It was a well established fact that the gods rarely chose a champion to represent them, perhaps once every few generations, but when they did they made their decisions with great care and deliberation. Those favored few were tasked with representing whichever deity had selected them in some grand way, usually through conquest. The tasks set before each champion were almost always in response to, or in opposition of, the actions of some other deity and its champion. Sometimes there were several gods and champions who got caught up in the fray, each one vying for supremacy. To be chosen was a terrific honor and to prove their status as their patron god’s champion, they were gifted wondrous and powerful items by their deity to help them in their quest. Those items were usually weapons or armor, but they could be anything, really. To make sure there were no pretenders, the gifts were never given in private and were often accompanied by celestial messengers, music, or other divine manifestations that left everyone with a sure knowledge of the champion’s selection.

All of this information whizzed about in Pel’s mind as he stood, dumbfounded. Just a few moments ago, he had been walking up the steps of the small temple to pay his devotions to Shol’ka’ret, god of cooking, when a shaft of intense light shone down upon him and a blinding, golden, something had streaked down from the heavens and embedded itself into the ground before his feet.

Pel’s vision swam with winking lights, remnants of the bright light that had dazzled his sight and he had to keep blinking to make them go away. All the while he kept wondering why he had been chosen, not to mention what the task he was suppose to take on would be. There were no great wars going on, as far as Pel knew. There weren’t even that great of tensions between nations.

While he stood there, he was painfully aware of the whispers and murmurs from those around him. He wished his eyes would calm down so he could see properly. He hated having the attention of so many others. He preferred a quiet, simple life where he could just go about his business. That was why he had never gone off to join any of the professions that would have brought him into such situations. It was also what had drawn him to Shol’ka’ret. The other gods were fine, Pel supposed, but they tended to be rather showy and often requested that their worshipers did some large performative actions. Not so with Shol’ka’ret.

As one of the so-called lesser deities,  Shol’ka’ret had little to do with wars, seasons, or the other numerous things that most people found to be so important. Instead, Shol’ka’ret bonded itself with the preparing of food. It didn’t matter if the food was grand or plain, plentiful or spars, all that Shol’ka’ret cared about was that it was made. Pel loved to make food, and so he had felt it was only natural that he should devote himself to Shol’ka’ret more than any of the other gods.

As far as Pel knew, this was the only temple dedicated solely to Shol’ka’ret. More often the lesser-deities were lumped together into one, general purpose temple, if they had a temple at all. Some of the truly minor deities had only small shrines where individuals could go to pay their devotions.

At last Pel’s vision began to clear in earnest and he instinctively looked down to avoid looking at the other worshiper he knew would be looking at him. As he did so, he saw the item Shol’ka’ret had bestowed upon him.

It was a cooking pot.

Pel stared at the radiant pot for several seconds. He had thought at first that perhaps he was going to find a sword or shield, though now in retrospect he knew that would have been ridiculous. Why would Shol’ka’ret gift their champion with such things. Pel had to admit that a cooking pot was the most logical item to be given by the god of cooking, but what was he suppose to do? What was his task? Wasn’t there suppose to be some messenger or booming voice from the heavens declaring what Pel was suppose to do?

With time continuing to crawl by, and Pel becoming more and more uncomfortable beneath the gaze of all those watching him, he figured the only thing to do was to pick up the pot and carry on with his business. He stooped down and lifted the pot into his arms. It wasn’t a terribly large pot, and even for its size it wasn’t very heavy. All the same, he had hoped that when once he had touched it that he would be given further instructions. Unfortunately nothing else happened.

With a sigh and a shrug, Pel continued on into the temple where he made his offering, as usual, and then left. He wasn’t sure if it was awe or confusion or both that prevented anyone else from remarking on what had happened but regardless he was grateful for it.

Word spread quickly about Pel’s calling as Shol’ka’ret’s champion and before he could get back to his home, there was already a crowd forming around his front door. This wasn’t altogether unusual, since he sold food to laborers throughout the day anyway. What was unusual, was that this crowd was comprised of all sorts of people. Old, young, men, women, high born, and low.

“I’m a bit behind today,” Pel told them as he shuffled through their midst towards his front door. “I’ll have some food ready in a couple hours.”

He had assumed that that was what they were there for, to eat some of the food prepared in the pot, but almost as one the crowd began to shake their heads.

“I’m sorry,” one of them said, “but we’re not here to buy food.”

Pel stopped, the pot still tucked lightly beneath one arm while the other was held, frozen in place in mid action to open his door.

“What do you want, then?” Pel asked, fear and discomfort rising in him as he scanned the crowed. It was still growing, he noted, as a few more people stepped up to join the throng.

“We want to learn how to cook,” a small boy exclaimed with no small measure of excitement.

