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The first one I pulled out was a book from the seventies, with an unappetising photo of a whole fish suspended in pale green jelly on the front. Wrinkling my nose, I put it back and carefully took out a thick, leatherbound book with The Traditional Demiurgus Home embossed on the cover in gold cursive lettering.
The yellowing pages felt thin and fragile as I flicked through it. There weren’t any pictures, just a few illustrations of strange-looking dishes. Like the thing that looked almost like a roast chicken, except it had four legs. And something that might have been a cake, but it was sunken in the middle and piled high with fat, dark fruits with their stems and leaves still attached.
I turned to the next page and saw it was a recipe for porin, so I eagerly read the lengthy block of text above the list of ingredients.
A staple dish in every demiurgus home, porin is the epitome of family comfort food, and a must in the demiurgus cook’s repertoire. Every cook has their own version that will never be the same as another’s. The recipe below is merely a guide, a gentle prompt to get you started. Adapt it to your tastes, and the tastes of your loved ones. There is no wrong way to make a porin.
Share your version with your children, but know this—they will always yearn for yours, and the promise and intoxicating aroma of your porin over the hearth is the quickest way to coax your family back to the dinner table.
I was glad Greid had wandered off, because a tiny lump formed in my throat as I read it. I couldn’t imagine what that was like—having a mother or father who would lovingly cook a meal for their children. Having a mother or father who actually wanted their children with them. Even just knowing, as a child, that there would be a cooked meal on the table every evening. Not having to scavenge in the cabinets or fridge and resign yourself to scooping peanut butter out of a jar with your finger or crunching into a block of uncooked ramen. I hadn’t known what that was like either until I’d been taken in by Violet and the cult.
Maybe that was why I’d stayed for so long. Security. Comfort, in its own way. Knowing I’d always have food and a clean bed and other people around.
“Hey.”
I jumped when Greid reappeared, bending his knees to wrap his arms around my middle from behind and kiss the side of my neck. I blinked fast and fixed a smile on my face. “Hey. Look, I found a recipe for porin.”
Greid peered down at the page, the side of his face brushing mine. He grunted. “I don’t even know what my mom puts in hers, but that sounds wrong.”
I burst out laughing. “How?”
“It just does. Rutabaga? Nah, my mom doesn’t put rutabaga in hers, because if she did, I would’ve picked it all out every time I ate it.”
“Maybe she mashes it up so you don’t even know it’s in there. I bet she had to get creative to get you to eat vegetables.”
Greid straightened. I glanced up to find him staring down at me.
“Do you think she actually does that?”
I laughed, closing the book and carefully sliding it back onto the shelf. “How would I know?”
“I’m gonna ask her.” Greid was pulling out his phone. “If she’s been sneaking rutabaga into my food this whole time, that is not cool.”
“Yes, how dare she want her children to be healthy,” I deadpanned. “So did you find what you were looking for?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Greid finished typing and pocketed his phone, then grabbed my hand. “Come on.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.” He led me between shelves to the back of the store, which was completely empty. “We got lucky. Someone must’ve dropped off a load of them recently, because there are so many.”
“So many what?”
He didn’t answer until he’d brought us to a stop in front of a shelf. Grinning at me, he gestured with a flourish. “Sporefruit sculptures.”
I gasped in delight as I took in the delicate glass mushrooms clustered together between a collection of vases and a stack of empty picture frames. There were at least a dozen, all of them different, with tiny handwritten price tags that said what each one was: Octopus Stinkhorn. Devil’s Tooth. Mycena Manipularis. Doll’s Eyes. Veiled Lady. Dead Man’s Fingers. Violet Coral.
I reached for one. “Oh my god, they’re all so pretty. How am I supposed to choose which one to get?”
“Um, hell no, we’re getting all of them.” Greid looked around and grabbed an old woven basket for sale. “Come on, start loading up before someone else comes along and takes one.”
I glanced around. “I don’t think anyone’s going to—”
“There’s a little old lady up here,” he hissed, already loading the sculptures into the basket. “You know she’ll be all over these if she spots them. Don’t make me fight her for them, berry.”
Gurgling with laughter, I picked up a sculpture and put it in the basket. “Are you saying my interests are the same as little old ladies’?”
“Yes. But it’s fine, because I love—”
