the Enchilada plate as I had done many times before. But this time instead of handing over paper worth two hundred times what I was to get in return, the usually blurry-eyed cashier looked at me as if she had never heard the word before. She was so astounded by the sound of it in fact I had to repeat myself several times before she was sure she had not heard me wrong.

“We don’t serve inchilades.” She said. Having a little trouble pronouncing the word being the first time spoken.

Looking around I noticed that I was beginning to draw a lot of attention from the employees and patrons. There seemed to be a clinical uneasiness in the air, as if I were threatening to remind everyone of something meant to be forgotten. Slowly backing my way towards the door it became clear to me that they had all been reprogrammed and surgically altered. I left in a hurry before I could be captured and de-enchiladed.

I drove immediately to Favelas and hurriedly read the menu. The madness had not spread.

 At dawn they began to assemble. Each crewmember arriving by different means to wait for the captain on the well-kept crab grass in front her lodging. The peace of the cold morning air was broken first by the arrival of Johnny Quick Trigger as he spilled half drunk from a carriage, its springs groaning as his bulk hit the cobblestone. He staggered to his feet and barely managed to pay the driver before walking three paces to sit heavily on the grass. Moments later Aaron the Angler strode around the corner. His bearded face gleaming with the memories of the night before, lips showing sores evidence of numerous exploits that defy explanation. To his left was another shipmate Andy Albatross, a former soldier in the kings army exiled to a life of piracy. They stopped to face Johnny as he sat waiting for the captain to emerge.
Andy had moved away from Aaron and was leaning against a nearby lamppost looking thoughtfully in to the distance.
“Any sign of Plank?”
Johnny shook his head.
“He’s late as usual.”
Suddenly from behind the lamp post Andy was leaning steps a tall, comically skinny man wearing loose pants and an open tunic showing a sun burned chest and a single long hair curled and pressed flat in an attempt to fill out the area. He noticed Andy’s reaction.
“Why so jumpy Andy? Confess your love to the king himself?”
Andy blushed with anger but dared not to act. Plank was the ships first mate and tended to the Captains needs.
“Oh go walk yourself.”
Andy spat as he straightened his expensive coat.
Moments later the captain emerged from the lodge and walked confidently across the grass in her full uniform stopping in front of her assembled crew.
“Today men we travel to the great Pirate faire to cause what trouble we can and plunder whatever might be found.”
A rousing cry met her command and they all walked down the lane to board the Filthy Whore and be on their way.
It took three days and nights of grueling travel to reach the Pirate Faire. Once there the crew disembarked and began to execute the captains orders. But instead of loot and plunder, their metal was tested against three deadly trials.
The first trial was the wandering tubs of varicose pudding. Unkind to the eyes and stomach, but easy enough to avoid. Simply avert the gaze from the ample and aging bodice.
The second nearly claimed the boots of the entire party. While walking towards the shore of Dead Man’s Lake (in hind sight should have turned back at the sign) we began to sink into quick-muck that had once been the bottom of the lake during high tide. Johnny had learned a valuable lesson that day. If you begin to sink in the mud do NOT head towards the water. But as harrowing as that adventure was, everyone had made it to safety and wore the dried mud as badges of pride and bravery having bested the treacherous lake.
The third trial was more insidious then deadly. It was simply to suffer the barely editable yet over priced local cuisine. A task made easier with big bread bowls stuffed with chili and cheese.

At first glance the cluttered kitchen seems peaceful and homey. The vinyl flooring and wooden cupboards and drawers lit pleasantly by the afternoon sunlight. The counter tops overflowing with every container and appliance imaginable, stacked and placed expertly to the point just prior to any one item being pushed off by another. Easy to imagine that just this morning the whole family was busy eating and getting ready for school or work. But then, after lingering there alone a moment, something different seems to happen, a feeling that you’re not alone. Not so much as glowing eyes peering around every cupboard and drawer, but the feeling of an alert presence without form. An absence of life where there was once a teaming community. A ghost town densely populated yet deathly silent.

Just the night before I had finished eating some chili from my favorite bowl. At the time I was busy working so when I stopped for bed the chili residue had plenty of time to form into an oily grout, impossible to clean with cold water and no will to fight. I took the bowl and spoon into the kitchen and set them in the sink soaking in some water to be cleaned the next day.

I had forgotten about the bowl until the following day, realizing my mistake as I passed the kitchen I stopped and looked into the empty sink. My bowl was not where I had left it. No sign of its presence lingered. Not even the smallest smudge of chili oil remained. I started opening cupboards and carefully poked around the countertops but I couldn’t find it anywhere. When I closed the last cupboard soft voices began to whisper from every direction. In a panic I stumbled backward a few steps and the voices quieted. I stood a moment in silent shock listening carefully and could tell that the whispering seemed to be coming from the cupboards themselves, or perhaps from behind the doors. In a wave of terror and hopelessness I realized what was happening.

