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Gulbuth

“Not boiling yet?” Kezbub asks. “Needs more salt.”

Gulbuth grunts and dumps some from the cast-iron shaker. There’s a high-pitched sound, like whistling, and the contents of the pot begin spreading away from its center. “Are they supposed to do that?” he asks, frowning over it.

“Stir it up a little,” advises Kezbub. “You don’t want them sticking to he sides.”

Soon, the whistling stops, and the pot is bubbling evenly. It smells delicious.

“Let’s see if they’re done.” Kezbub leans in again, spearing the water with one hooked claw, and flings a tiny pink body toward the icebox.

It sticks.

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