This is a piece of writing that I wrote in school whilst I was in year five. Our teacher gave us the stimulus of a cooking activity that we had done the previous day: making shortbread.
The living room was peaceful. Red and green lights sparkled on the Christmas tree. Outside, the full moon glowed brightly. Stars shone in the sky. Wreaths hung on door handles and beautifully trimmed bushes outside stood like sentries guarding the house. But something was moving in the kitchen.
There was a clatter inside a cupboard as the door swung open. A bowl clanged down, landing on the shiny bench. It’s surface glinted as a wooden spoon flew through the air, landing in the bowl with a dull thud. A drawer slowly creaked open, and a knife fell out. The fridge flew open, the butter flying out to land on the bench beside the bowl. The pantry door opened and the flour, rice flour and sugar landed on top of the butter. Beside the pile of ingredients, a chopping board thudded onto the bench.
The cookbook flew off its stand and rustled its pages until they lay open at the recipe for shortbread. It issued silent instructions to the ranks. Come on soldiers! Operation Shortbread underway! The butter slowly peeled back the paper that was covering it, reluctant to become part of the recipe. Move it, man! The cookbook flapped its pages impatiently. We haven’t got all night. The butter, afraid to get on the cookbook’s bad side, hurriedly unwrapped the paper.
The knife chopped the butter at perfectly sharp angles. Good work, Lieutenant! The cookbook glowed in approval. The knife shone an even shinier silver. The pile of butter lay on the chopping board. Now, oven, 150 degrees on the double! Soon a red, warm glow was being emitted from the oven’s depths.
The flour and rice flour leapt into the air and poured their contents into the bowl. The mound of flour rose rapidly until the contents of both were emptied. The cookbook uttered a sharp approval. Another bowl suddenly sailed through the air before landing gracefully on the bench. The sugar poured its contents into the new bowl, and the knife scraped the cubes of butter into the bowl with the sugar. The cookbook gave a brittle order. Now soldiers, time to mix it all together.
The wooden spoon jumped into the butter and sugar bowl and started to cream them together. The other bowl slowly poured the flour into the pale mixture. The dough was flipped out of the bowl and a cookie cutter was pressed into it. The knife prised the cookies off the bench and a baking tray flew out of another drawer. The knife lifted the cookies onto the tray, which zoomed through the air and slid into the warm oven.
Suddenly, the utensils heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They froze. Inanimate. Cookbook issued a hoarse command. No one moved. The light switched off. A man and a woman stepped into the kitchen, bleary-eyed from sleep. They were so exhausted that they didn’t notice the oven humming away in the corner. “No, nothing Gloria,” said the man. “All right,” said the woman with a yawn. “Back to bed.”
It only took a few minutes until the oven gave a ding. The utensils were still shaken from the close call with the humans, but cookbook had pulled himself together enough to start bossing everyone else around. Come on soldiers, time to end Operation Shortbread.
The shortbread was cooling on the living room table. Suddenly, the utensils heard a jingle and some soot was dislodged from the chimney. A merry, bouncing figure fell into the fireplace. He straightened his red and white had and bounded into the room. “Ho, ho, ho!” he exclaimed. “Look at these delicious shortbread cookies!”
He took them off the plate and shoved them into his mouth. Then he bounced across the room to the brightly lit tree and deposited several presents underneath it. He looked back at the trail of soot that he had created as he placed the presents under the tree, frowned to himself and waved his hands in the air. The soot disappeared.
Santa Claus pulled himself up the chimney. The living room was peaceful.