Tuesday, July 28, 2015

99 cents until August 9th - Pre Order for that WOW factor!

Want to build up an appetite for the August 9th release party?
 For Facebook event details, click here: 
NOW AVAILABLE for PRE-ORDER: The Twistedly True Guardian Tale is on SALE and ONLY $.99! Order now and the second novel in the ‪#‎rubyhoodseries‬ will be delivered to your Kindle August 9, 2015!
***Price to increase the day of the release.
Amazon: hyperurl.co/ab3yqa

View the first book in the series as well as other titles by Stephanie Greenhalgh here: http://www.stephaniegreenhalgh.com/Publications.html

Sunday, July 26, 2015

The Culinary Revolution Televised: Russell Jackson's series, Pop Foods TV!

The dissident chef has his own TV series in it's second season.
New episodes are available on Sundays.
I couldn't resist sharing this link of Pop Foods TV, Season 1 with Danushka Lysek who was a contestant on Food Network Star with Chef Russell. It's funny as hell! Danushka, you missed your calling in stand up comedy. They are playing Culinary Rorschach. 
Click on the screen for the videos to populate.
http://www.popfoods.tv/episodeguide/2015/1/19/popfoodstv-episode-115-danushka-lysek-dinner-dates  or click here; https://vimeo.com/119164662

Here's a promo for Season 2

When asked if there is a third season coming, Chef Russell emailed "not slated yet..
there are 12 episodes of Season 2 to be posted..
We’re always looking for support and sponsorship to make each season better..
people can support us 2 ways monthly if they like."
Links are below:

Friday, July 24, 2015

The Dissident Chef has decided: And the winner of the Pulp Fiction writing contest is.......

Chef Russell Jackson, the muse of this writing contest!

All four contestants are winners!!
In Chef Russell's own words:
"I’m very honored to be someone’s muse and inspiration.. I know we all look for those passions. So I’m grateful and wish to thank each of the contestants for putting their work out there.. I hope that they all keep evolving and growing.. 
they’re all lovely stories, each with their own twist and detail..

i can say the one that i would like to read more of would have to be Stephanie Parke's Noir.. Frankly other than bacon candy I’m not quite sure where i fit in. But i enjoyed the story.. 

But really all were great.

Cheryl’s was super detailed and she clearly knows more about me than most..

Stephanie Greenhalgh story was fun and adventurous.. Kinda funny.. I like the hidden agent and karate chop.. very pink panther.

Jessica’s was a slightly frightening internal dialogue.. #Killthemallletgodsortthemout
hard to choose a winner. They all did amazing.. I could never pick a winner out of them.. They all did great..
My thoughts..

And thank YOU, Russell, for helping me to get my #FoodieLit movement off the ground. I hope to someday help to develop a new subgenre in writing be it fiction or non-fiction. I'll be blogging about your own Foodie TV show next.

Friday, July 17, 2015

The final two entries in the Pulp Fiction writing contest inspired by Chef Russell Jackson.

Jessica Samuels' Pulp Fiction writing contest entry.

Chef Russell Jackson - The inspiration for this writing contest

Pulp Fiction Writing Contest Entry:
Done. Another shift at the restaurant SubCulture Dining finished. Still the uneasy feeling followed me from this morning. Not right still. I dont know why it could be a crazy fan or an ex that wanted fame and is now stalking me for it. Who knows? At this point I had to get home to my apartment to rest for tomorrow. I get to my home in record time, and take off my pin Chef  Russell Jackson. Thats my name. I have a mohawk, brown eyes and hair with tattoos and a muscled body. I wear a chef coat most of the time since Im working most of the time. I have a successful career, and I was the third runner up on The Next Food Network Star. I even battled Chef Jose Garces in Iron Chef America. I have been through a lot, and people still recognize me on the streets. Too bad I didnt win because I would have loved to have my show on Food Network. Thats probably why I feel like someone is following me. It might be a fan wanting my autograph, but they didnt need to stalk me to get my attention. Not at allI get dressed in pajamas and then sit on the couch in the living room. Watching television after a shift relaxes me, and I have a nice cold beer too. Still the feeling that I was not alone continued and continued too. I get up and check all through out the house I lived in. San Francisco is where I lived, and I consider it a home. It does offer some crazy people living there though, and I wondered if it was the new waitress we hired:  Cindy Adams. She was staring at me the entire time she was working there. Never taking her eyes off me. It might be her due to the way she was looking at me. I wonderI search the entire house, and then find a note under my pillow of all places: Im watching you. It said written in red ink. The feeling I had was right someone is following me. It could always be the ex as well. I met Tara Smith a few years ago, and things were good till she cheated on me and then I ended it. Still the letters kept coming and then she started following me everywhere. She even tried to kill one of the girls I was dating at the time. I put a restraining order on her, and then I thought that was the end of that I was wrong. It could be her, and then I might have to use the emergency gun in the drawer under the light in my bed.

