Peel & Cookbook Stories from the Road

This is creepy.

“A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world,”

whether these stories truly happened, or most simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories made in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey y'all. I'm sure you just got on listening to some George Strait, or Randy Travis, or the judge, or commercial from a local tractor dealer, and I promise I'll get you right back

to that as soon as I can. Some like half a step out the door anyway. I'm gonna take a few days and head up to North Shore. Maybe check out the witch tree or the devil's kettle, or some abandoned mental institutions. Plus I got a grab some pie from the rustic in. I know everyone says beddies pies, but I hear that the raspberry cream is way to go in,

“honestly trying to convince me to try some pies even easier than lowering me into a white panel”

van with the promises of some grainy, grind house vHS movie. Most people wouldn't be proud of that. When I feel sorry for those people. So now let's just jump right into the story so I can get out of here and he pie into the question of my life choices. First up, for me to hope despair I narrated by Heather Thomas. Creepy presents? Peel. I lost my eyebrows on a Thursday. I distinctly remember because I had previously scheduled a

Friday night date. I canceled it that morning due to the two unfortunate circumstances suffered by my forehead. To clarify, I didn't exactly lose my eyebrows. They weren't lost. They were stuck

“to two strips of wax resting at the bottom of the trashcan on the salon floor. No, they were”

taken, ripped from my face by my boss and the salon's HBIC, Harriet. To add some context to my element, I'm an esthetician at a locally renowned salon in Spa. A aesthetic skin care is pretty much the stratum basil layer of dermatology and unfortunately my passion. I wax and peel and extract

like nobody's business. I would never dream of violating someone's appearance with my services.

But then again, I am not Harriet. Harriet had had it out for me since day one when I showed up five minutes late because of a traffic accident blocking my access to the salon in Spa. As I burst through the door, panting from my parking lot sprint inside, I heard an exaggerated scoff coming from behind the front desk. I then received the bitchiest stare I had ever made eye contact with in my life. She lured at me like I was a disobedient child. We open at 830 dear, not 835.

I apologized, in turn she informed me that any excuses would not be tolerated. Consequently, I spent the majority of my first day scrubbing wax off the floor with Gugon in the hair removal room. As unfriendly as my initial impression of Harriet proved to be,

it never could have prepared me for the type of animosity she soon showered me with.

Harriet was best friends with literally everyone else at the salon, so I had to navigate her icy waters all on my own. In front of my co-workers, she never so much as sneered in my direction. But, whenever I passed her in the solitary hallway or bumped into her in the restroom, it was always a different story. She constantly called me into her office to perform demeaning tasks, such as emptying her personal waste basket or even waxing her nostrils for a salon demonstration.

The crazy thing is, she usually had a word of encouragement from my colleagues, all of whom absolutely adored her. As for me, I was forever being picked apart by her criticism, none of which was constructive. Her micro management had taken on a nervous response in my brain that I can accurately liken to nothing other than a silently taking time bomb. I had come to expect

this sort of behavior from a superior ever since I'd entered the workforce, but I'd never suffered

The incident took place last week, on Thursday, as I previously stated.

“My colleague, Stacey, and I were in between clients, and hanging out at the front desk”

chit chatting about this and that. Stacey was bemoaning the state of her eyebrows. She badly wanted to get a wax done, but didn't have time to make an appointment with how busy we'd been. I heartily agreed, referring to my own bushy brows as an unruly pair of squirrel tails. Harriet, walking casually by, must have overheard. She approached us predatoryly with her fake patronizing demeanor, which of course went totally over Stacey's head.

Smurking, she gushed over how thick and gorgeous Stacey's brows were. She described them as though they were actual people in the room with us. Politely declining to roll my eyes, I instead turned

“to Stacey in informed her that I would be thrilled to give her a wax with the half an hour of”

downtime I had at the moment. Harriet interrupted, without missing a beat, proclaiming that she hadn't done any kind of hair removal in a while, and was chomping at the bit to get back in the waxing room. Stacey cheerfully, if not naively, piped up with only pure praise for Harriet's outstanding waxing abilities. Harriet blushed and waved her hand in dismissal, as Stacey applauded her. She then proceeded to say she would be delighted to perform an eyebrow wax on Stacey and I,

both right now. I cringed and disbelief and fear, as Stacey begged me on and sang Harriet

's praises. Finally I consented to her coaxing and gave my willing consent to be Harriet's dummy

for the next 30 minutes. Harriet's own resting bitch face gave me enough confidence in her ability to remain professional, regardless of how much she hated me on a personal level. Harriet ushered us into the service room with Gusto, I had not yet seen from her. After Stacey had been taken care of, I laid down on the waxing table reluctantly. Harriet gently cleaned and padded my brows. Her professionalism almost had me doubting why I had ever misunderstood her.

