Neanderthal Soup

The hairiest arm came out of the pot and slapped me. I slapped it back, angry now, for without a head, How could the arm do that? My husband jumped out of his recliner. What are you making? He asked. His voice was shaky. It is always shaky when I am inventing food. Don’t worry about it, I told him. A foot came out and kicked me in the head. Damn Neanderthal soup! “What IS THAT?” my nosy husband asked, running toward the hallway Where he hid like a yellow belly. His voice was soprano. “It is supper,” I informed him. “Go away.” The hairy arm came out and I whacked it hard with my soup spoon. “I am not eating that!” He whined. The pot laughed. “It is Neanderthal Soup,” I informed him, and you will eat it in droves. Neither of us could eat it actually As it slapped us unmercifully knocking the soup spoons out of our hands.