My Cardboard Balcony

A Chef's Regret by Belinda Roddie He had hoped to please the rowdy family by providing the finest of the finest, marinated to the point of perfection, and spiced to the edge of insanity. And yet he instantly wished he hadn't because they shared no gratitude for the colorful displays and admittedly delicious trays upon trays of food, merely whining about the candles emitting too much heat, or the couple sitting nearby being too romantic, or the chairs being too small because of their bulging rumps. And the chef wished instead that he could have taken a fork right to the father's gizzard, a frying pan to the mother's forehead, and a baster to the son because he was fat enough to roast like a pig before sticking a Granny Smith apple into his maw.

As it got hotter and hotter in the valley, all of the remaining water and dew clinging to the weeds dried up or turned to vapor, and the mist that followed easily dissipated under the demanding bulk of the sun. No one dared to leave their houses that day, cranking up their air conditioners full volume, sitting in chairs with cushions that wouldn't grow sticky when making contact with perspiring skin.