1. Mix first three ingredients and place in a deep dish.

2. Mix topping ingredients and arrange by large spoonful on top of sauce, like a cobbler.

3. Bake at 350° for 1 hour.

     On wash day (Thursday to you and me), Mabel always made her wash-day pudding. It was such a simple recipe, one which required very little effort, and she was able to not only do the laundry but also complete many of the other chores she had about her tiny apartment—such as dusting, vacuuming, window washing and bathtub scrubbing—while still having time to prepare Francis, her husband of fifty-eight years, a proper dinner.

     But today, Mabel had one more chore…a new chore, one she had planned for many years.

     She set an old sneaker box on the counter next to the stovetop and studied it in severe silence. A pot of boiling water hissed beside it, and the box trembled as if in response. Mabel’s heart raced, and a thin line of sweat broke out on her forehead; she was filled with anxiety, but she had paid far too much money to obtain the contents of the box to back out now. She steadied her breathing and calmed her nerves. A Zen-like peace descended upon her. She put on a pair of latex gloves, gripped her best metal prongs, removed the lid from her blender, opened the box, snagged the frog within, and dropped the poor bugger into the MaxiBlend 3000, quickly replacing the lid.

     She peered in at the frog scrambling at the sides of the glass tomb, trying to find a way out. It bore the black and yellow stripes of its kind, but it looked completely harmless. If Mabel hadn’t known better, she would have assumed it were as innocuous as any other frog.

     But Mabel had done her homework. The Pseudophryne Corroboree, commonly known as the Australian poison frog, is the only known vertebrate able to produce its own poisonous alkaloid. It’s also considered to be one of Australia’s most endangered species, and Mabel had sunk a considerable chunk of her retirement fund into its acquirement. Francis wouldn’t be pleased with that, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him; Mabel had always been in charge of their accounts.

     The sound of bubbling water boiling on the stove reminded Mabel about dinner. She added brown sugar and butter to the pot, stirred it, and then poured it into her pudding dish. She had already prepared the topping, so she spooned it out on top of the hot liquid. She then placed it on the center rack of the oven, set the timer for one hour, and returned her attention to the frog.

     She drizzled a capful of liquid detergent on top of the amphibian, held her hand over the cap of the blender, took a deep breath, and pressed the button labeled BLEND.

     In the elevator on her way to the basement, a basket filled with socks at her feet, Mabel made small talk with Barbara, one of her neighbours.

     “I see it’s wash day, Mabel?”

     “Certainly is, Barbara.”

     “What’s that peculiar smell?”

      Mabel concealed the measuring cup filled with chunky grey slop behind her back and out of view. “I don’t smell a thing,” she said.

     The basement was dark and damp, the type of place where the mind was easily spooked and shadows could come alive. Mabel flicked the light switch and crept into the laundry room. It was empty. “Hello,” she said, “anybody here?”

     No answer.

     Mabel opened a washing machine, the one in the far back corner. “I’m just doing my wash.” She began to shovel the basket of socks—not all dirty—into the machine. She poured in the rank detergent-frog mixture, closed the lid, pumped in a fistful of change, and turned on the spin cycle. The machine lurched to life as it filled with water.

     Stopping at the door, Mabel turned back to the empty room and said, “It’s nothing but socks in there. I trust there aren’t any thieving elves about, and every sock will be there when I return.” She nodded resolutely, and made her way back to her room.

     An hour later, Francis swirled a glob of wash-day pudding around his mouth with his tongue. “Mmmm…” he moaned in pleasure. “Mabel, I do declare, this is one of the sweetest puddings you’ve ever made!”

     A roguish grin spread across Mabel’s wrinkled face. The bowl of pudding lay untouched before her. She didn’t need it. The taste of victory was sweet enough.

     She took a sip of wine and envisioned Telperiën—the mischievous little trickster who had pinched one sock from every load Mabel had done for the past six years—floating facedown in her poisoned laundry.

     Francis eyed his wife with perplexity as she threw her head back and laughed out loud.

                                                               The End

Joel A. Sutherland, sutherlandjoel@yahoo.ca  

www.freewebs.com/joelasutherland/, wrote “Wash Day Pudding.” This author, who fancies himself a cook, is a librarian by day and a writer by night. His fiction has appeared in many books and small press magazines, and he is the co-editor of a fast food horror anthology, Fried! Fast Food, Slow Deaths. His first novel, Frozen Blood, is a 2007 release by Lachesis Publishing. He lives in Whitby, Ontario, with his wife, Colleen, and their goldendoodle, Murphy. Visit him online at www.joelasutherland.com. His blog is at http://joelasutherland.livejournal.com/.