Holy Ravioli

Kevin carried out a small box covered in grease and food splatters, his belongings clinking inside. It wasn’t the first time he’d been fired, and he was quite sure it wouldn’t be the last. This time, he’d been blamed for the restaurant failing to meet food cost targets for two months—though it was always the front-of-house staff sneaking back to gorge themselves whenever they pleased. When he protested, he was reprimanded for being "unwelcoming" and "creating a hostile work environment." There was just no winning.

He set the dilapidated box on his cluttered tile counter and grabbed a drink from the fridge. The cramped kitchen in his shoddy flat felt smaller than ever as he paced, contemplating the future. With his fortieth birthday looming, he was nowhere near where he had hoped to be. After two decades in the culinary world, he’d expected to own a restaurant—or two—by now. Instead, his career had been a cycle of disappointments. He’d been fired for incidents like throwing away salmon that smelled of a hundred deaths—only for the owner to call it wasteful and suggest “extra seasoning.” Or for politely asking a cook to stop drinking cooking wine during shifts—somehow labeled as sexual harassment.

His savings were scant, and the dream of owning a business felt like a fading pipedream. He would soon have to find another job, working under yet another illogical manager, stifling his creativity.

Sorting through the box, he tossed a zester and garlic press into the sink, binned some miscellaneous paperwork, and set aside a few recipe ideas he’d once scribbled down during a flash of brilliance—but had never brought to life. Then, tossing aside a rubber ducky wearing a chef’s hat and coat, his hand brushed against something unusual.

A look of bewilderment crossed his face as he pulled out a strange figurine: it wore a tattered, stained toga, held a wooden stirring paddle like a sword, and had a shiny colander perched on its head.

“What the hell?” Kevin muttered. He’d never seen it before and had no clue how it ended up in his stuff. Maybe someone thought it was funny—but to him, it was just plain weird.

He shook his head and went to the freezer for something to ease the hunger gnawing at his stomach. Grabbing a store-bought meat and potato pie, he popped open the microwave and began unwrapping it.

A voice thundered behind him. “How dare you?”

Kevin dropped the pie and spun around.

Standing in the kitchen, hands on hips, was the once-small figurine—now a full-sized man.

“Get out,” Kevin said, reaching for a carving knife. “Leave now, or I’ll call the police.”

“Ha ha ha!” The man’s laughter roared through the flat. Then he straightened, his tone suddenly serious. “Kevin, why are you such a fool?”

“What? How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“It is I.” He clutched his robe, spun dramatically, and gave Kevin a wink.

“Look, I’m not in the mood.” Kevin edged toward his phone. “Just—leave.”

“Do not disrespect me! I have traveled through space and time, ignored countless others, and chosen you. And you stand there pretending not to know who I am?”

Kevin shrugged, unsure how to respond.

“My reputation has been… diminished over the years, through no fault of my own. Poseidon gets credit for all his petty storms, Hermes is summoned more than a mid-rare filet mignon, and don’t even get me started on Ares or Cupid—they barely try! But me?” He lifted his stirring paddle and smacked the phone from Kevin’s hand. “Listen to me, boy,” he growled, eyebrows twitching wildly. “I am Culinarius—the god of culinary arts.”

Hours later, Kevin and Culinarius sat on a park bench.

It had taken speeches, flying utensils, and even a chip bag piñata battle, but Kevin was finally convinced: this strange man truly was a forgotten culinary deity.

“I used to be a legend,” Culinarius reminisced. “When I introduced olives to the table, I was worshipped. And when I got King Louis XI to carry mustard everywhere? People swooned. I’m making a comeback. Reclaiming my title.”

“I thought you were here to help me,” Kevin said.

“Oh yeah, that too.” He slapped Kevin’s thigh and jumped up. “First, we need to make you less of a loser.”

“Excuse me?” Kevin frowned.

“Don’t deny it. I caught you about to eat that microwaved slop. That crap ruined my life! Cooking used to be sacred. Feasts. Craft. Passion. Now it’s fast food and artificial garbage. It makes me sick. If I ever see you with that stuff again…” He jabbed Kevin with his paddle. “I’ll kill you.”

“I told you—no, you can’t come to work with me.”