 Maybe, I hope not cause this is getting really infuriating. Im successful get over it you stupid, money, hungry bitch. She just used me for my money and status, and not really serious. Ill just have to see, and it could be anyone who wanted to scare me. Forget calling the cops cause they dont do shit. Ill just have to wait this out, and then Ill know. I went to bed saying fuck it. Whoever it is can kill me or hurt me later. I needed to get up for another shift. I go to sleep convinced they just want to scare me at the moment, and instead of it being restful it leads me to having nightmares about my stalker. I wake up tired from lack of sleep, and my alarm wakes me up. I dress and get ready for another day the stalker still invading my mind. I cant wait till its over, and then I can be at peace. Finally, and be rid of her for good if it is her, and I make my way to the restaurant. It is a fun experience for diners, and my baby. The thought makes me sick that just one stalker can ruin it all. I put it out of my head, and continue to the restaurant. I make it there just in time, and they are already getting things prepped. I get my official store coat, and thats when I see the note: Im Watching You. Another person is messing with me, and its all I can think about. I cant think of anything else. I tell my coworker I feel sick, and I see Cindy smiling at me. A very evil look, and then I know its her. Its her all the way I can tell it, and I get pissed.

I go up to her. Can I talk to you alone for a minute?

She nodded and followed me to my office.

I closed the door.

This stalking me has to stop, and I have enough on my plate without you trying to ruin it.

She frowned, But I thought it would be funny since you have a crazy ex too. I had one like yours, and I did all my research on you too.

But I dont find it funny and that is cause for a restraining order, so just stop it.

Okay, Ill stop it…”

And that is the end of that since I never saw a note again. That my friends is how you deal with crazy stalkers. Not to kill them but talk to them. I go home that night, and find myself noteless. The talking really did work, and sometimes its better to give a warning versus murder them. I never did see her after that, and business as usual continued

The end  




Stephanie Parke's entry for the Noir writing contest.

Chef Russell Jackson - The inspiration for this writing contest
Jace Deacon sat back in his chair and smiled. He put both hands behind his head and leaned back enjoying the silence. If you could call the honking horns and random chatter of San Fransisco at 3 am silence. He liked his office here on the waterfront right up from Lafitte his favorite restaurant. He Just couldn’t get enough of Chef Jackson’s Candied Bacon.  His was a quiet life and business but it kept him eating so it was a living, it was his kind of quiet. No one was beating down his door, no one was shooting at him. His life as a private eye often got him shot at and the pay was bad but the excitement and the dames were good.

He’d just finished an ugly case, wife was cheating, husband suspected and sent me to tag and bag her, well photographically anyway. The husband was some former gangster turned business type and the wife was a former valley girl who caught the golden goose. Too bad she decided she didn’t like it enough to stay faithful.  I snapped a couple of pictures and gave them to the husband and he blew his top. I was lucky to get out of there with my paycheck. I wondered if I should tell the wife to be careful, but I figured she could handle herself, given that the man she was married to was one of Bugsy Siegel’s boys.

