“The secret formula, it must be kept out of the wrong hands or it will doom us all!”
“This is a recipe for clootie dumplings.”
In the wake of sanctioned, regulated, guaranteed foodstuffs, there was revolution.
Astrid slipped her fingers into the knuckleduster she kept in her pocket as the shadowy figure approached. Just in case. Her life had been saved by precautionary measures like this, and the dust mask she wore to obscure her face.
“The owl hoots at midnight,” she said.
“A black cat screeches in return,” answered the stranger.
“To serve man,” she said.
“It’s a cookbook,” the stranger stepped into the light. She, too, wore concealing gear. They had to. Surveillance was everywhere.
Only then did she extract her fingers from her knuckleduster and bring the other surprise in her pockets out into the open.
Olive seeds. “For generations unborn.”
“Good food for good people,” said her contact. She swapped the little packet for a plain envelope. “This is the secret formula. Do not let it fall into the wrong hands.”
She only checked it out when she was safe from the pervasive cameras. At last. The recipe for proper clootie dumplings. She would make a copy, of course. Just in case.
The Secret Order of Chefs would be pleased.
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