Right up until she ripped the first wax strip from off my face. A terrible dread consumed me. Rather than panicking, I took a deep breath and reassured

myself that someone at Harriet's level of experience could never make a mistake. Which I'm certain,

she most intentionally did not. For when she handed me the mirror to take a look at my freshly waxed face, I nearly cried out. Not with joy at my new look, but complete an utter terror at the results of my post-appellation. And in that small square mirror, an identity crisis took place. My eyebrows were thin pencil lines on the sparse abyss that was now my forehead. Harriet had obliterated the once thick, luscious caterpillars crawling on the upper end of my face

and replaced them with tapeworms. I gasped in shock at my Y2K skinny, heroine chic-esque appearance. Harriet beaned at Stacey and asked her if she didn't think they looked much better now. Stacey nodded her approval, and arrested look of panic slightly smothering her smiling features. Yes, so good. She hesitantly offered. I grimaced complacently at Harriet. Thanks. I managed to get out through my gritted teeth. She sashade out of the room with a condescending

sweep of her lacy, floor length duster. I turned and faced Stacey head on murder in my eyes. In that moment, everything I'd held back for months came shooting out of my mouth before I could

“stop myself and get a grip. I exploded. How dare she? My voice squivered. How fucking dare she?”

Stacey cast me a disparaging look. She tried to assure me that Harriet didn't mean it. She was just a little bit older and not up to date when it came to the eyebrow trends of today.

She would certainly never try to upset me on purpose.

The fuck she put it? I responded angrily. That shady bitch has had it out for me since day one.

I yanked open the door to find her buried in her faux fur chair,

“clapping her sharply manicured nails across the keyboard of her MacBook.”

She didn't bother to acknowledge me over her boxy, cheetah print fashion glasses as I entered the room. I slammed the door shut with the force that shook the room and prompted her to look up from her screen. Harriet? I began in a low tone, restraining myself from raising my voice. I need to speak with you. I had walked in with every intention of confronting her, but my courage weakened considerably as I tried to hold my ground with her cold, disapproving eyes.

I lost all resolve in an instant as she shrugged flippantly in the direction of the chair in

front of her desk, prompting me to be seated. I wanted to give my notice.

“I'll be leaving in two weeks. My rent, utility bill, and car payment let out a collective”

scream of pain from the recesses of my bank account. And then I lied convincingly under my sticky, freshly waxed forehead. I found a new position in a spa out of town. I said, forcing a smile that made me look like a constipated egg. A smooth, albeit intestinally distressed, Humpty Dumpty. What was I thinking? I needed this job. Unfortunately, I had been driven beyond the brink of reason at this point. It was too late to turn back now. Harriet smiled wickedly

and gave her blessings. As I stood up to leave, she surprised me by asking me for one last favor. In a terribly affected manner, she requested that I perform a service on her at some point

“before I finished my time here. She wanted an anti-aging chemical peel.”

In a post-panic state of deep confusion, I agreed and immediately quit the room to set up an

appointment for her with myself. I never questioned why she'd want me to give her a chemical peel.

I was conditioned to assume she wanted a final chance to assert dominance by shaming me and barking orders so I'd be sure to feel extra incompetent before I left. In the meantime, I was too consumed with the anxiety of finding a new job and starting over to give it much thought. Two weeks flew by with the speed of time you don't want to end for fear of what comes next. Oddly enough, Stacey wasn't at work at all for the 14-day duration.

