The Winter Feast

Twister (theme) :- Flickering flames flipped fiercely, frying freshly frosted figs for festive feasts.

---

"For God's sake, Marcus, you're going to burn down the whole damn kitchen!" Sarah's voice became raw with frustration, while watching her brother trying frantically to swat flames back with a dishtowel. The old hydraulic cast-iron cook top, a vestige of their grandmas day, exhaled bitter flames that crept perilously close to the wood cabinetry above.

"I'm trying to save Grandma's recipe!" Marcus fired back, his face sweating in spite of the ferocious cold radiating from the walls of the farmhouse. But in the cold of the Massachusetts winter outside that day, it had already planted its roots in the ground, this day one of the coldest recorded, -15°F too cold even to thaw the pipes or make the Dutch spirits warm the ground.

The infamous family holiday fig recipe of their grandmother which neither of them quite grasped but which they both felt bound to continue. "You know she probably made this recipe up just to mess with us," Sarah muttered, reaching for the fire extinguisher. "I mean, who deep-fries sugar-frosted figs? It's like she wanted us to fail." Her hand hesitated on the red canister, knowing that using it would mean admitting defeat on their seventh attempt to recreate the dish.

Marcus stepped back from the stove, his shoulders slumping. At forty-two, his dark hair had started graying at the temples, just like their father's had. "Or maybe that was the aim all along," he murmured soft­ly, as the blaze slowly went out on its oŵn.

"Remember how she used to say that sometimes the best traditions are the ones that make us look foolish together?" Sarah set the extinguisher down, anger melting away to something else. "Right, and she'd go on to tell us that tale of her first Christmas with Granddad, the one where she set fire to his prized sombrero whilst trying to make mulled wine. "

The siblings stood there in silence, surrounded by the aftermath of their culinary disaster bowls of partially frosted figs, scattered sugar crystals that crunched beneath their feet, and the lingering scent of burnt caramel mixed with something indefinably nostalgic.

"You know what?" Marcus finally broke the silence, reaching for another fig from their dwindling supply. "I don't think we're supposed to succeed at making these. I believe the tradition is about the figs per se only"

Sarah raised an eyebrow, absent-mindedly wiping sugar from her hands onto her well-worn apron. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it. Every year grandma would busy herself in this kitchen for hours making these outlandish fried figs. And every year, we'd all gather around, watching her work her 'magic.'. But what do you remember most about those days?"

"The excessive laughter." answered Sarah without any hesitation. "By God, she used to be in bouts of laughter whenever she started cooking, especially when everything went wrong." Marcus nodded with a smile slowly forming on his lips.

"Exactly." And look at us now-the whole day we spent in here, cursing and laughing and almost burning down the place-like she used to. "Maybe that is the real recipe she left us." Sarah walked on over to the window staring at big fat snowflakes floating in the darkening sky.

"Strange, isn't it?" she mused. "All this while we've never got focused on getting the food just right for the memorial service tomorrow. But maybe perfectly fried figs would make it easier to leave this place.

The farmhouse belonged to their family line for four generations, however, tomorrow would be their last. The sale was final, the papers signed, and most of their grandmother's belongings had already been packed away in boxes that lined the hallway like cardboard sentinels.

Marcus stood there with her at the window, their breath fogging the glass. "Remember that blizzard in '99? When the lights went out and Grandma turned it into an adventure?"

"She made us build a fort out of blankets in the living room," Sarah continued, "and taught us to roast marshmallows over candles. Dad never stopped worrying about us, but she just kept saying... "

"The cold makes the heart grow warmer," they finished together, then laughed at the shared memory.

"You know what?" Marcus straightened up suddenly. "I think I know how to do this right." He moved back to the stove, adjusting the flame to a gentle blue flicker. "Hand me those figs the ones we haven't massacred yet."

Sarah watched curiously as her brother worked, his movements more deliberate now. He wasn't following their grandmother's recipe card anymore but seemed to be working from some deeper memory. "What are you doing?"

"Something simpler," he replied, carefully coating each fig with a thin layer of sugar. "Remember how Grandma would sometimes get tired of all the fancy cooking and just make us candied figs? The ones she'd let us eat while she told stories about her childhood in the old country?"

The kitchen filled with a new aroma sweet and familiar, but not quite the same as their earlier attempts. Outside, the temperature continued to drop, but inside, the warmth seemed to grow from more than just the stove's flames.

I've been figuring out," Sarah remarked, assisting him in distributing the figs on a dish, "perhaps we don't have to duplicate it precisely the same way anymore. Maybe some traditions can evolve without losing their heart." Marcus smiled, dusting the edible figs with a spray of sugar. "I think Grandma would have liked that idea. She always said cooking was about love, not rules."

They carried the plate into the living room, Sarah pulled out their grandmother's old checkered blanket the one that still smelled faintly of wood smoke and holiday spices and spread it on the floor.

"One last picnic?" she suggested, settling down cross-legged on the blanket. Marcus joined her, placing the plate between them. "One last picnic," he agreed, picking up a fig. " In loving memory of Grandma Rose, who taught us that the greatest family recipes are the ones that get burned at least once."

Sarah raised her own fig in a mock toast. "And to new traditions, built on the ashes of the old ones hopefully with fewer actual ashes involved."

Their coldest day of the whole year unknowingly had the therapeutic effect of making them recall what true comfort actually is.