The art of floating in water

Every evening she stood in front of her ancient stove and concocted disasters. Two pimply toads and a head of cabbage boiled together with plenty of pepper and salt -- and Mr. Dashboard, the upstairs neighbor, falls down the steps and breaks a leg. Turnips roasted with a dead cat's tail, coated in olive oil and sprinkled with parsley -- and a tornado tears out that beautiful cherry tree on the corner, the one that was just starting to bloom. On special occasions like half-moons and particularly wintry nights, she'd prepare a disease for herself: a nasty cold or a mild bronchitis, so that she could lie in bed for two or three days and have a particularly good reason to pity herself. "Oh dear you," she'd say patting her own cheek after a nasty cough spell, "nobody in the world cares for you, nobody in the world loves you." When she felt better, she celebrated by baking a chocolate cake and feeding it to rats and rabbits. She could never keep her rats fat enough for business.