Jace sighed again and lifted the bundle of money he’d gotten from the bank earlier. Well at least now he could pay the rent and keep the lights on another month. God help him if spouses in San Fransisco ever decided to start being faithful. He raked his hand back through his blonde hair and caught his own golden gaze across the room, he wasn’t the one who had done wrong. He straightened his collar and wondered why he felt guilty. His eyes caught on the picture of the wife and he knew why. She looked as innocent as anything and he knew she wasn’t. She’d been with that other man, had let him kiss her. He knew when guilty was guilty, but something about her still screamed innocence, even after all he knew.

He studied her green eyes and auburn hair and wondered why he couldn’t get her out of his head. He studied her picture again and traced the outline of her full lips and her finger waived hair. For the first time in his career he wished this one had been faith full. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, breathing deeply, he knew it was bad for him, but he couldn’t seem to stop, kind of like dames he thought to himself, he always seemed to pick the ones that were trouble. He smiled as he coughed and began turning out the lights. The smoke drifted up and made a haze in the dimly lit room as he reached for his jacket. He grabbed his trench coat and reached for the last light. His hand was on the switch when the knock sounded.

Jace strode to the door and opened it stepping back at the sight in front of him. It was the wife and she looked bad, her hair was down and tangled and her dress, once a beautiful green to match her eyes was torn and so dirty it was almost black. Her nails were broken and clogged with dirt and she was barefoot. Jace jerked back at the rush of cold that came into the room with her from the late night air. She stepped toward him and he stepped back automatically. The wife looked like she’d been roughed up and now she was pissed.

She stopped in front of his desk, hand on hip and pushed her long hair back with the other one.  Somehow, dirty and wrecked she still looked amazing. Man, Jace wondered to himself, when did I get it so bad?

“Are you just going to stare at me or are you goanna help me?” The question came out of nowhere and Jace was startled at the sound of her voice, low and sexy as hell . He hadn’t heard her speak but one time and that had been from a distance but the force of her voice on him had been startling. His whole body came to life and he wondered not for the first time what it would be like to kiss her himself. He adjusted his pants and sat  down heavily, his ancient rolling desk chair creaking loudly.

“Sit down looks like your feet could use a rest.”

She sat primly on the edge of the chair, hovering as if she wanted to hit the bricks any minute. “ Wow” she said sarcastically raising one dark eyebrow “what a gentleman.”

“I don’t really have time to play around with dames who cheat on their old men,” Jace said leaning back further in his ancient chair, “ even if they look like you, there is nothing on earth you can say to make me want to help you.”

She sat forward and eyed him, her eyes clear and furious under that fall of brown hair. “How about if I told you that I’m a ghost?”

Jace felt a sucker punch to his solarplexis. He hated when dames got crazy and desperate. He would guess that she was a little of both. Too bad, he thought as he leaned forward and looked her straight in the eyes, what a waste.

“You are crazy as a loon, go sell that to someone else.” He chuckled to himself as he looked down stacking papers on the desk. He hated it when he had to turn good looking dames away but this one was obviously crazy. “You know where the door is, get going”

He felt her before he looked up, the air in the room changed from chilly to icy in a second as he turned his head and met her gaze. She was now inches form his face kneeling beside his chair. He could see up close that her green eyes were blackened and her chin had a line of bruises marching up to her hairline where a massive cut hid under her auburn curls. This close he could see the pallor of her skin, could see that she was clearly not right.  He sat back and she leaned in closer not allowing him any room.

“Touch me if you don’t believe me. Go on do it, I won’t bite.”

Jace shrank back in his chair not wanting this to be real. He‘d wanted the easy paycheck, not for her to be killed, and from the way she looked it looked it has been a hard way to go.

“get back, you’re crazy!” he said trying to scoot back in the chair, but strangely enough it wouldn’t move.

“no, you’re just afraid.”

Jace gulped and gritted his teeth, hating the challenge in her voice, but knew she was right. He had never backed down from a challenge though and he wasn’t about to start now. He looked right at her and reached his hand out to her. His fingers skimmed her face and he waited for what he was sure would be the silk of her skin. His hand met air instead and sank into her cheek. The air around his fingers tingled like he’d stuck his hand in an ice bucket. She smiled sadly and he jerked his hand back. His chair slid back in the process and he stood behind it reeling.

