The Kitchen Chronicles regrets going to Starbucks
(Starring: Benny the Cat, the Flame, and one very brave Oro)
©ESR 2025

Part 1: The Fluff Cup

The first sign of trouble was the silence.

The Flame had only gone to take a quick shower. Ten minutes, fifteen tops. Oro had been left in the kitchen with a mug of actual coffee—not the metaphorical kind—and Benny… well. Benny had been napping in his designated sunbeam on the windowsill.

At least, that’s what they thought he’d been doing.

When she returned, hair towel-wrapped like a warrior queen of leisure, the first thing she noticed was the unmistakable scent of roasted espresso beans—and the second was Oro, frozen in place near the espresso machine, hands half-lifted in either surrender or sheer disbelief.

“What did he do?” she asked, slowly. Dangerously.

Oro turned, eyes wide. “He figured out the lever.”

A terrible, hissing PSSSHHHTT-CRACK exploded from the machine behind him.

“Oh gods,” she whispered. “He’s pulled a shot.”

They both turned in tandem, like horror movie protagonists approaching the monster. And there he was. Benny. Front paws delicately perched on the espresso machine’s base. His fluffy tail swishing with feline satisfaction. Steam curled like war paint from the group head. A shot glass sat beneath it—half full of espresso, vibrating dangerously from the pressure tremors of Benny’s paws pressing buttons like a caffeine-fueled DJ.

And Benny? Benny was purring.

“Benny…” the Flame began carefully, “you don’t drink espresso.”

Benny gave her a slow blink, as if to say watch me, before ducking his head and delicately lapping at the crema with the self-righteousness of a Roman emperor.

Oro let out a low whistle. “He’s got a palate.”

“No,” she gasped. “No, no, no. Oro, if he finishes that shot—”

Benny finished that shot.

What happened next defied logic, science, and several local zoning ordinances.

With a banshee yowl that could only be described as operatic, Benny shot off the counter like a cannonball. He ricocheted off the fridge, skid-launched himself across the tile floor, and disappeared into the laundry room with a sound like falling broomsticks and existential regret.

“Why do we even have broomsticks?” Oro asked, ducking a flying sock.

The Flame stood motionless, eyes still locked on the espresso machine. “He’s going to find the stash of backup beans.”

“We’re going to have to move,” Oro muttered.

“No,” she said grimly, marching toward the chaos. “We’re going to have to buy decaf.”

Oro flinched. “That’s a war crime.”

A muffled crash and a triumphant meow echoed from the pantry. Benny was winning.

“Chapter Two,” she muttered under her breath, “is titled ‘The Espresso Awakening.’ And we may not survive Chapter Three.”