In a quiet, prosperous neighborhood stood a great house, recently acquired by Malcolm, a man who had lots of money but was impoverished in morality. Although he had the means to buy almost anything, his cruel nature was something money couldn’t change. The neighbors would often whisper about the ominous sounds of arguing echoing from the house and the quiet sobs of his long-suffering wife. Yet, they dared not interfere with a man of Malcolm’s cruelty and arrogance.
The house was huge, but the pièce de résistance was the luxurious en-suite bathroom with its grand bathtub, the size of a small jacuzzi. Yet, when Malcolm bought the house, the real estate agent hesitated, sharing a warning from the previous owner. “Sir, there are tales that the bathtub, magnificent as it is, holds a mysterious curse. They even called it Baño María because the water would warm up on its own. ” Malcolm, too pompous to heed such superstitious nonsense, scoffed, “Who believes in bath-time fairytales? They probably didn’t clean the tub properly.”
One fateful evening, after a particularly vicious argument in which he had physically assaulted his wife, Malcolm sought refuge in a warm bath to soothe his frazzled nerves. The sheer comfort of the tub lulled him into a deep, profound sleep. Unknown to him, Baño María had been awakened and had heard the argument with his wife. It simmered with anger, literally.
The waters began to warm gently, so subtly that the change was imperceptible. As the heat gradually intensified, the bath became a slow-cooking pot. Malcolm, the poor devil, became the main ingredient of a mean man’s broth. He drifted deeper into his sleep, oblivious to his impending doom.
Hours later, his wife, gathering the courage to check on him, entered the horror scene. Instead of her cruel husband, she found Malcolm had become a chowder. For a moment, shock and terror overcame her, but then, as memories of his maltreatment surged back, an idea began to form. “Well, Malcolm,” she whispered, “I always said you were full of yourself. Let’s see if the pit bulls agree.”
Fetching the most giant pot from the kitchen, she transferred the leftovers of Malcolm into it and, with a smirk, fed it to the four voracious pit bulls he owned. Those dogs, having sensed Malcolm’s cruelty, relished the meal, probably thinking, “Oh shit! This tastes way better than that Taste of the Wild dog food we always get.”
The house was quiet once more, but every so often, if one were to pass the grand house, the soft, satisfied lapping of water could be heard from the bathtub, which had avenged one more soul and stood guard, waiting for its next victim.
What is the moral of the story?
Just as chefs gently cook delicate dishes using the bain-marie, baño-maría in Spanish, ensuring they never meet direct heat, so too did the haunted bathtub softly and subtly bring Malcolm to his fateful end. The precise, controlled simmer, usually reserved for the delicate processes in culinary arts, took a dark turn in this tale. For in this story, it’s not flan being perfected but a sinister soup of revenge. So the next time you see a bain-marie, remember: it’s not always the direct flame you should fear, but the gentle, consistent warmth that can be the most dangerous.
- Images generated by Leonardo.AI
Masala Eats Miami 
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