Pel glanced down at the boy and then swept his eyes over the rest of the crowd. It was true, he could see it in their eyes. They wanted him to teach them all to cook. But cooking wasn’t something a person taught, he thought. Not really, anyway. It was just something you did. You put a little of this with a little of that, and then if it doesn’t work out you do something different the next time. He supposed he must have learned some things from others about cooking, but nothing so formal as being taught by a teach to a pupil. And besides, teaching people to cook would mean having all of those people watching him, paying close attention to him. What if he made a mistake? What if they decided he was a fraud?

“I don’t know how to teach,” was Pel’s humble response.

“Well,” a high born woman said, “we don’t know how to cook. Perhaps we could all learn to do these things together?”

Pel looked down to the pot. It still shone with that unearthly radiance and it seemed to him that it was even more radiant whenever he considered the possibility of teaching these people. Was this what Shol’ka’ret wanted of him? To teach these people to cook? It was a strange task, to be certain, but what else could he expect Shol’ka’ret to desire of its champion?

“I will be very bad at this,” Pel told the crowd, “at first anyway. Hopefully I’ll get better as time goes on.”

“I think the same could be said of us,” the woman said.

“Well then,” Pel said with a shrug, “I guess you’d all better clear a space out here. It’ll be too cramped inside but there should be enough room out here. For now, just watch while I prepare a meal for us. You four,” Pel said, pointing to a group of strong looking youths, “come with me and help carry out supplies.”

He waved for them to follow him into his home and after a few trips back and forth, they had everything Pel needed to begin making the afternoon meals he had intended to sell. His hands shook as he chopped the vegetables, resulting in several, rather irregularly shaped pieces, but he managed to avoid cutting himself.

Sweat ran down his face while he worked and one of the youths who had helped carry out the supplies picked up a small towel and began dabbing at his face from time to time.

“Thank you,” Pel murmured and then, taking a deep breath to steady himself, began slicing the meat into thin strips. “I’m making a stew,” he found himself telling the crowd, “and I want the vegetables to be soft so I’m adding them to the pot of water first, along with a few bones. The bones add flavor to the water,” he added. “If you add the meat too early, it becomes tough and hard to chew.”

As he spoke he began going through his ceramic pots that held his spices. He grew them all himself, having collected seeds to the various plants over the years. He sniffed each spice, selecting the ones that stood out to him and returning the rest. He felt he should explain what it was that he was looking for, but couldn’t find the words.

He felt the expectant gaze of the few dozen watchers upon him and his hands began to shake so violently that he didn’t trust himself to be able to add the appropriate amounts of each spice to the stew.

“Um…uh…you there,” he said with a quavering voice and pointing into the crowd at random, “come here and…uh…you can add the spices.”

Pel was vaguely aware of someone stepping forward and, mimicking Pel, sniffed the spices he’d set out, but then they just stood there, clearly uncertain how to proceed.

“Do I pour it all in?” they asked and to Pel’s horror they began to move as though they would simply dump the whole contents of the ceramic pot into the stew.

“NO!” Pel cried out and he leapt forward, snatching the pot from the now startled student.

It was the young boy from earlier, who had sounded so excited to learn to cook. He looked like he was on the verge of crying now, however, and guilt flooded into Pel. He closed his eyes and felt a few tears slide down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the young boy, kneeling down so their faces would be on the same level.

Pel looked the boy in the eyes and, in many ways, he saw himself. Years ago when he was a young boy and eagerly trying to figure out how to prepare his favorite dishes. His family had so little to spare, and what they could afford to eat was rarely filling. In learning to cook, Pel had hoped to at least make what they did have to eat taste better. He had succeeded. In fact, it was soon afterwards that he began to sell the foods he made. It was that success that had led his family out of poverty and into the comfortable living they now enjoyed.

“I’m sorry,” Pel repeated and he gave the boy a comforting hug. “I’m not very comfortable with crowds,” he added in an attempt to explain his behavior.

The pot was boiling. He ought to be adding the meat now, but without the spices the stew would be bland.

There were so many eyes watching him.

“Can you just teach me, then?” the boy asked. “You can just focus on me, and then I’ll tell everyone else.”

Pel looked at the boy with a puzzled look.

“What,” Pel asked, “Send everyone away and then you show them all later?” He didn’t think that would work at all.

“No,” the boy laughed, his shock now forgotten in that amazing way of children, “You just focus on me, but then after you tell me then I’ll shout it out for everyone else to hear. That way they’ll be looking at me instead of you.”

Pel didn’t think this would work, but he needed to get moving if he wanted to save the stew.

“Alright then,” he said with a sigh and stood back up.

“OKAY EVERYONE!” the boy shouted, making Pel jump at the surprising volume the child could produce. “HE DOESN’T LIKE EVERYONE LOOKING AT HIM, SO LOOK AT ME INSTEAD. HE’LL TEACH ME AND THEN I’LL TEACH YOU!”

