Five Pounds Of Creatures

They unloaded their bags in the back entryway of her house. It had been a fun, tiring day at the mall. Nine-year-old Adira even revealed some issues she had with her friends.

Because of these issues, Aunt Née had decided to teach her niece Adira "the" brownie recipe. It was time to pass on the wisdom Yumi and Née had learned from their mom. The recipe was simple, thoughtful, and good for sorting out issues with friends.

Ever since Yumi, her sister, and Adira's mom passed, the young woman was rapidly becoming an adult. Her brother-in-law was in over his head.

"Tell me more about Alicia and the green-shirt boy," said Née.

"Do I have to?" whined Adira.

"No. But I'll teach you a recipe that grandma taught me and your mom. It'll help you with this. It has magic in it."

She perked up, "Real magic?"

"Nope. Even better. It's psychology and the magic of beans." Née and Yumi's parents were both psychologists. Her mother was a college professor, and her father was a clinical psychologist. Their parents were also big fans of "natural" foods and nutrition.

"You're supposed to feed this to the people you love. It helps the love grow stronger. If you feed it to a person you hate, it'll make them like you more. This brownie appeals to what's deep inside you."

"I don't want to give Alicia anything," she pouted.

"Well, I won't make you do anything, but let me make this for you. You tell me how you feel at the end, and then you get to decide who will enjoy your generosity."

"I hate beans." the child slightly sneered.

"We both already know you don't hate beans. Hot cocoa is beans. Vanilla is beans. Sesame balls- you like those, too."

"Do I have to eat beans?"

She laughed, "No, sweetie, you don't have to, but you'll want to." Née started to pull things out of the cupboards. She set up a small village of ingredients. This included measuring cups, spoons, a food processor, and a nine-by-nine brownie pan.

She asked the child, "Do you know what a bean is? It's a seed. It's the start of something. The first picture I ever saw of you, you looked like a bean growing inside your mother's tummy. So, we'll start this with beans, specifically adzuki beans. If you will make something good for other people, start with beans."

The child sighed, "Don't beans make you fart?"

The woman snorted, "Isn't farting wonderful thought? They're funny, aren't they? You can only really fart in front of the people you love."

"I don't fart in front of people."

"If they're your friends, it shouldn't matter." She paused, "Your mom was an amazing farter. She'd clench her cheeks, and it'd make the most noise possible." Née put the butts of her hands against her mouth and blew a loud, cracking raspberry.

"No! No, she didn't!" the child squealed.

"Yes, she did! I tried to be that good at it. I tried to compete once and did an 'oopsie-poopsie' instead."

"What?" said the child, shocked.

She smiled and nodded, "I don't need to explain."

"Gross auntie." she giggled slightly.

"You know what causes gas?" She looked her niece in the eyes, "Inside every person are five pounds of tiny creatures. They live in your intestines. They live on your skin. They start as gifts from our mothers. Everyone we meet, everything we eat, everyone we kiss…" she paused.

"Stop it." said the girl, squeamish.

The woman continued with a smile. "...all these little things change and improve the five pounds inside you. Farts are their way of letting you know that they're there. This is a recipe for them. You're not just feeding your friend; you're feeding her creature community. Without these creatures, we would all die. These creatures help us digest food, regulate our immune system, and protect us. This is a recipe for your friend, and this is a recipe for the five pounds of creatures inside her."

As she said this, she turned her oven to 360 degrees Fahrenheit. She also cut a piece of parchment paper for her nine-by-nine-inch pan.

"Do you know about the number three?" said the Aunt to her niece. The girl nodded no. "Humans are pattern-seeking machines. Three is the smallest number needed to create a pattern. So you'll always remember this recipe because it always uses three."

The girl watched as her Aunt sprayed the pan with oil and adhered the parchment. Her Aunt queried, "What's the number?"

"Three, Auntie," she repeated.

"Good hun. The oven is set to 360 degrees. This is a nine-by-nine pan. Three goes into three, six, and nine, right?"

"Yes."

Before them was a Tupperware of cooked adzuki beans. Next to that was a canister of quick oats, a box of pitted dates, unsweetened cocoa powder, flax meal, soymilk, coconut oil, vanilla extract, white miso, instant coffee packets, baking powder, a dark chocolate bar, and an array of spices.

"Auntie, there are more than three things. I can't remember all this!"

"We'll start with beans and a half-cup scoop." She handed the half-cup measure to the child. I'll tell you what to do, but you scoop it into the food processor. We'll start with the beans. We're using adzuki beans because that's what's in those sesame balls you like. Repeat after me: One scoop for abundance."

"One scoop for abundance."

"Now," Née instructed, "One scoop for fertility."

"One scoop for fertility," she repeated.

"One scoop for the spirits."

Adira turned to look up at her Aunt, "But you told me ghosts don't…"

"Not ghosts, sweetie. Spirits. Think about your mom and the impression that she made on your life. That impression that's left when someone's not around. That's their spirit."

She hesitated but continued, "One scoop for the spirits."

"Now take this one-third cup measure, and measure out one scoop of oats for abundance."

The child reached the scoop into the oats and dumped it into the food processor.

"You have to repeat it, or you won't remember it," said her Aunt.

"One scoop of oats for abundance."

The recipe continued with three one-third scoops of the dates. Then, one one-third cup scoop of the cocoa powder. With each scoop came "abundance," "fertility," or "spirits," all in the same order.

All this was blended into a smooth paste.

They started the second step: three tablespoons ground flax meal, nine tablespoons soy milk, three heaping tablespoons coconut oil, three teaspoons vanilla extract, three teaspoons white miso, three half-teaspoons instant coffee, and one half-teaspoon baking powder.

"But Auntie, that's only one!" the child responded.

"One is always for abundance. We only use one scoop at that time because we don't want to be greedy." Née replied.

Yumi once told their mom that the "greedy" insight didn't make sense. If they had an abundance of that one thing, that meant an "overabundance of abundance." Their mom replied by snapping off a square of the chocolate bar and saying, "Chop the rest of this bar. There's only one of that, too."

Aunt and niece spun the food processor again. They thoroughly mixed all the ingredients into a thick paste. They chopped a dark chocolate bar as the batter mixed.

"One last step before we put this in the oven," started Née, "You have to pick three spices here that reflect you. That way, this becomes your recipe. All these spices will go well, but choosing the three is up to you. I won't tell you what to pick, and I won't tell you how much to put in. Go with whatever the five pounds of creatures tell you that they want.

Née turned away as the girl picked those last three flavors in silence.

Adira sprinkled them in the batter. Once finished, Auntie turned back, pulsed it for a final mix, and emptied the batter into the pan. They scattered the chopped chocolate over the top.

They baked it for 30 minutes until the rich smell of chocolate and spices filled the kitchen. Once done, the scent intensified as it cooled on the counter. The Aunt and child sat down to cut them up and package some as gifts. Then they ate the rest.

They had five pounds of creatures to feed.