The Mystery

By Detective Alger

Detective Alger’s Mashed Potato Sandwich Recipe

10:00 PM on a Sunday. Too late to be anywhere, too early to be asleep. The bottle that mocked me all day from its perch on my desk seems to have had his cap knocked off. And all his insides drank. Shame how things seem to go, don’t they Mr. Harris? I stumble out of my chair to investigate the twin mysteries of “Where Did Zachariah Harris’ Whiskey Go” and “How Am I Going To Fill This Drunken Belly”.

No leads in the bedroom. From the bed along the carpeted floor to the door I see only Harris’ label - and cap. Ah, his cap. I return it to him with a smile. See Mr. Harris, I haven’t left the room and I’m already making progress. I follow the cap clue and wander down the stairs of my ramshackle townhouse.

Amid groans and protests of carpet-over-wood I cross into the kitchen and flick on the dim bulb. Mmmm, dishes, a slight stink, but no missing liquor. I open the fridge and happen upon half a loaf of Wonderbread. “Ah clue, I see” mumbles between my definitely sober lips. Now, for a meat. Ah, but no meat to be found. Shopping happened last week and I’m not going anywhere in this hungry state. Only mistakes to be made and pre-prepared brownie mixes to be bought. No, that wouldn’t do, not for the third time this month...

"Shopping happened last week and I’m not going anywhere in this hungry state."

I shake out of my wistful reverie see the bread in my left hand and a box of mashed potatoes in my right. How did that… my eyes widen. I put the bread down so it can come to room temperature and get a pot of water boiling. Just a cup Mr. Ida Hoan? Are you entirely certain? I ignore his flakey whisper of an answer and get back to business. I’ve got the start but I haven’t finished the job. Something else needs to go on this sandwich, something to really bring it all together. Something to make it pop. I ignore the cupboards and go back to the refrigerator.

A frigid white wasteland. Absolutely no signs of life, Evan’s abominations dominate the landscape. The lowest shelf contains only jars of unthinkable horrors, odd shapes floating in discolored shades of brown and green. The side panels are of equally little use - hundreds of bottles of OYSTER, HOISIN, GOCHUJIANG, MUSTARD, KOSHO; foreign words from a land of unpalletable flavors. Each bottle opened yields stranger, sharper smells. I hold briefly as the world spins and think of ketchup. Good, clean, wholesome ketchup. So sweet so salty, where could my ketchup be? But we’ve been long out of ketchup and now there is only CHINESE SALAD #1, IDEAL FOR CILANTRO. More disgusting words have never been uttered.

I glance futilely at the bottom drawer, knowing it only contains an inedible forest of green when something red-brown catches my eye. No, impossible. I weed through the glass necks and black liquids until I catch a familiar face in the crowd. Well, part of phrase more accurately. The Boss. Only one boss I know around this town - I lean forward and snake out my hand. Oh Sweet Baby Ray Salvation. This Sauce sure is the boss.

I turn back to the potatoes, slap em on the warmed up bread and apply the piece-de-resistance. I put my second piece of bread and stagger backwards and the genius of what I’ve just done. This may be the finest case I’ve ever solved. I put it in my mouth to make sure it’s as perfect as I imagine.

The potato flakes weren’t cooked through and provide the perfect amount of texture. The bread is soft and sweet. Baby Ray is relieveabley tangy and it’s all amazing. I plate it and bring it back upstairs to my desk to enjoy properly. Seated, I stare down my client. Sorry Mr. Harris, haven’t an idea who did it. Can’t have been me though, nobody drunk with a case to solve finds a solution this tasty.

By J. MacStarkum

MacStarkum and the Spaghetti Sandwich Recipe

My eyes open. I’m strapped to a chair in a strange room with my stomach missing. Scratch that, this is my living room, my limbs only feel heavy in my recliner, and my stomach is still here, just empty. Why, why is my stomach empty? More importantly, can I fill it? I peel myself up off the recliner, its fabric like a multitude of hairy people all holding me up at the same time. Brown fabric. Bread is also brown. I make a mental note.

The kitchen is brightly lit, too bright to be of any use. I bury my head into the fridge, escaping the responsibilities of inhalation and exhalation. Better, cooler, darker. The womb of the kitchen, I have found it and in my search I will discover the secret to rebirth from this mortal coil. Father Time stands over me with his menacing clock but I will not let such a ticking distract me no this goal is far too important.

"The womb of the kitchen"

I look up and down the shelves of food. Carton of milk? Too much, too many dishes. A note that reads “For eating, Enjoy, Love Mom”. It’s attached to a sandwich in a plastic forcefield. Too easy, too little, no satisfaction. Nay there is a problem which much be solved here and no easy answers will satisfy the question still in my gut.

Cold spaghetti. Gelatinous sauce. It’s disgusting. It’s perfect. It raises many questions. Do I want spaghetti? Does food have to be cooked to be food? Does this mean I have to cook it again? I look inward for the answer to my leftovers question and the bigger question swallows the smaller and born is another; What vehicle?

"No wait, what I want is A SANDWICH."

I set down the spaghetti on the counter under the microwave. We all know where this is going. I look at the note I made earlier - brown fabric people - and it strikes me. SUB-SAHARAN RUG SMUGGLERS ARE THE MOST WHOLE PEOPLE ON PLANET EARTH. No wait, what I want is A SANDWICH. This is my pony on whom I will ride to the sunset: Spaghetti Sandwich. Two pieces of wheat bread please and two sides of butter; don’t skimp on either.