October 2025

There’s no way this recipe calls for the blue foot of a booby. What is a blue-footed booby? “Todd, where did you say you bought this book?” 

“That used bookstore on Main.” 

I scrunch my nose in disgust. “What possessed you to go there? The owner looks like Dr. Frankenstein.” 

Todd pauses his vegetable chopping. “I love that you know it was the doctor named Frankenstein and not the monster.” 

“Don't try and distract me with flattery. Why ”—I lift the book toward Todd—“am I making a recipe that calls for blue feet?” 

“My Nona recommended it, and it was the only shop that had a copy. I thought uccello risorto, sounded delicious.” 

“You thought it was risotto, didn't you?” I laugh, teasing him. 

He pauses, shrugging. “That's what I said. Anyway, the old guy gave me a little jar of zaffiro. He insisted it was imported from Gallipoli and was essential for the recipe.” Todd gestures with the tip of his knife toward the counter. 

“Do you mean zafferano?” 

Placing the knife down, he says, “Yeah, that's what I just said.” 

“I’ve never seen blue saffron,” I say, eyeing the jar skeptically. The blue crocus threads glitter unnaturally. 

SKEEEERRRK! 

I jump, heart leaping into my throat as the kitchen timer rings. 

“I detest that thing,” I say, glaring at the antique. 

“It’s classic.” Todd grins at the mechanical menace. “Like this cast iron pot?”

“Exactly, it was Nona’s.” “Well, if it's Nona-approved, it must be good.” I roll my eyes, setting the chicken on its bed of chopped vegetables and rice. Next, pour two cups of bone broth, sprinkle zafferano, secure the lid—then I slide the uccello risorto into the oven. 

“Vine? It’s full-bodied and delicious, just like you.” 

“You mean wine, Todd.” I sip and set the timer for twenty-five minutes. 

“Chickenfoot?” Todd asks, heading toward the living room. 

“What?” 

“The domino game.” 

Two glasses of wine later, Todd eyes his pieces. 

Grrk-grrk-kkhhkt! 

“Did you hear that?” I ask, looking around. 

Todd places his domino. “The house is old. It was probably the pipes.” 

SKEEEERRRK! 

“Dinner’s done,” I say as we move back to the kitchen. 

Steam seeps from the covered pot as I pull it from the oven. A tap-tap-tapping coming from inside. 

What is that? 

Slowly, I lift the lid, like a cast-iron casket. “Oh my god,” I shriek, slamming the lid back down. 

“What?” Todd asks, moving me aside, then lifting the lid. 

On a nest of cooked vegetables, surrounded by swirling steam, a red-eyed blue-footed booby blinks back at us. 

“We can't eat that,” I say. The Booby begins pecking at the pot. “It’s alive.”

“Obviously, it's alive,” Todd snaps. 

Staring, the bird rises on blue feet. “What is it?” 

“I don’t know Margo.” Three quick knocks on the kitchen door jolt us from our daze. 

Grrk-grrk-kkhhkt! 

“That noise, it was the fucking chicken!” I say, rushing to the door. 

On the other side waits Dr. Frankenstein. “I’ve come to retrieve my Booby.”