“Oh, come on! I’m wearing mortal clothes! I helped you land this job, and you’ve actually kept it. For three whole days!” He winked.

“Yes, three days. Thanks for—”

“Hey Kevin.” Carley smiled as she approached.

“Hello there,” Culinarius said, stepping forward.

Carley cocked her head. “And you are?”

“My uncle—from abroad. Visiting for ‘bring your uncle to work day.’ I’m well-versed in all cuisines. Interdimensional and worldly.”

“Okay…” She stubbed out her cigarette and retreated into the restaurant.

Inside, Kevin seethed. “I can’t believe you. You’re going to get me fired. 'Bring your crazy uncle to work day'—seriously?”

“Stop whining and start cooking.”

“I am cooking!” Kevin gestured wildly. “French onion soup, sixty steaks prepped, and eight trays of croque madames!”

“And now?” Culinarius manifested his stirring spoon and jabbed Kevin in the groin.

“Ow! Are you kidding me?”

“An empty pot doesn’t cook itself.”

The morning passed with pokes and unsolicited wisdom. As Kevin honed his dishes, Culinarius danced wildly to 80s hair bands. Everret walked in, bloodshot and silent, nodding at Culinarius before heading to his station.

“Just be cool,” Kevin whispered. Culinarius nodded, still bopping to the beat.

Despite everything, Kevin felt different. The stress of a full ticket rail didn’t shake him. The new menu felt second nature. He even tested out a few specials—something he never had time for. Somehow, Culinarius had motivated him. Turns out fear of divine poking was a decent motivator.

Later, Carley returned with an allergy card.

“We just got a kid in—can’t eat practically anything.”

Kevin scanned the list. Culinarius snatched it.

“What is this nonsense?! Peanuts, avocado… GARLIC? ONION?! This is a war crime.”

“Uncle Culi, please. It’s common now.”

“Why?”

Carley and Kevin exchanged helpless glances.

“We could give him a plain baked potato,” Everret offered. “With mustard!”

“Mustard is a magical condiment,” Culinarius declared. High five.

“But that won’t wow him. Every meal should be art. Hmm… I’ll consult my repertoire.”

He sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes.

“Uh…”

“It’s fine,” Kevin said. “We’ll figure something out.”

Seconds later, Culinarius leapt up. “I know! Devil’s Dung.”

“What?”

He disappeared in a swirl—and returned clutching a tin labeled Asafoetida.

Kevin opened it and recoiled. “It stinks like ass.”

“Isn’t it glorious? An allium substitute.”

“I… can’t serve this.”

“Are you questioning me?”

“The kid will gag.”

“Then his palate is flawed. I am affronted!”

That night, they lounged on Kevin’s couch.

“Did you see the kid? He was elated!” Culinarius beamed.

“He was impressed,” Kevin agreed, still in disbelief.

“The best meal of his life! Those were—wait.” Culinarius squinted at the TV.

“What is this?” He grabbed the remote. A commercial for Culinary Gods played.

“Compete against the best. One million dollars. Do you have what it takes to become a culinary god?”

“What blasphemy is this?”

“Relax—it’s just a dumb reality show.”

“How many times have you entered?”

Kevin laughed. “Me? I’m not qualified.”

“This is your problem! Always doubting. Never cooking. Always dreaming, never doing.”

“These chefs have their own restaurants, fanbases—”

“And you have me. You are a dumbass in most areas, but your culinary talent is unmatched. We are entering.”

One month later, backstage at Culinary Gods, Kevin stood drenched in béchamel while Culinarius pranced in a silk robe.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this. I made a fool of myself. And your outfit…”

“My attire sets us apart! Think beyond the recipe book, Kevin. Create. Be notorious. And I didn’t get you fired.”

“You smacked a customer in a packed restaurant!”

“He put ketchup on ahi tuna.”

Kevin sighed and slumped onto a bench.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about microwaving something.”

“I’m not. If you’ve taught me anything, it’s to have confidence, respect the culinary arts, and never stop trying. When we get home, I’m making a five-course meal. All new dishes. No matter how awful they turn out—it’s better than waiting for something to happen.”

Culinarius beamed, heart full. Whatever came next, their future was bright.