“What the hell happened to you?”  Jace rubbed his hand still feeling the cold around his fingers.

“That’s what I need you to help me find out. I “woke up” this morning in a ditch with no idea how I got there.  I remember trying to sneak out last night, because I knew Sal had found out about Donny kissing me, but then it all goes black. I didn’t even know I was dead until a car drove right through me. Imagine my surprise. “Her sarcastic tone caught Jace’s ear and he couldn’t help thinking that she was feisty, and god help him he liked feisty.

He sat down and tried not to give away the shiver that slid up his cotton covered spine. His dress shirt stuck to him in his nervousness. He pulled his suspenders down and popped a piece of Chef Jackson’s candied bacon in his mouth stalling for time. He stared at her wondering what the hell to do next. Jace shook his head and sighed, he’d known this dame was going to be trouble.


Monday, July 13, 2015

Contestant Stephanie Greenhalgh's entry: Dollface's Diamond!

Chef Russell Jackson - The inspiration for the Pulp Fiction writing contest.

Dollface’s Diamond
“Quinn Lawrence, happy birthday!” Chef Jackson said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “I’m so pleased to be here at your hotel in Vegas.”
“CJ, it’s great to have you at the Morrocan. We’re thrilled your team agreed to come and share your culinary specialties with us,” said the handsome man, exquisitely dressed in a tailored three piece suit. “You remember my wife, Elsa?”
 “Hello,” The buxom red head purred as she cuddled up to her husband.
“Of course. Elsa, looking as beautiful as ever.” Chef said before taking her delicate hand, “And may I add, that is an exquisite necklace you’re wearing!”
 “Thank you.” Elsa said, tucking a strand of her long hair behind her ear to show off an enormous pear shape diamond pendant. It shimmered and sparkled in the candlelit entryway of the grand ballroom.
“Fifty carats. Nothing but the best for my dollface.” Quinn said, taking in every detail of his surroundings. “Now CJ, I’m intrigued to see what you’ve come up with this evening. Hope there aren’t too many surprises.”
“I’ve created a special dining experience in your honor that I think you’ll enjoy.” Chef said. “Now, let me show you to the bar, where the rest of your party is waiting.”
Quinn shot Elsa a quizzical look, but she only batted her eyes and smiled.
As the grand doors opened, a familiar and friendly voice echoed, “It’s about damn time the man of the hour arrived.”
“Holy hell, Darby Jones!” Quinn grinned as he walked over to greet his friend. “I thought you were halfway around the world playing in some underground poker tournament?”
“And miss your 50th? No way, man!” Darby laughed, his blue eyes dancing as the men embraced in a handshake turned manly hug.
“Ah…your better half.” Quinn said, turning to sweep a petite brunette off her feet, “You look lovely, as always, Mary.”
 “It’s good to see you, Quinn. Happy Birthday.” She said, as he set her back on the ground.
“Let the experience begin!” Darby exclaimed.
 “Indeed,” said Chef Jackson. “In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing simple yet succulent food for you to enjoy, and the staff is here to cater to your every need. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to check on things in the kitchen. My assistant, Ben, is here if you need anything and your server, Kristi is here to get you started. I’ll be back shortly. Enjoy.” Chef gestured to the man and woman in the room, then closed the grand doors behind him.
“Tonight, we will begin with a celebratory shot.” Kristi handed each guest a small glass with tiny flame on top.
“To my wonderful husband,” Elsa raised her glass.
“The best friend a man could ask for,” Darby raised his.
“And one helluva guy,” Mary added, as she lifted her glass.
“Bottoms up!” said Quinn, as glasses clinked.
“Excuse me, this way please,” Kristi said. Everyone turned and followed her to a large high-top table in the center of the room.  As they sat, she passed out menu descriptions. “All our food is simple, fresh and delicious. You’ll start your experience with hors d’oeuvres. Then proceed through many carefully created courses all served in a relaxed atmosphere.” Each of the guests nodded with approval as they skimmed the course descriptions. “And here’s Jim now with your next round of drinks.”
After the bartender placed a berry concoction in front of everyone, Kristi soon returned with two platters of fresh flavorful hors d’oeuvres. Raising their glasses, everyone toasted again. Bluesy jazz trumpets streamed through the speakers, while the friends shared the first course and caught up on time passed.
“Oh my goodness, that was simply delicious. I can’t wait to see what comes next,” Elsa smiled, putting her hand atop her husband’s.
“This was a spectacular idea, dollface.” Quinn said, as Mary and Darby nodded in agreement.
Just then, the room plunged into blackness. The ladies screamed in surprise.
“What the hell is this?” Quinn demanded.
“Is this part of the experience?” Mary asked, her voice quivering.
“I hope not. I’m not a fan of pitch black parties.” Darby wrapped an arm around her.
“Damn it!” Quinn said, his jaw clenching as he looked at his phone, “No service. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Everyone stay here,” he said. With his phone light, he strode toward the entrance.
“Who’s there?” Darby yelled as his penlight outlined a faint figure.  
 “AAAHHH!” Elsa screamed.
“What happened, dollface?” Quinn said, at her side in an instant
“Someone hit me over the head, then there was a quick tug around my neck and now…my necklace…it’s gone.” Her voice wavered, as she rubbed the back of her head.
