Page 57 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“Please enlighten me, Miss Minor in English Lit.” Dahlia’s lips quirked.

“I think once you know what you want to say, it’s up to your own one-of-a-kindness to make it amazing. Even Shakespeare based his plays on other stories, but he made them his own.” Talula held up a freshly peeled sweet potato. “Like this.”

“Sweet Potato, a Dahlia Jones Autobiography?”

Talula flicked a peel at Dahlia, who dodged it with a chuckle. Talula continued, “What I mean is, it’s a sweet potato. Yeah, it looks like any other sweet potato. But it’s what you bring to it that turns it into something extraordinary.” She gestured at the kitchen cabinets. “Spices in here?”

“Yep, but it’s slim pickings.”

Sure enough, there wasn’t much, but a few seasonings caught Talula’s eye. “Let’s say this sweet potato is something you want to say about the world. The core of your story. The whole reason you’re writing in the first place.”

Dahlia peered at the potato intently.

“Everyone might have seen a sweet potato just like this. Just like they’ve seen a million superhero movies or read a million romance novels with the same essential plot. But they don’t have your unique perspective on it.” Talula set down a container of garlic salt.

Next to it, she set down black pepper. “Or the words you use to describe it.

“The tropes you use to emphasize that core message, the characters that’ll deliver it, the jokes you make to bring it to life.” A bright red jar of cayenne completed the set of spices. “Sure, some themes or genres are going to serve that core message better than others. But at the end of the day, it’s your potato. You, Dahlia Jones, are what make it delicious.”

For the first time since Talula had known her, Dahlia looked lost for words. Then, with a pleased smile, she piped, “Call me delicious again. I liked it.”

With a laugh, Talula threw another peel at her.

As the rain fell, Talula cooked. Dahlia talked through ideas. Talula asked questions. Dahlia put on a record (“Archaeologists. Always obsessed with old stuff.”). Talula handed Dahlia crispy bits of hash brown for taste-testing.

(“More cayenne. Let’s heat things up in here.”

Talula felt a flare of heat creep across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the spice. “Oh, you like things hot, huh?”

“The hotter the better, Talula,” Dahlia said, her grin delicious and devilish.)

It felt natural and easy. And so, so good.

For Talula, there were different kinds of happinesses. There was the junk-food-like happiness she got from bingeing a TV show in one weekend without changing out of her pajamas. There was the blueberry happiness of a mist-shrouded bike ride, a specially curated stack of library books from Muriel the head librarian, even the sounds of Simon’s happy gobbling after a new recipe—quick bites of satisfaction that could be sprinkled throughout the day.

Then, there was roast chicken, buttery green beans, and mashed potato happiness. The kind of happiness that fed and nourished and made Talula feel warm from the inside out for days afterward. Like the moments she felt perfectly in sync with the Volta. Witch church with her mom, laughing and spending time together. Her senior year of college, in a loud and wondrous kitchen she still missed. It made Talula feel like she was where she was supposed to be, who she was supposed to be. Chicken dinner happiness made life worth living.

That afternoon, as they talked in Dahlia’s kitchen with a scratchy record playing along with the rain, Talula could practically smell the bird roasting.

After they ate, Dahlia set down her fork. “I want to show you something.”

“Oh?” Nervousness bubbled in Talula’s chest. There was something very…raw about the way Dahlia was looking at her, and her skin burned hotter than witchfire. She swallowed thickly. “What is it?”

“Come on.” Dahlia grabbed Talula’s hand and pulled her along, sending electricity through Talula’s palm. Dazed and wretchedly horny for this bewildering woman, Talula allowed herself to be pulled out of the kitchen.

They arrived at a different part of the house filled with glass displays and cabinets—it looked like a very eclectic museum exhibition had plopped itself right smack-dab in the middle of the Joneses’ living room.

“This is Jones Junk.” Dahlia dropped Talula’s hand to gesture dramatically at the cabinets, and Talula immediately craved the feel of her skin again. “The stuff that wasn’t good enough for academia, but good enough for us!”

Talula looked closer at the display, which held everything from timeworn ceramics to rusty retro toasters. She saw a sliver of bone with a handwritten label: Needle/piece of spear? Arbolado Park.

“Whenever we moved, my dad would do a dig with me. At the park, in the yard, on the beach, wherever. He’d even set up a grid and let me use his fancy brushes and shovels. If we found something, he’d try to figure out who it belonged to based on geography, how deep it was in the ground, that kind of stuff.” Dahlia smiled softly, sadly. “When he was able to verify who it belonged to, he sent it to that community with all his findings. But when he couldn’t, or the thing was too small or broken to get much from, he kept it. Just in case some kind of archaeological genius or tech innovation could one day help him bring it back to its people.”

“That’s really cool,” Talula said, a little awed. “Your dad must have loved his work.”

“He did. But Jones Junk drove my mom nuts.” Dahlia snickered. “Dragging this stuff from adjunct job to adjunct job. But then…”

Dahlia tapped on the glass over a particular item. Talula leaned in to see it. It was a bit of broken pottery with a painted design smudged by time. The label read, Dedicated to Laura, who is the love of my life & will hopefully forgive me for forgetting it was my turn to make dinner.