In which a cook proves that perfection and wine rarely mix.
A reworking of the classic tale by the Brothers Grimm.
Gretel was a good cook. All good cooks, she reasoned, drank a little wine while they worked.
How much had she drunk already — three? Four? She couldn’t remember. But what did it matter?
Efficiency was the key. Why waste time filling glasses when you could just drink straight from the jug? True, a little spilled down her apron. And her sleeves. And the floor. But that was what aprons, sleeves, and floors were for.
The fowls were roasting nicely, golden and fragrant. Gretel nodded with pride, then noticed her wine had run out. Not to worry — the cellar had more.
She wobbled down the steps, which kept moving about in a most unhelpful way. And honestly, there really weren’t enough handrails. One of the bottles smashed on the way back up, but that was hardly her fault. Poor stair design.
Back in the kitchen, Gretel looked at the fowls, they looked done, but appearances could deceive.… how could she know for sure?
Gretel prided herself on perfection. So she tugged off a wing and tasted. Delicious. Cooked through.
But now the bird looked lopsided.
“People notice these things,” she muttered, and tore off the other wing to make it symmetrical.
“There. Balanced. No one will ever notice that this bird has no wings.”
Then she looked at the second fowl. Wings intact. Hmm, suspicious. She concocted a plan.
With solemn duty, she ripped those wings off too.
Now the first bird had thighs exposed, while the second still wore its crispy skin.
“Not acceptable,” she said, and gnawed away until both were even.
Her eyes narrowed. The first bird looked smaller.
“This will raise questions,” she reasoned, and took chunk after chunk until both carcasses matched — in their ruin.
It was difficult work, eating nearly two entire roast birds, but she powered through.
By the time she was done, grease streaked her apron, her lips shone, and the “perfect dinner” was nothing but bones. Her master walked in.
“Is the meal ready? The guest will be here in ten minutes.”
“Yesh,” Gretel slurred. “Tashhted… perfectly. V’ry… scymmetrical. Jusht a teensy problem with the schtairsh.”
The master nodded and left, none the wiser.
Soon the guest arrived. Gretel staggered to the door, leaned in close, and whispered:
“Run fer yer life! He’sh gonna cut yer earsh off! Both of ’em!”
The guest, terrified, fled.
Moments later the master stormed in. “Where’s the dinner?”
“Oh noooooo,” Gretel gasped, clutching a bottle like a holy relic. “The guesht… he shhhhtole the burrrds! Took ’em right off the plate like a feathered bandit!”
Furious, the master dashed outside. He chased his guest down the road.
“Hey, come back!” He shouted. “At least let me have one!”
The guest screamed so loud it was heard by everybody in the village.
Gretel staggered outside, dropped onto the steps, and sighed. The world spun gently.
The master eventually returned, empty-handed and livid.
“Gretel,” he growled, “you’ve eaten the dinner, you frightened off my guest, and you made me look a fool in front of the whole town. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Gretel raised a greasy finger, her eyes gently doing cartwheels. She nodded solemnly.
“The pixies made me do it.”
Then she flopped back, arms out, apron crusted with grease and glory.
“Clever… Clever Gretel,” she murmured to the sky, before snoring.
Davide la Locomotive 
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