Add Cyanide to Taste
A sinister cook, a cursed cake, and a casual dinner between neighbours that goes murderouslywrong.
This debut collection of dark tales and recipes by Karmen Špiljak ascends the jagged culinary heights you’ve hungered to explore but could never find on a map. As the characters swoon over every unforgettable mouthful, and sometimes bite off more than they can chew, you’ll find yourself asking: What would I be willing to pay for the meal of a lifetime?
If feasting on culinary noir leaves you hungry, extend your pleasure by preparing the dishes featured in the stories. All recipes provided are cyanide-free.
Karmen Špiljak writes across different genres. Her short fiction has been awarded and anthologised.
More on http://www.karmenspiljak.com
Purchase Links
General purchase link (all the other links are here): https://www.karmens.net/books
The excerpt is the beginning of a short story, ‘Sweet like Butter’, a part of the collection of culinary noir, ‘Add Cyanide to Taste’.
Sweet like Butter
The rain lashes the coats of those gathered around an open grave. Hardly anyone hears the priest. His soft murmur is lost in the plunking of the raindrops. People’s gazes turn inwards, to the humdrum of their thoughts that drift like fog from places with little light towards those with none. Occasionally, thunder splits the drab skies with an unflattering flash of light. People’s eyes shift in a lizard-like manner towards the young widow. Their tongues would stick out if no one would see them, but no one speaks. Only the middle-aged couple exchanges a few words, shielded by their distance from the grave.
‘The poor thing,’ the man says. ‘So utterly broken.’
His wife purses her lips but says nothing. Her husband enjoys sympathising with strangers, much more than with those close to him. It’s a special kind of blindness. She doesn’t hold it against him but doesn’t want to encourage it either.
There’s little point in discussing things one can’t change. When an old loner like Sam marries a pretty young woman like Ingrid, peoples’ thoughts tend to sharpen against each other. She much prefers to form her opinions in silence, to give them time and space to thicken.
‘Left all alone, the poor thing,’ her husband says. ‘Can’t be easy, being new in town.’
She won’t be alone for long, thinks the wife.
‘We should invite her over,’ her husband says, ‘for a home-cooked meal.’
He says it as though he was going to prepare the meal himself, as if he’d ever made anything other than overcooked eggs.
‘Let her grieve in peace,’ the wife says. ‘I’ll make a casserole and take it over.’
Her husband opens his mouth as if to protest, but the priest has finished talking and the raincoats rustle.
People advance to the front to offer their condolences to the young widow and throw a handful of wet soil over the casket.
The widow hardly looks at them. Her chestnut hair sticks to her face like algae as she shakes people’s hands in a robotic manner. Those who meet her gaze see that her eyes are brimming with tears.
‘Sam was a good man,’ people say. ‘If you need anything, anything at all, call.’
Her chin drops. It’s not so much their words as the shapeless shadow they push against her chest.
She doesn’t look them in the eyes. She’s not imprudent or impatient, just afraid to hear their thoughts.
* * *
The sun spun gold over the couple walking on the beach. The sand was a soft carpet sculpted under their feet.
‘You’ll get sunburnt,’ the woman said, rubbing the man’s red face. ‘Let’s find shade.’
‘I thought you liked the sun,’ he said.
‘I do, but…’
For a moment, the glimmering ocean blinded her. She readjusted her straw hat.
‘You could get sunstroke.’
He drank the salt off her lips. ‘Worried, always worried,’ he said.
She took his hand and smiled with her deep green eyes. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt.’
They cooled their feet in the shallow water.
‘A little sun won’t hurt,’ he said. ‘Not when we have the beach to ourselves.’
‘I’ve never had that before,’ she said, picking up an empty seashell.
‘What else have you never had before?’
She took off her hat. ‘A sunstroke on my honeymoon.’ She put the hat on his head. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’
They rested in the shade of a generous tree.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said.
She poured some water into their cups.
‘Is that all I am to you?’
Her words pricked, but he didn’t want to show it. ‘Of course not.’
She turned her head to one side, as though she was thinking.
‘Ingrid, darling,’ he said, ‘you are everything. Everything.’
She squirted some sunscreen into her palm and rubbed it on his shoulders. The sun started to set.
‘I love watching the sand turn yellow,’ she said and leaned onto his chest.
He inhaled her scent, the most intoxicating fragrance of his life.
‘What else do you love?’
She tipped back her head. ‘You.’
Gently, she bit his lips, then kissed him for a very long time.
Author Bio –
Karmen Špiljak is a Slovenian-Belgian writer with a taste for dark and twisty tales.
Her short fiction has been awarded and anthologised. Her as yet unpublished thriller was shortlisted and received an honourable mention on ‘The Black Spring Crime Fiction Prize 2020’. She writes across different genres, from suspense to horror and science fiction.
She currently lives in Brazil with her husband and two cats.
Social Media Links –
Twitter: https://twitter.com/karm3ns33ta
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/karmenseeta/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6862662.Karmen_piljak
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