When I asked Harriet if she knew what happened, she simply scoffed and informed me that in the real world, sometimes employees just quit showing up. And if they had the audacity to buck her over like that, she didn't give a shit what became of them. I found this quite enlightening but given the fact Stacey had been a big fan of Harriet's, I didn't see much of a motive for her departure. Not that it was any of my business. I attempted to focus on keeping my head down as the

days went on. On my last day at the salon in Spa, I took great care and setting up for Harriet's appointment with me. I wanted everything to be perfect. If she found one thing to criticize about the peel, which, let's be realistic, she must definitely would. It wouldn't be for my lack of attention to detail. I chose a strong, retinol peel and prepped my supplies meticulously. I was ready 10 minutes ahead of schedule. Harriet, of course, stood in patiently outside the door to the facial

room for a good half hour beforehand, puttering around and peeking inside incessantly. When I greeted her and called her inside, she approached and sourly asked why I'd speak to her so loudly and what was intended to be a calm and relaxing environment. I smiled and apologized softly. I did need her for a reference on my resume, unfortunately. It was time to play nice and then get the heck out of dodge. Harriet kept making little herum thing noises as she

positioned the sheets over herself on the treatment table. I rolled my eyes inwardly and slightly turned up the soothing nature sounds playing on the speaker. Pulling a spa headband around her

her eyes with malice at me before closing them. The facial steamer began issuing a study cloud of

“moisture as I painted cleanser onto Harriet's face. Her facial muscles progressively relaxed while”

I'm a sawster skin into a healthy glow. It irradiated with all the attributes of a ripe, pink piglet being plumped up for the future squealing of bacon and a frying pan. Harriet melted at the relaxing movements of my hands. After preparing her skin, I opened the retinal peel and

carefully applied the first layer. Her epidermis was basically begging for the rejuvenation of retinal.

Harriet's skin was tough and could tolerate quite a few layers of the product. Her protocol, I let the peel do its work for a couple minutes in between each layer. Chemical peels cause slight discomfort and tingling as they process, and I could sense Harriet beginning to twinge by the fifth application. Okay, last one, I promised. As I bent over her with

“a piece of saturated gauze in my hand and firmly pressed it down over her mouth.”

Those evil eyes flew wide open and muffled exclamations of anger sounded through my palm.

I held her against the table as she squirmed. The chloroformin paired her quickly and her struggles

eventually ceased. I worked with renewed passion as I neutralized the peel. I wouldn't have wanted to disfigure this skin. Next, I grabbed a derma planning blade from the drawer across the room and returned to my now silent employer's side. Cradling Harriet's limp head in one hand, I definitely slid my guillotine sharp blade across her neck with the other. A rich, red stream ran down her chest and I took to mapping her face.

When I was satisfied with my measurements, I angled the blade just under her hairline and cut deeply along my pattern of markings. Once finished, I began to cautiously peel back the face, I hated above all faces. Blood intuition oozed from beneath the detached flush. I accomplished this task fairly quickly. It took me considerably less time than it had taken with Stacy's face. Harriet's was a lot slimy or due to the combined flow of blood and Botox.

The leathery cutout was almost slipping off by its completion. I recalled the gratification of slicing away Stacy's mug after she'd encouraged Harriet to vandalize mine.

I held up my goopy-pelt and chuckled. Remembering how I'd once thought I would have never

disfigured a client's appearance? Thankfully, I hadn't disfigured another person. This was merely a corpse that had had a little cosmetic work done. Admiring my work, I planned what I'd do with my night after I disposed of Harriet's faceless body. A glass of wine, some trash TV, and another collagen renewing face mask. Just a relaxing Thursday night in. And next, from writer AM Sims, inherited by Rismontanas, creepy presents, cookbook stories from the road.

Here lies the final audio recording done to have been recorded by missing person Alexis Velacio, a podcast food influencer, missing since last month, the recording gives insight into Alexis's final known whereabouts. Despite not being formally named in the audio, local law enforcement believe the town in reference to be in northern Wisconsin, somewhere along Lake Superior South Side. Alexis has not been seen or heard from since this recording was uploaded to their podcast.

If you have any information regarding Alexis's whereabouts, events leading up to their disappearance, or for their details that can be shared about the unnamed town they reference, please contact local authorities immediately. Hello and welcome to Cookbook Stories from the road! This is yours truly Alexis Velacio, and thank you so much for listening to my podcast! You all are wonderful, my dears,

for making me the number one new England foodie podcast as I travel across the USA, in search of the finest foods. If you haven't already, please like and subscribe!

“This week is super special. I mean, every week is special with me. Am I right?”