Pel gave them all an awkward grimace as the boy pressed on, a little quieter now, having noticed Pel’s initial reaction to his previous shouting.

“Now listen up!” the boy called out to the crowd, “I’m going to teach you about spices!”

Smiles and a few chuckles moved through the crowd as all eyes turned towards the boy.

“Now what do I do with spices?” the boy whispered to Pel.

He couldn’t help but laugh a little himself at the pure, unabashed nature of the child, and before long, Pel and the boy had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, Pel telling the boy what he was doing and then the boy would call it out to the crowd. He usually got it right, though Pel did have to step in from time to time to correct what the boy had told them. Sometimes things were lost in translation, or else in hearing his own words parroted back to the crowd he heard errors or noticed omissions.

By the end of the day, Pel had taught the boy, and by extension the crowd, how to make a stew, flat bread, and a sweet grain pudding. The sun was setting as he packed away the last of his supplies from the day’s work and the crowd dispersed. They would be back the next day, Pel knew, even though there had been no formal statements made to that effect. As Pel surveyed the now empty field in front of his home, he noticed that the boy was still there, lingering around where the cooking fire had been set up. A few red and orange coals remained but the fire had long since died out.

As Pel watched him, the boy turned and smiled, waving for him to join him. Pel shrugged and walked over to him, sitting down onto one of the cut logs that served as a low seat.

“You did well today,” the boy said as he stared into the coals, the glow of them reflecting deep in his eyes. “I know it was hard for you, but it’s hard for every champion when they first start out.”

“Yeah, I suppose it would be,” Pel acknowledged.

“Do you know why preparing food is so important?” the boy asked, still not looking away from the coals.

Pel had lots of personal thoughts on why it was so important, but he was embarrassed to share them with the little boy. To most people, food was food. To Pel, well, there was a deeper reason to why he worshiped Shol’ka’ret beyond the avoidance of public displays.

“Preparing food is a means of showing love,” the boy said when Pel remained silent. “Like how you found ways to give your family better tasting food even though you couldn’t give them more of it. It’s how a person can show their devotion as well, like how people will give their best food to a person they respect. It builds nations and unifies cultures,” he went on, “when used correctly.”

Pel found himself nodding along, surprised to find how closely this boy’s views on cooking mirrored his own. But these were not the simple thoughts of a child and Pel found himself wondering more about the boy than what he had said. Still, that last part made him wonder. What did he mean by ‘when used correctly’? Was there a way to use cooking incorrectly?

“Of course there is,” the boy said at once as though hearing Pel’s thoughts. “People do that all the time as well. They build distinctions, rifts between one another, by insisting different foods are better than others, or that access to certain foods makes a person worth more or less than another. This is why I need you to teach them.”

The boy finally turned to meet Pel’s gaze and at last he realized that the glow from within the boys eyes was not from the reflection of the hot embers. It was only then Pel knew who it was that he had been speaking to.

He slid off his log seat and prostrated himself before the boy, before Shol’ka’ret, at once.

“Forgive your foolish servant,” Pel begged as thoughts of how he had shouted at the boy came fresh to his mind. “I am a poor teacher and unworthy of your gift.”

Shol’ka’ret placed a gentle hand on Pel’s chin and tilted his head back slightly so that he could see its face. A patient smile was spread gracefully across the childish face.

“I know you will have struggles,” Shol’ka’ret said and it seemed now that the child’s voice reverberated through the ground like a distant roll of thunder. “Every champion has them. I do not ask you to be perfect, merely do the best you can. Teach them to cook as you cook. To show love and devotion rather than distinction and separation. All must eat, and all are worthy of their meals.”

Pel nodded, unable to speak from how overwhelmed he still felt.

“I will be with you,” Shol’ka’ret assured Pel, “though not as…tangible…as I was today. You may call on another to relay your teachings, or try altogether different methods. All that I ask is that you continue to teach.”

“I will,” Pel finally managed to breathe out. “I’ll do my best.”

Shol’ka’ret smiled that knowing, patient smile, and then was gone.

Pel laid there for a while, thinking over the day’s events, over Shol’ka’ret’s words, and over the coming morrow when he would need to teach again. Looking out over the field in front of his home, he knew he would need to make certain improvements to this area if he was going to continue teaching his pupils here. There was no way they’d ever be able to all fit inside his kitchen. It was late, however, and he would need his rest. He’d begin to plan, to think over ideas and begin to implement them as best he could. He didn’t have to do everything right away, he didn’t have to be perfect. He just needed to do the best he could.

He would teach them to cook out of love, out of respect, and to welcome all to share in that love and respect. As Shol’ka’ret said, all are worthy of their meals.