 Seconds later a door slammed, then the emergency lights clicked on as another door opened. Shadows danced on the walls in the dim lighting as Chef ran into the grand ballroom, “Everyone okay?”
 “Hell no, we’re not okay, CJ. My wife just got knocked upside the head and someone stole her necklace…in the dark… at my 50th birthday party…in my own hotel!” Quinn’s voice boomed.
“Are you sure? Concierge said it’s just a simple power outage in this wing.”
“This is no power outage. This is a heist. Where’s my security team?” Quinn muttered, his fists clenching. “When I find whoever did this…”
“Whoa, Quinn. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Darby said, resting a comforting arm on his friend’s shoulder. “No one’s getting out of this hotel with that diamond.”
“You’re right. The auto-locks have probably been enacted, which means we’re all stuck here.”
“Which also means the thief can’t get out,” Darby said. “Take a deep breath. We’ll find the diamond.”
“Find the rest of the staff. One of them knows something,” Quinn’s voice turned hard.
“CJ, we need to get a hold of security and then find the staff.” Darby said, taking charge briefly.
“You got it. I’ll start with the main office.” Chef said. As he pulled a two way radio from his belt loop, a blood curdling scream erupted throughout the private room.
 “Dear God!” Mary gasped, bringing her hand to her throat.
“What do we do?” Elsa asked.
“Office A, do you copy? Office A?” Chef called on the main radio channel. Nothing. “Damnit! What’s going on?”
“I’m going to investigate. A hundred to one, that scream has something to do with the missing diamond.” Quinn said, moving in the direction of the scream.
 “Let’s stay together until we know what’s happening.” Darby added, ushering the ladies behind Quinn and Chef as he brought up the rear.
“CJ, ideas?” Quinn asked, pulling the heavy ballroom doors open.
“Let’s start in the offices and move forward.” Chef said.
“What the hell?” Quinn said, stumbling in the dark narrow hallway.
Screams filled the entrance as the women saw Chef’s assistant lying on the floor, bound with duck tape.
 “What happened?” Quinn bent, peeling the tape from his mouth.
“I don’t know. Someone hit me from behind and I woke up like this.”
“Where’s the rest of the staff?” Chef asked, but Ben only shrugged.
 “I’m pressing on.” Quinn said, anger radiated from his body.
When he got to the back of the wing, the office door barely budged. Pushing all his weight into the door, it flung open and a feeble barricade crashed to the ground. The emergency light flickered in the back of the room. “Found the rest of the staff.” Quinn muttered, raising his arms in surrender and stepping to the side. “Damnit!”
“What the…oh no!” Chef said, as everyone entered the office one by one.
“The doors weren’t supposed to lock,” Jim, the congenial bartender, said as he pointed the barrel of a revolver at Kristi’s temple while he hid behind her. “But we can still make this work.”
“How’s that?” Quinn said, moving in front of the group. Chef flanked him on the right and Darby on the left with the ladies safely tucked behind them.
“All I want is the necklace. Nine million will settle my gambling debt in Jersey.” Jim said, squeezing Kristi’s neck a bit tighter.
“So what do you want, besides my necklace?” Quinn asked, his eyes narrow slits.
“To walk out of here. I know one of you has a key. I get out and you all stay locked inside. No one gets hurt and I’ll be out of the building before the lights come back on,” Jim said, inching his way to the door.
“That so? Then what?” Quinn asked.
“I’ll pay off my debt and eventually…eventually…everything will be fine…”
 “Not on my watch! ARGH!” Kristi shouted. Stomping on Jim’s foot, she elbowed him in the gut.
Without a second thought, Chef stepped up and chopped the bartender in the throat, then kicked out his knee. Jim tumbled to the ground, his gun sliding across the floor.
“Well played, service professionals!” Quinn said, stepping on the bartender’s throat as he bent over to grab the gun. “Did you really think you could pull one over on me? Huge mistake,” Quinn whispered, reaching into Jim’s pocket and pulling out the brilliant pear shaped diamond. “And I’ll take this back.”
The room buzzed and the lights flickered on as security flooded through the doors, “Over here officers,” Kristi called, then walked to Quinn. “U.S. Marshall, Kristi O’Neal,” she said holding up her badge.
“You’re not a server?” Chef asked.
“Only undercover,” Kristi said, “And I must say, that was one a hell of throat chop, Chef.”
“It was nothing,” Chef shrugged with a sly smile.
“Is everyone alright, Mr. Lawrence?” Kristi asked,
 “Yes, we’re alright. Thanks, in part, to you. How did you know, Agent O’Neal?”
“I’ve been tracking this guy for awhile. He’s a wanted cat burglar with a severe gambling problem. The financial destruction left in his wake is devastating. We had a tip he was posing as a bartender, preying on the some top players in Vegas. I was assigned to shadow you this evening, sir. I hate that he got the upper hand for a short time, but now that the suspect has been captured. I think it’s time you get back to your party.”
“Yes, my love deserves his party,” Elsa said, as she leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.
“I agree 100%, dollface,” Quinn said, pulling Elsa close. He delicately placed the diamond around his wife’s neck. “Alright, CJ, after that killer throat chop, my expectations of the SubCulural Dining experience have risen to new heights.”
“And I intend to surpass those expectations, Quinn. Just give me a few moments. Please have a drink at the bar. I’m sure you could use one.” Chef said, happy to return to the comfort of the kitchen.
 “Indeed! You sure know how to keep things interesting, Chef Jackson.” Quinn said. “Now, I cannot wait for this dining experience you’ve created…I hear it’s R[E]VOLUTIONARY!”

