Scrapcooking, or an Adventure in the Divestiture of Germ-Awareness
written by Espin Sinclaire
The recollections of a bumbling first year as she traipses through cooking and magical cookery; written solely for the MCOOK class.
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
7
Reads
463
Chapter 2 – Magic in the Kitchens!
Chapter 2
I was far too busy waiting for Professor Dalloway to claim that, “the apron chooses the witch, Ms. Sinclaire,” to notice immediately the sudden rush of bubble and buzz towards the locker room. That moment, of course, never came, and instead I was left scrambling to my feet, heart strangely in my throat, peering over the heads of my contemporaries in vain as a sea of elbows and knees crashed down between me and the cleanest, newest aprons.
I swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe. This was a test of my (sorely lacking) courage. All those elbows had spent the last fifteen minutes rested against the surface of the centre table as students dozed, propping up heads, and who knew the last time it was sufficiently wiped down. The knees had knocked into each other out of bully or harmless tease, transferring Merlin knows how many microorganisms to every hapless student in the place. It was so, so unsanitary.
No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t join the wreathing mass of bodies scrambling for an apron. It was too much for my sensibilities. The shock to my system would kill me before the germs even got a chance to cast their wicked illnesses on me.
The economical aprons don’t have self-cleaning or stain-repulse spells, I reminded myself. And the old ones won’t have them active anymore, anyway.
I’d have to risk it, for the greater good.
There was no easy path through the throng of students, but I picked my way around the left side, which was relatively clear. That was when I saw it. My destiny.
It was a nearly all-white apron, such that any spills would show bright as day against it and thus be attended to promptly. It would cover my torso, unlike many of the half-aprons in the locker room that would do a woeful job of keeping me clean. It looked fresh and clean, the fabric reasonably expensive, so the odds of active charms seemed good. It was perfect in every way and camouflaged in behind a conglomeration of darker-coloured aprons, unclaimed.
I lunged for it and the exact same moment another girl, a Gryffindor I didn’t know, did the same. I shrieked as her horrible, courageous, grotty hand caught my hip and shoved me out of the way, sending me stumbling backwards into a Hufflepuff, and stared in horror as that same hand closed around the hem of the apron. She pulled, and one strap started to slide down the hanger, as though in slow motion.
Be cunning! I thought desperately, and whipped my wand up. “Accio apron!” I screamed. There was a moment of stunned confusion as the second strap of my destiny apron slipped off the hanger and safely into the Gryffindor’s unwashed hands, and then I was blinded as an apron flung itself off another hanger and onto my face.
I scrambled to pull it off and fling it onto the floor, staring aghast at the monstrosity before me.
Oh, it was white, certainly, but the off-white of age and use. It was a half-apron, without so much as a pocket for my wand, and offered no protection for my upper-half from spills and stains and germs of all varieties. It looked like something my foolish, and entirely germ-unaware, grandmother would wear, and might have been even older than that. It almost certainly did not have any spells or enchantments to keep spills and stains and germs at bay, either. This was a disaster, a downgrade in every way.
After a very extensive shower, I’ve spent all night researching what kinds of spells I’ll have to apply to it. At the very least I’ll have to add purgify and immaculatus, if I can bring myself to get close enough to it again.
I swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe. This was a test of my (sorely lacking) courage. All those elbows had spent the last fifteen minutes rested against the surface of the centre table as students dozed, propping up heads, and who knew the last time it was sufficiently wiped down. The knees had knocked into each other out of bully or harmless tease, transferring Merlin knows how many microorganisms to every hapless student in the place. It was so, so unsanitary.
No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t join the wreathing mass of bodies scrambling for an apron. It was too much for my sensibilities. The shock to my system would kill me before the germs even got a chance to cast their wicked illnesses on me.
The economical aprons don’t have self-cleaning or stain-repulse spells, I reminded myself. And the old ones won’t have them active anymore, anyway.
I’d have to risk it, for the greater good.
There was no easy path through the throng of students, but I picked my way around the left side, which was relatively clear. That was when I saw it. My destiny.
It was a nearly all-white apron, such that any spills would show bright as day against it and thus be attended to promptly. It would cover my torso, unlike many of the half-aprons in the locker room that would do a woeful job of keeping me clean. It looked fresh and clean, the fabric reasonably expensive, so the odds of active charms seemed good. It was perfect in every way and camouflaged in behind a conglomeration of darker-coloured aprons, unclaimed.
I lunged for it and the exact same moment another girl, a Gryffindor I didn’t know, did the same. I shrieked as her horrible, courageous, grotty hand caught my hip and shoved me out of the way, sending me stumbling backwards into a Hufflepuff, and stared in horror as that same hand closed around the hem of the apron. She pulled, and one strap started to slide down the hanger, as though in slow motion.
Be cunning! I thought desperately, and whipped my wand up. “Accio apron!” I screamed. There was a moment of stunned confusion as the second strap of my destiny apron slipped off the hanger and safely into the Gryffindor’s unwashed hands, and then I was blinded as an apron flung itself off another hanger and onto my face.
I scrambled to pull it off and fling it onto the floor, staring aghast at the monstrosity before me.
Oh, it was white, certainly, but the off-white of age and use. It was a half-apron, without so much as a pocket for my wand, and offered no protection for my upper-half from spills and stains and germs of all varieties. It looked like something my foolish, and entirely germ-unaware, grandmother would wear, and might have been even older than that. It almost certainly did not have any spells or enchantments to keep spills and stains and germs at bay, either. This was a disaster, a downgrade in every way.
After a very extensive shower, I’ve spent all night researching what kinds of spells I’ll have to apply to it. At the very least I’ll have to add purgify and immaculatus, if I can bring myself to get close enough to it again.
