The nuns I live with are well attuned to the fact that I am an unabashed, self-proclaimed, full-blown wicked witch. And I am quite sure you, Dear Readrrr, share deeply in that (awareness). When they learned of my wickedness, catching me emptying vials of abbey holy water into my cauldron in the chapel basement, they were neither shocked nor afraid. They did not turn me in to the bishop. Not at all did they do what ‘well-behaved, obedient’ nuns are taught to do. Forgive me for coming right out with it: they practically had a party. Some of them even danced. It was as if my cauldron were a mirror held out to them, inviting them to see and recognize themselves!

I turn green when I read my spell book. Likewise, when I read Leviticus.

You must know, Dear Readrrr: nuns –real nuns, at least– often live in terrible conditions of poverty or hardship, conditions they often accept without question, conditions that are deplorable. This is part of their vocation, particularly at the start of their novitiate journey. They are servants of God and the church, trading more than half a lifetime of potential material comfort for a retirement into the paradise of peace and an afterlife of divine fulfillment. It is a choice they make. But from whence did this “choice” come and how does nun-life compare to priest-life? We’ll be sure, Dear Readrrr, to muse wickedly on that another time!

For now we’ll focus on how my wicked life was discovered by the nuns. The joyous effect of my caught-re(a)d-handed cauldron on the nuns did not quite come out (of nowhere), but it was rather shocking. You see, when they caught me, I told them that a witch from a nearby coven had held me hostage down there and dashed off when she heard them coming (not an altogether untrue story!). Oh did the nuns laugh at me. Dear Readrrr, had you been there, in front of my makeshift cauldron, you would have laughed, too.

The nuns carried on as only nuns can carry on: as if they had never seen anything like me; as if they had seen a (friendly and peculiar holy) ghost! Nuns are not allowed to have mirrors around, you know. Except, oddly, for fun house mirrors. So shocking sights, like nuns cavorting with cauldrons, resulted in quite the cackling fit! I had also, I should mention, shed my habit in the heat of the cauldron and was wearing only my slip (more like a tunic, if you ask me) and I did not, I repeat: did not, see them coming. But they came; indeed, they came. In hissing droves. Sauntering, saintly, until they got a good look at me– and that is when, amidst their laughter, Headmothrrr (also known to me as Headfathrrr, Dear Readrrr, because …well, “reasons,” but only after mid+night chapel) placed herself firmly between my novice cauldron and the front of my tunic of a slip.

Many nuns my size would find this bear of a nun intimidating: true, but not this wicked little sistrrr. Why, to the contrary; I was not the least bit afraid of her overbearing build nor her stately yet ominous expression. The shadow she cast over my tiny frame emboldened me to stand barefoot on her monstrous moccasins and push my face right up into her wimple. Now, I am convinced that I frightened her into a kind of kindly submission, for she, Dear Readrrr, would you believe, could barely produce a syllable from those perpetually down-turned lips of hers. It were as though her lips were sealed by the nearness of me. Oh, but they weren’t shut; merely sealed!

I had, indeed, done something powerful in the convent; I knew then. Headmofo (pray, forgive my sor-did sense of humor) practically melted into my mouth (we were that close) her heavy admonishment, “Just what, Sistrrr Grimmm, is the meaning of this?” She said it all through her eyes and great fearsome presence. Hovering over me, her hag breath ran along my neck and her chin’s whiskers brushed my nose, and while I felt myself growing faint from her great nunconventional power, I was determined to remain lodged against her, unafraid of opening my mouth to whisper into her, “With no disrespect to the abbey intended, I must confess, I felt I could no longer survive on porridge and Sister Danita’s sardine stew. I took matters into my own hands. Or, cauldron. Headmothrrr, forgive me for saying this, but it seems you’re the one who’s turned green.” Oh, how gayly, Dear Readrrr, did the nuns laugh as Headmofo got a taste of my wick-ed wit. The two of us, smooshed together in a deeply unraveling confrontation, getting steamed together, by the cauldron, like two apostolic clams, were a spectacle of craftiness, and we were wearing spectacles, too!

Then, Readrrr, I did the nunthinkable: I wrapped my worshipful arms around HeMo’s wimple and I pleaded with every fiber in my being, “I ammm knot wic-ked! I swear I am knot wic-ked! It is only that I thought that perhaps God could work through this cauldron and make for us something not-tongue-numbing to eat. Something tasty instead. For once.” Oh, I knew how nungrateful I had sounded, but I had only said what all the nuns had been thinking, night after night, Dear Readrrr, having to stomach Sister Danita’s mealy excuse for meatloaf. It is the stuff of ramps and roadkill, I tell you. Not edible.