 Stephanie Greenhalgh’s Author page: https://www.facebook.com/stephaniegreenhalghauthor

Friday, July 10, 2015

Chef Russell Jackson Pulp Fiction writing contest update: First Entry posted.

So far, we have four contestants: Stephanie Greenhalgh, Jessica Samuels, Stephanie Parke and Cheryl Johnson.

I am posting Cheryl's entry: http://creativewritersboost.blogspot.com/2015/07/pulp-fiction-writing-contest-cheryl.html

I am having some computer issues at home which I expect to have solved long before next weekend. I expect to have Chef Russell select a winning entry by Sunday, July 19th.

By the way, Chef Russell has his own TV show, check it out: http://www.popfoods.tv/

Pulp Fiction writing contest: Cheryl Johnson's entry.

Chef Russell Jackson's picture gave me inspiration for this story.
The Dissident Chef and the Mystery of the Golden Emu Egg.

“What The Marco?” exclaimed the Dissident Chef, eyebrows raised in surprise, as he surveyed the contents of the carefully packed insulated shipping crate.  The special order of organic Emu Eggs had arrived 30 minutes earlier and he was anxious to make sure none of them had been broken in transit.  When he lifted the lid and pulled off the layer of soft foam packing he saw that the egg nestled in the center of the first layer was not at all what he was expecting.  Instead of a dark green/black color, it was bright gold.  He reached in and gently picked up the golden egg.  It was feather light and felt very fragile to the touch.  He carefully held it up and turned his hand back and forth to look at the egg from all sides.

