Berries and Greed

I laughed. “So she’s not an asshole then. She loves you.”

He grunted. “I guess. She only did it because I let her try out hairstyles on me in exchange. She works in a salon.”

“Ooh, what kind of hairstyles?”

“All kinds.” He shuddered. “She gave me a bob once that made me look like some… demonic Victorian schoolboy. God, that was the worst.”

“Are there photos?”

He sighed in defeat. “Yeah.”

Biting my lip to suppress a smile, I turned to look at the coffee cart’s menu. “Then I am definitely coming to your family’s Christmas dinner.”

“Hey, there’s a shop here I want us to go in.”

Greid had perked up considerably after getting coffee and a breakfast sandwich, and we’d already spent an hour wandering slowly along the stalls, stopping at most of them at my insistence just so I could have a look at the kind of things demiurgus traders were selling.

There were stalls with extortionately priced tapestries, strange-looking instruments, stuffed toys aimed at demiurgus children, clothes in bright colours studded with beads, adornments for tails and lots of the little glass ornaments that were everywhere in our house.

We passed a stall that only sold items with depictions of Mother Mila on them: candles, paintings, wood carvings and crockery. Another had rows of fat cloth sacks on display, filled with different spices and herbs used in demiurgus cooking.

Greid dumped our empty coffee cups in the trash and grabbed my hand to lead me toward a store tucked behind two stalls. The sign read Dropclay Flea Market, and as we stepped inside I took in the shelves stuffed with second-hand knickknacks, the haphazardly stacked and slightly dinged-up furniture, the walls lined with artwork for sale in ornate, old-fashioned frames.

“Oh wow, this is cool,” I said in a hushed voice as Greid led me deeper into the store, because it wasn’t overly busy in here.

“Yeah, I used to love coming in here to look around.” Greid seemed to be taking us to a specific part of the store, so I clung onto his hand and let him lead me.

“Look,” I whispered, pointing at a surprisingly vast display of eerie vintage clown memorabilia. “Clowns.”

“It’s probably all possessed by the spirits of evil dead clowns,” Greid whispered back. “Don’t go near it.”

I laughed, trying to take everything in as we kept moving deeper into the store and up a rickety staircase to the second floor.

“Ooh, look!” I tugged Greid to a stop when I spotted the shelves stuffed with books, even more stacked on the floor beside them. There were hastily scrawled signs pinned to each shelf, including one that said ‘Cookery Books’. “Cookery books. Do you think they’re demiurgus ones?”

“Most likely.” Greid let go of my hand and kissed the top of my head. “I’m just gonna go look for something real quick. Be right back.”

“Okay.” I was already heading for the bookshelves, taking in the mix of brightly coloured and cracked leather spines. Some of these looked pretty old, and as I stopped in front of them I realised there was a mix of human and demiurgus recipe books for sale.

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.