Cthulhu Rises in Washington D.C.
My offerings to the ancient, watery god were paltry: lime juice, sweetened condensed milk, dried orange peel, eggs and whipped cream. I’m pretty sure I said the wrong incantation (“Please, Great Cthulhu That Was and Will Always Be, let this Pillsbury pie crust defrost in time for me to lovingly sculpt and then carefully paste together your evil tentacles.”)
In my darkest imaginings, Cthulhu floated atop a sea of strawberry-rhubarb. I’m sure he would have preferred that. But November isn’t rhubarb season, something they probably don’t teach in evil god school.
I poured, stirred, sculpted, pasted and baked.
I was sure the newly insane would flood the street with flailing and screaming. I put in earplugs and opened the oven door. Cthulhu key lime pie lurked before me. I heard nothing. The earplugs were really good. I took the opportunity to coat Cthulhu’s undersides with raspberry jam. Yummy.
I had called Cthulhu out of the depths without causing the end of the world or even making a smoke alarm go off. With his cranberry eyes, Cthulhu was so festive I couldn’t help but think December might benefit from a bit of Cthulhu Claus excitement. Krampus beware: Cthulhu has risen in Washington D.C. He tastes like key lime pie. Here’s hoping he doesn’t eat us all.