‘Hello, anyone there?” came a call from the back door of the commercial kitchen he had was using for his current Foie Gras soiree.  Chef carefully set the egg back in its place, quickly replaced the foam and crate lid and set the crate under the prep table before scurrying to the back door to see who was arriving.

There was a tall brunette standing just inside the back door.  He smiled as he read the ‘I love Rock & Roll’ logo on her light blue t-shirt.   ”Hello, how can I help you” asked the Dissident Chef.  I am looking for a Chef to cater a private party this weekend and was told I might be able to find someone to help me here at this kitchen.” said the woman.  “My name is Cheri, may I ask who you are?”  It’s very nice to meet you Cheri.  I am called the Dissident Chef.  I don’t know who referred you to this kitchen, but I am afraid there isn’t anyone here at this time that could help you.  I do cook for private events from time to time, but I am busy this weekend with an event of my own.”  “Oh, I see” she said disappointedly, “Well do you know of anyone or any place else I could contact that might be available?”  Chef quickly thought through his list of chef friends, ripped off a small piece of white butcher paper and wrote down several names for her to contact.  She thanked him; he told her good luck with her private party, locked the back door behind her and hurried to the front of the kitchen to lock the front door before lifting the crate back up to the prep table top. 

He once again removed the lid and packing and lifted the golden egg out. This time he noticed a small folded piece of paper resting under the egg.  He removed the paper, replaced the egg and unfolded the paper.  The note inside read:  “To the Dissident Chef, please keep this safe for me until I can come to San Francisco to retrieve it from you.  Thanks You”.  The note was just signed “T”.  The Dissident Chef was baffled.  He started going through the list of all the people he knew who had first or last names starting with T.   Finally he took out his cell phone and speed dialed a number. “Hey Lance, you know that case of Organic Emu eggs you ordered for me from your special source?  Well, I need to know where they come from and how to contact the supplier.”  “Was there something wrong with the order?” his friend Lance asked.  “No, I just have some questions about the eggs that only the supplier can answer. “Said Chef. Lance was silent for a moment, and then he said “Well, I have to telegraph my orders into the supplier.  I understand the Emu farm is on a small island off the coast so they don’t have phone or internet.  I just know that I telegraph my order and get a return telegram with the expected arrival date and the eggs come on time every time.”

“Hmmm” said the Dissident Chef.  “Well do you at least know the name of the Emu farm?”  “Yes, it’s The Golden Emu Farm”.  “Thanks Lance, I’ll see if I can’t find some way of contacting them.”  Lance wished him good luck and he ended the call.    The Dissident Chef knew he didn’t have time to spend on this mystery right now.  He should be cooking for the 6 course dinner he was serving in two days, but he could not resist entering the Emu farm name into the internet search box.  After about 45 minutes of searching he had found the name of the island where the Emu farm was located.  He knew any further action on the egg mystery would have to wait until after the dinner, so he wrapped the golden egg in several kitchen towels, put together several layers of foam take-out boxes and cocooned the fragile egg inside.  He then placed the package with his other personal items to take home that night.  Soon his staff arrived and the kitchen was abuzz with activity.  Chef was too busy to think about the egg again until he got home that night.  He surveyed his own kitchen, trying to decide where would be the safest place to put the egg.  He finally decided to leave it in the packaging and hide it in his pantry cupboard behind the giant sized jar of Nutella he kept for his late night chocolate cravings.  He ran through the list of names staring with T again as he ate a couple spoonfuls of Nutella before setting the jar in place to hide the egg package.  He still could not imagine who had sent the egg.

The next two days were so busy he did not have time to think about the egg.  His 6 course dinner went off without a hitch, except a small kitchen fire when a towel got too close to the stove flame.  All of his guests left with smiles and full happy tummies. 