But this week, I'm coming to you, not from my typical upscale restaurant within one of our

that it was not listed on any of my maps beyond highlighting an intersection of two county roads near

“a cemetery. Seriously, Google Maps wouldn't even take me here! I had to actually run a paper”

map to find the crossroads. Hello! I'm sure you're asking why I've taken my Cookbook

stories so far off my typical road search, and the answer is a rumor. Yes, a rumor, a rumor of the

most amazing cheese, my taste buds, will ever delight in. Naturally, I scoffed one of my adoring fans that mean email, contesting last week's story of the best cheese west of New York City coming from a delightful cremary and Oregon. I wrote back to the emailer and explained that they had no business telling me. Me? What is to be classified as good food? But the fan insisted I alter my route home to upset New York and stop in this town so small it doesn't have a name with Wisconsin.

“Curiosity and pride led me to this diner, my dears. Curiosity, to a town with no name.”

Curiosity, to a diner, with no name, and pride in being told what I should know.

You know me, my ego knows no balance. I drove the open road back across these great planes, turned north in rural Minnesota and pumped across the state line where, by following the cruelly drawn map from this so-called cheese master, who back in me, and then I found myself at an intersection shared with a cemetery, an abandoned schoolhouse, an empty lot, and a diner one could only fantasize came from the mind of some super old horror writer from like the 90s.

I retrieve the fans email which, along with the map, contained a recipe for barata cheese, and headed inside the diner that was easily three times as old as I am. I locked my jacket behind despite the chilly temperatures. This diner's decrepit disposition did not instill great confidence that I could keep the greasy smell from its leather. So I'm going to share the recipe with you now, my dears, because you'll hopefully notice an assuming typo in a list of ingredients,

or maybe it is on a typo, who knows what these small town folks, wait, make that no name, town folks, put in their food. Um, recipe for barata cheese, no name diner. Two and a half pounds of mozzarella curd, diced, small, one and a half cups of heavy cream,

one cup of ricotta, one third cup of weigh, four tablespoons of unsalted butter,

five quarts of water, one tablespoon arsenic,

“half a cup of kosher salt, finish this sentence. If you're going to eat cheese, you have to eat”

tough, right? But if you're looking for a signature cheese experience, a tantalizing experience. If you're looking for an ecstasy that will make even a palette as refined as mine, quiver with delight, then look for barata cheese. Once you become enamored with barata cheese, there's no going back. You'll be wrapped up in the stories of frommages, and begin to identify with them like you would a lover in silk and sheets. The unique process from which barata is created

is what makes me eager to cruise through this diner's vat of pasturized dairy and way. For those uncultured in the art of cheese, barata is, um, d, vine, mozzarella, diced into petite squares, heavy cream, whipped, ricotta, crumbled, and slightly dry. These ingredients are stretched, pressed, diced, mixed, heated, and iced to create a cheese worthy of its artisan heritage. In the diner that, like the town, doesn't have a name, I shared a long counter with two old

timers and a waitress who looked as if she was born to work in a haunted house. A much older woman ran the kitchen, watching me through the ordering window, and I couldn't help it feel like she was not welcoming at all. Small towns typically have this disposition towards me, I have found. They are intimidated by my presence. When I asked for everyone was from, the older of the old timers smirked and pointed to the cemetery across the street.

As I said, small towns don't appreciate me when the waitress refill the men's coffees.

I interrupted her chattering with the old timers and told her I was also there for the barata. Then, I asked her to explain to me why the barata is supposedly so magnificent at her little diner. After rudely laughing at me, the younger of the old timers responded that he and his

comrades always spend their day, back with the air suckers, enjoying the best food on earth.

You heard me, right? He said, back with the air suckers. Not cryptic at all, but don't worry, I'm not easily deterred from getting the answers that I want. But why not order mozzarella sticks or

“cheese curds, something more in tune with your Wisconsin heritage? I persisted. Why barata?”

The man shrunked and sift his folder's coffee and told me, it's just bitter. His friends simply nodded in agreement. I told the waitress I wanted the same. I explained I had driven hours out of my way at the behest of an adoring fan so I could taste this supposed delicious cheese. She actually rolled her eyes at me before barking my order through the order window. The old woman behind the kitchen window popped her head out and smiled at me.