The effects of Sister Danita’s meatloaf

It was then, however, that all of the nuns grew silent, anticipating what harshness would arise from the iron bosom of our dear, beloved HeMo. What happened then, no one could have predicted. Headmothrrr, my arms still locked around her wimple, cracked one. Not a whip, Dear Readrrr! A joke! She attempted wit for the first time in her very, very long expiry-less life. She blurted, “Yes, I suppose you’re right; I’ve been starting to feel as if I am sinning whenever I sit down to supper. Sister Danita’s meatloaf is, I’m afraid, all oaf and no meat.” The nuns howled, including Sister Danita, who failed to discern the source of the “laughing stock,” and that is when HeMo snapped back into her usual marble-weighted stoicism, sending me flying, butt-first, into the nuns. She barked, “What are you; a pack of wolves? You are in the presence of your heavenly fathrrr! Pull it together, sistrrrs.” Under her orders, we clung together mightily. Sister Danita, gawky, small-eyed, and snake-oily as a nun-impersonating salesman, then spoke up, “So am I off the hook?” “Yes,” HeMo snapped. I gasped and she gurgled with a look of disgust so compelling that to say she was “feeling green” would be the nunderstatement of the year! “Though you never were on it,” she muttered so quietly it felt that the sound of her voice were nunheard by others and only slipped surreptitiously into my ear. Then her declaration rang out for all to hear: “We will find a replacement for the meat-headed oaf whose sardine stews and maggot loaves have overtaken and stolen this once-good kitchen.” “Who?” I asked, with relish. “Why, you, of course.” I felt her words set down and tighten around me like a chain mail apron. “Sistrrr Grim, Given your bold behavior this evening, I think you have made it obvious that you have a passion for cooking. Cooking up trouble, that is. I find that trouble to be good trouble. Your pun-ishment will be to use your cauldron for Godly purposes, to serve God and nun. You, Sistrrr Grimmm, will now be the nun to run our kitchen. Full time. You will prepare all meals for the entire convent and it will be up to you to decide upon our menu. Since you have such confidence in your skilled palate, this should be no problem for you.”

Oh, Dear Readrrr. I know it sounds a little nutty, but HeMo is not what she seems. She pulled an apron out from under her habit, placed it upon me, tied my apron strings in little bows, and turned to climb the stairs with great and ominous fanfare. As soon as the great and powerful She climbed the wooden hill, the nuns grew banshee-hysterical again; their delight could not be contained. You would have thought it was the most exciting event they had experienced in the last decade! I laughed and shrieked along, but internally I knew I had a real co-nun-drum to resolve. First: though what I said about Sister Danita’s meatloaf was absolutely true, I had no formal experience with cooking a meal. I had only played around in the kitchen and had long been averse to meat and I had never once enjoyed a gag-less meal at the convent up to that point. Secondly: I had no interest in using my cauldron for anything other than the holy combination of heaven and hearth. Hearth being witch craft. I thought perhaps I could improve the atmosphere of the abbey by boiling some apples, cinnamon and orange peel with a bit of holy water for good luck. Yes, luck! Note, Readrrr, though most of the nuns at this convent are not Irish; all of them are Ire-ish when it comes to luck! As for heritage and all that: there’s a strong German(ian) presence, with pairs well with the Ancient Grecian, Italian, French, and Eastern European presence(s) that float around this convent! I would need as much luck as I could get, given that I was not tasked with covering the globe while cooking up Good Trouble in my cauldron!

There was learning to do, and I was a mere apprentice when all of this transpired. I knew full-well that my culinary skills were limited, at best. I have always been great at talking the ears off of the nun in the kitchen, Dear Readrrr, as well as lounging cat-like on her counter, and getting in her way, while she works, yet Head Cook? This did sound like a momentous nundertaking to me. But nuns are in the business of preposterous pun-ish-ments and prefrontalous nundertakings, and so I endeavored to be in the business of preparing preposterous prefrontalous potions and moment-us meals. Thus began my wick’ed life in (or, move from the basement to) the kitchen. I can’t say I’ve performed any miracles, at least not yet, but I do take pride in my work as the Wicked Witch of the Eat and, grandest of all, Sister Danita’s meatloaf went, where it always belonged, to the dogs.

Dear Readrrr, do take pity on me; if you were presented with Sister Danita’s meatloaf, you would turn into a wicked witch, too!

Pondering my wick’ed predicament…