As the tired, but happy Dissident Chef collapsed on the couch in his apartment, he again thought of the egg hidden in his cupboard.  He had put the note that came with it in his wallet and now took it out to see if he could maybe recognize the hand writing.  It didn’t seem familiar to him.   He moved over to his desk and started to search for travel information to visit the island where the Emu farm was located.  There were several boat rental companies listed for transporting cargo to and from the island.  Chef noted down their numbers and decided to call the next day to see if they also took passengers to the island.  As he fell asleep that night he was still running through the names of people he knew that started with the letter T. 

The first shipping company he called the next morning immediately stated that they were not making the trip to that island anymore because the tides and reefs made it too dangerous.  The second company had a going-out-of-business message on their recording, but the third company he called said that yes, they were still picking up and delivering shipments.  He was ten told that they would not be going to the island again for several weeks because of bad weather.  “With the shallow reefs and strong currents this time of year about the only way to get onto that island is to parachute in” stated the crusty seaman who had answered the phone.  “Well”, thought the Dissident Chef to himself. “Lucky for me that I am a seasoned skydiver if it really comes down to that.”  He thanked the old gentleman and hung up the phone. 

His hope of going to the island to solve the mystery dashed, he took out the egg package and unwrapped it to check the egg for any more clues.  As he sat there turning it over and over trying to think of another way to solve the mystery, his doorbell rang.  When he checked to see who was in the hall he recognized his old friend Tory B.  He opened the door and greeted Tory warmly.  “What are you doing in SF?” he asked Tory.  “I came to pick up the egg” said Tory.  The Dissident Chef felt the questions tumbling quickly out. “What? . . . You’re the one who sent it?  How did you get it?  What were you doling on the island?  Why did you send it to me?”  Tory held up his hand to stop the rapid fire barrage.  “I’ll tell you the whole story, but first do you have any beer in your fridge, I could kill for one right now

Tory was with a film crew filming the lives of the hill people of the island.  One of the village elders took a liking to Tory and gave him the golden egg as a present.  The elder said it had been made for his Grandmother as a wedding gift from his Grandfather but he did not have any children to pass it down to.  Many of the other island residents knew Tory had been given the egg and were not happy that it would be leaving the island with him.  He was sure there would be trouble when he tried to take it home.  He and his crew were given a tour of the Emu farm and when they were in the shipping facility Tory spotted the unsealed crate with the Dissident Chefs’ name and the SF address on it.  He decided to slip the egg into the crate but didn’t have time to write a long note of explanation so decided a short one would have to do.  He knew he could trust his old friend to keep it safe for him.  Tory was right about the trouble.  No one ever asked him directly about the egg, but when they got to the mainland and claimed their luggage it was evident that it all had been searched thoroughly.  The Dissident Chef put the golden egg back in its strange package for his friend to take home.  As Tory left with the package the Dissident Chef said.  “Hey Tory, next time you have to smuggle something home would you please send it to someone else?”  Tory laughed and agreed to the Chefs’ request.  As he shut his apartment door he was relieved to have the mystery of the golden Emu egg solved at last but sad to think he didn’t have any excuse now to parachute onto the island.  Oh well, maybe next time . . .    The End.


Sunday, July 5, 2015

Pulp Fiction writing contest! Revolutionary Chef Russell Jackson is the muse!

Chef Russell Jackson

Write a Pulp Fiction short story for the Chef who started the SubCulture Dining movement: Chef Russell Jackson. Chef Russell was one of the top three finalists on the popular series Food Network Star: http://www.foodnetwork.com/shows/food-network-star/contestants/russell-jackson.html and also faced off against Iron Chef Jose Garces on Iron Chef America in Battle Rhubarb. For a more extensive biography, click here: http://www.russelljackson.com/bio.html

All finalists short stories will be featured in my blog two weeks from today. These finalists will be the subject of a Tweet storm on Twitter. The winner, chosen by Chef Russell, will be the star of my blog and will receive even more publicity on Twitter and Facebook.

How do you get hold of me? Either message me on Facebook (find me under Liz Kingsbury Mckeown) or send me a private message on Twitter. My Twitter handle is @WritersBoost

Rules: The stories will have a maximum of 1,500 words, but this is not cut in stone. Chef Russell Jackson will be the subject of your story. May creative inspiration be with you!