At some point in the crusade to posses two of every serving implement conceived by man my stewards had unwittingly stumbled upon a vary rare and terribly evil container. This dish of sorts is not made of any normal earthly material but from the vary greed of all those that want to posses it, an anti-bowl. Having no tangible form it slowly posses a kitchen taking control of the other bowls until they are all under its demonic possession. Once it has complete dominance it can alter the appearance of any bowl in the cupboards and transfer itself from one container to the next so that you would never know which you held in your hand.

As I stood listening to the tortured voices and the one malevolent presence searching for its next victim I knew that my favorite bowl, the one I had loved and taken care of for so many years, had been absorbed into the mass during the night and had its appearance altered so that I could never find it again. The only way to break the curse is to destroy every bowl in the kitchen therefore eliminating all vessels for the anti-bowl to posses, lying to rest all those that had been previously encaged. Unfortunately it would also mean the death of every serving dish, and I don’t think the mighty powers that over see the entire house would appreciate a kitchen full of shattered soul sucking anti-bowls. So I will instead let my favorite bowl go. And as I use one from the cupboard take a little solace in the fact that, although its appearance has been changed forever, the bowl I chose that day may be the very one I lost.

I have discovered the greatest cookie EVER!

It happened a little something like this.

I was in my room plugging away on my pc when my eyes wandered over to the double chocolate cake from Carl's junior sitting on my printer.

Let me read from the ingredient list.
Buttermilk, Sugar, Chocolate, Pure Evil

The pure evil is a result of the pact that Carl signed with a demonic chef before it created for him a chocolate cake so tasty, that it transcended the abilities of any mortal to duplicate. The down side is that any one who eats it damns his soul to eternal... damnation. Which might not be all that bad if there’s plenty of cake AND milk to go around.

If there was no milk (shudder)... Lets not think about that.

Having now seen the demonic confection I of course wanted to eat it. So I got up and went to the kitchen to see if the forces of good had stocked the fridge with the antidote to the cake's evil powers, a glass of milk. But as I entered the kitchen I was greeted by a smell that was comparable and opposite to the powers of the cake I wanted to consume. An odor so foul that the thought of eating anything, INCLUDING supernatural pastries, was wiped completely from my mind and replaced with a disturbing mix of desires. First to run outside and rinse my nasal cavity with unleaded fuel, then an irresistible curiosity to discover what earthly matter could possibly be giving off such an offensive odor. My nose bravely searched the usual hang outs for pungent materials. The sink, which smelled a bit like dishwater. Then the counter tops which are stacked with every container and contraption ever conceived by man, but not what I was smelling for. I of course saved the most obvious local for last for fear that (as unbelievable as it seemed at the time) I may find its better lurking within.

I approached the trashcan cautiously and opened the plastic blue-green lid and towards the bottom I saw coffee grounds and a few bits of paper, but nothing that could create such a stench. Then, suddenly from the depths of the coffee grounds it rose with a powerful surge that nearly knocked me on my back. I had found the source at last! But like the safe on the Titanic, I felt it was better that the mystery live on and decided not to investigate further. Instead I hefted the half full garbage bag and went carefully through the back door and tossed it into the trash with a reverent and slightly tearful moment of silence and reflection.

The smell gone the curse of the chocolate cake quickly took control and in two strides I was back in the kitchen and in front of the impossible refrigerator of holding, for on the outside it looks like an ordinary small double door refrigerator made in the late 80's. But opening either door will reveal 250% more food then could possibly be lodged into such a space. I opened the doors and cringed anticipating the explosion of leftovers but powerful magic seemed to be holding everything safely within. A quick glance revealed that god had left me to my own designs. I can’t blame him though. I was about to eat evil after all.

Defeated I made my way back to my room. As I turned my eyes glanced (as they always did while traveling through the kitchen) over the spot where I expected to see the cookie trap I had unfortunately discovered when I first moved in a few months ago. In case this concept is new I will explain. A cookie trap is a large clear zip lock sandwich bag left in plain site filled with fantastic looking homemade white chocolate macadamia nut cookies aged to about six years. Usually a cookie trap is easy to detect from the pile of bodies and unfinished cookies lying about. But this particular device is maintained regularly to keep the edible cookie illusion in tact at all times.

The trap is triggered when the unaware snacker approaches and then opens the bag taking a seemingly normal cookie. Anyone taking a bite will realize too late that it was a trick and they spend the next 1d4 rounds spitting up stale cookie and looking for water (I used to like white chocolate macadamia cookies). But the trap had been recently removed and in its place was a glass cookie jar.

Given the effectiveness of the last trap I was apprehensive. But looking closer I saw a kind of cookie I hadn’t seen before. It was small and round and looked to be covered in chocolate. I opened the jar and quickly grabbed one from the top and ran to my room in case there were any delayed effects from the jar. After closing the door I took a bite and knew rite away I had discovered something special. A small, chocolate covered Oreo cookie.

It was good.