[ WP ] You are a captive chef .

The children enjoyed watching me pluck feathers or take the cleaver to the guinea fowl's neck. On the outskirts of the capital mortar shells fired from old bunkers. We ate couscous when it was available, lobster after the rainy season and if the electricity did not give out at the palace I managed a soufflé. 
 
 His highness did not have his wife's refined palate. She was civil in front of guests, but none of that mattered when the country rationed butter and she could not get her brioche buns. I explained to her the recipe called for butter. An excessive amount of butter to capture the rich colors and taste. Her guards knew nothing about cooking, let alone assisting me in the kitchen. Trial by fire. We burned soups that's how bad it was in the beginning. 
 
 I hated making fowl. I knew the young fighters from the jungles were going to be executed when they demanded I prepare fowl. 
 
 How many? I asked. 
 
 Four. 
 
 And I knew four men would be executed in the palace courtyard after his highness read a proclamation declaring the boy's traitors to the crown, country and all the freedoms we held so dear. 
 
 The children liked to watch me prepare the fowl, as though my beheading some bird were part of the festivities, holding back the Mongolian hordes with my food. 
 
 I tried to escape the country many years ago, when I was still a boy. It did n't turn out well and I was given a choice, die with my country men or serve the crown. At the time I did not hesitate. They let me work in the fields, picking beans. For a time I was a courier, because I could read. I watched villages burn on the horizon as I was whipped through the country by train. Would they understand why I was choosing this? To live out my days as a servant rather than in fear. It all seemed so simple. 
 
 When I made biscuits or the occasional frittata on the road with my rations the guards stared in wonder. Peasants themselves, only now in uniform. Food and serving them made the killings in the background fade away, so I cooked for the others on top of my courier work. 
 
 For myself and the rest of the peasants throughout the country the palace was not real. It was the boogeyman in our stories and it was also heavenly. We spoke of it as a royal ship when I was a boy. As a courier I was taken to the main gates at night and given my parcels and letters. The palace loomed in the dark, but I knew it watched over my every action. 
 
 On the country's independence day a bomb was set off in the courtyard, the palace stables, garage and kitchen. All the staff were killed. The royal family were at another location, so they were not hurt. But it was enough to put fear into their hearts. 
 
 They sought cooks from the front lines, stable hands, horses from peasants, cars from neighboring countries to act as though nothing happened. 
 
 The first few weeks we who were chosen to be chefs I learned the royal appetite is fickle. 
 
 No pickles. Where are the pickles? 
 
 The other cooks were sent away to the stables or garage. I remained and my reputation grew. I did nothing special. I followed the recipes in the burned cook books and it was a miracle the spices in the pantry survived along with the herb garden. 
 
 We hosted dignitaries from other countries who were sympathetic with our fight with the rebels. I forgot all about my past life and could see how they were disturbing our country - the rebels were. Foolish I thought. Why go through the trouble of destroying your own country - I began to repeat after his highness. 
 
 I married a girl, a seamstress for the royal children. We had our own little girl. 
 
 We were invited to sit at the royal table to host guests and I spoke about what was on the menu. They all made closed-mouth sounds of pleasure as they ate. 
 
 We left the country twice - once for my 40th birthday and another time to visit my dying mother in law. My wife's sister told us we made it just in time to say goodbye. I did not know the woman, but she heard of my cooking. I had a packed lunch and fed her candied yams. She called me a dog before she died, but it was hardly a whisper saved for her last breath. 
 
 At the palace we were labeled rebel sympathizers, because we traveled by train to my mother in laws' home and that same week a royal supply convoy was taken over by the rebels. 
 
 I had no idea what they were getting at. It was all part of the tug of war the rebels carried on with. We had nothing to do with - no, that's not right. Of course we had something to do with it. We must have done something wrong. At least that's what I've thought all these years. 
 
 Prepare the fowls. 
 
 How many? I asked. 
 
 Two or three. 
 
 Well which is it. 
 
 I prepared three fowls that night and planned to cook them them the next morning. 
 
 We were thrown out of our beds by the guards. They smashed my knees with a rifle butt or a cinder block. I could n't tell. My wife was thrown down a flight of stairs and my daughter, who was near 8-years-old, was carried out in a large pillow case. 
 
 The lights of the palace courtyard were on and it was not dawn yet, but I could make out his highness at his usual place at the top of the palace balcony. His voice let out a single word: loyalty. The need for loyalty was vital. 
 
 I was pleading. 
 
 No, please, this is not right. We're loyal, we know what it means - I stepped forward, away from my family. 
 
 Bap, bap. The shots seemed muffled. The two figures were carried out, but I did not turn around. 
 
 I was given a choice. For the second time I chose life. Greedily. This time I was aware of what I was accepting. 
 
 Prepare the fowls. 
 
 How many? I asked. 
 
 How many do you have? 
 
 They laugh at me now from the guard towers as I limp to the herb garden. They do not watch my quarters after dark, because I am broken. 
 
 I will try to make the poison from the blooming, white flowers. Either for myself or for my country.