Well, not so much a smile but stretched her lips across her teeth and an attempt to imitate a smile. I took off the copy of the barata recipe. The waitress snatched the paper away from me and before

“I could react, she handed it to the old woman. The old woman, check the paper and unleashed a”

brow so furrowed and no so wrinkled, you think I had confessed to being a fan of Velvita cheese. You want this burata? I make you this burata. She said before disappearing into the bowels of the kitchen. And so after three Johnny Cash songs finished playing on the jute box, a plate slid in front of me. A blob of white sat in the center of an Elvis plate and ten disk cut pieces of fresh bread surrounded it. Seriously, someone needs to tell these people Elvis is dead and that they should by dinner wear

not from goodwill. I want to repatriate you. The old woman yelled from the kitchen. What even does that mean? I call back, but she gave no answer. The old timers laughed and told me to heat up. My senses were offended on so many levels up to this point, but fear not listeners. This story has a happy ending. Despite the smell of the grease, despite the plastic chairs, despite Elvis working at me from the ancient plastic plate,

and despite the plastic silverware, the cheese. Oh my god.

You don't have to be from Wisconsin to appreciate cheese. But with the first bite,

I couldn't help but think something so scrumptious as this burata was being wasted on such un-sophisticated townies. When I removed the espedal leaves and cut through the thin pasta filata card shell, buttery and creamy panna, containing scraps of mozzarella, oozed out. The flavor was decadent and bold. The texture, lip-smacking. I'm partial to enjoying burata with prosciutto, fresh tomatoes with olive oil, and with spaghetti, but none were offered to me.

I doubt this diner has heard of olive oil? They seem more like the industrial size can of canola oil type. There was a slight tingling sensation on my lips as I slurped up the juices. But I assumed that this was slept or so residue on Elvis from an ancient dishwasher I figured the diner used. That aside, and despite my years of formidable training, I almost admitted aloud to the folks that this wasn't fact. The best cheese to ever dance

across my palate. But there to stain and clear looks of mockery made me hold my tongue. If not to keep it wrapped around the succulent dairy godliness in my mouth for a moment longer, interrupting my orgasmic experience with the cheese. The older of the Alzheimer's said,

“"My tagline. Finish this sentence. If you're going to eat cheese, you have to eat."”

Finally, they were admitting they knew who I was! With a mouthful of drops of heaven,

Yes, well absolutely rare. I can admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong about the best cheese from

“Oregon. The best cheese is annoyingly, from Wisconsin. I hummed the entire time,”

savouring the bursting flavors as I slid through my mouth. All things being equal, I refer to enjoy my fresh bread and cheese without the twisting sensation that leaves my stomach in tight cramps moments after finishing my meal. It's a side effect of

the Midwest well water. I'm sure. The old cook, who confessed to being the writer, who shared

her special Barada recipe, assured me a pleasant satisfaction. "I collect the souls of those

“lost to me through food," she said. "I am still unsure, which she means. If it means convincing”

even the highest of food critics such as myself, that her Barada is not to be mocked, then she has succeeded admirably. But, I didn't ask for clarification my dears, because a gathering of other old timers had formed in the parking lot of the cemetery as I finished my meal. Their lack of style and dead gliers may be want to be long gone before I needed to interact any further with these small town folks. So, I am signing off. For now, I want to upload this episode before making the

rest of my drive home, and I better do it quickly. Despite the best cheese, dare I say, in the northern hemisphere, my stomach is beginning to spasm, and the tingling sensations running up my arms are bothersome. Perhaps I need a quick nap in my car to alleviate these pains. Anyway, are you listening Dears? This is Alexis Palacio, bidding you at you. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments share a light licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be re-broadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepypodcast production team and the stories author.

You can't see this moment from TrueCramPodcast. A huge click, a full-time.

And nothing is more to say. With the German fluke situation, we are sure that this moment will always be a happy end.

“If you want to take a look at your right-hand mix from action and your landing,”

then you will be able to see it again and check it out. www.flukelozeverden.de. My name is Geschenke Laden, the artist of Kunstwerke and the artist of the specialised object. My role in shopping, because shopping in the area, in comparison to the other platforms I tested, with the famous friends. I have thought about everything before. All tools for the development of the purchase are, for example, from the store, are found directly in the dashboard.

Now, there are a few tips on shopping.com.