The best laid plans....

"Haste makes waste" was one of those saying I had heard often when growing up. I didn't believe it, and in fact tested it many more times than I probably should have. Inevitably that lesson is forgotten when time is of the essence and working at a faster pace seems to be paying off. Sometimes everything works out just fine. More often than not, all that rushing results in some kind of mishap that requires you to stop and redo it all. This time without all the rushing, because by now it is evident that had you done it properly the first time, it would have been done already.

Honey cakes, hot and sticky, melt in your mouth and decadently sweet with amber honey, now were plastered against my upper body. Some of the spots stung with the boiling heat. I had screeched, staring in shock at the slave Flow, who likewise wore a face of disbelief. I had just removed all the tender morsels from the pan and placed them artfully on a platter. I had just turned away from the fire. Yes, I was working quickly, quite pleased that everything was going so well and we were accomplishing so much so quickly. Flow was en route from the main camp to the lacing of flags from supply wagon to vulo wagon. We met by the fire.

Flow tried to grab the tumbling platter, but it clattered onto the grass and dirt. In a quick thinking reaction, most likely due to my blood curdling screeching and the frantic attempt to get boiling honey off of my breasts, she grabbed a bucket of water and flung it. Among the sounds of voices and animals, bits and pieces of a song from one direction, drum beats from another, the creak of a wagon, the rattle of the breeze through the Harigga, we could hear the hissing final notes of a fire being squelched. Scattered among the spicy symphony of roasting meat, the earthy undertones of grass and beasts, we could taste the wisps of smoke dieing in a spiral up to the sky. We both looked at the wet coals of dung and all the food trying to be a feast in a few ahns.

"Ah shit"...was the duet we voiced.

All things considered, if that was the worst that happened that day, I knew we were going to do well. The underwagon sleen, Yaz I have come to learn, arrived without notice and used his rough long tongue to partake of an early taste testing. By the time he was done not a bit of honey...or cake...remained in evidence either on the ground or on me. Steaming hot dung pieces were shoveled off to the side to dry and replaced with more suitable fuel. The pots were soon bubbling, the meat sizzling and a fresh batch of dessert was in the works in no time. Done carefully. Without hurrying. A network of tiny white dots spilled over my chest, breasts and punctuated the soft slope of my belly. The heat from the fire aggravated them, but it was a small price to pay for getting back on track. I would not take the time to wash off properly until everything was running smoothly again.

Somehow, in my trip to the stream, I must have washed off my good sense. That is the only explanation for what would come next