Page 6 of Prince Material
“You got this,” I muttered to myself, a habit Mom always teased me about. But I needed to get this right. Civil engineering wasn’t about passing classes for me or about getting a degree. It was about making sure no other four-year-old would have to watch their father disappear beneath rising waters. Every equation I solved, every structure I designed, was another step toward that goal.
Dad had been an engineer too. Would he be proud of me now, hunched over differential equations while other students actually enjoyed their college experience? Or would he want me to learn to live a little, like Mom kept suggesting? I rubbed my tired eyes beneath my glasses. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford distractions. Not when there was so much at stake.
I forced my attention back to the screen, but movement in my peripheral vision made me look up. Floris towered over my table, a tray laden with food in his hands and an easy smile on his face. After almost two weeks of living together, I’d noticed he wore that smile like armor: charming and practiced but rarely reaching his eyes.
Still, there was something magnetic about Floris, the way he carried himself with casual grace despite his imposing height, how his green eyes sparkled with good humor even when he complained about the “medieval” accommodations, the easy charm that rolled off him in waves and made you instantly like him.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already pulling out a chair. “Every other table looks like a freshman mixer, and I’m too old to explain what a cassette tape is.”
I snorted. “It’s a free country.”
“So I keep hearing.” He set down his tray and studied its contents with the kind of dismay usually reserved for discovering the milk was spoiled. “I still can’t wrap my head around what passes for a balanced meal here. In Europe, this would be considered a cry for help.”
Looking at his tray, I couldn’t hold back my grin. He’d managed to collect what looked like one of everything: a slice of pizza, a burger, some fries, a scoop of pasta, and some sad-looking vegetables.
“Welcome to real college dining,” I said, enjoying his horror. “You learn to survive on what’s here, or your appetite gets creative fast.”
“Creative?” Floris poked at his burger with a fork like he expected it to stab him back. “In the Netherlands, we prefer vegetables that haven’t been waterboarded into submission. These look like they’ve confessed to crimes they didn’t commit.”
I laughed despite myself. His deadpan delivery combined with his slight Dutch accent made everything ten times funnier. “The salads are pretty decent here, but anything else can be sucked through a straw. What can I say, America is not known for its cuisine.”
“You know what else I’ve noticed?” Floris said, and I closed my laptop. My study plans could wait; his commentary was too entertaining to miss.
“What?”
“Your portion sizes. They’re massive. This burger is roughly the size of my head. Is this meant to feed me for the semester, or am I supposed to share it with the entire table?”
“That’s nothing. Wait until you see Thanksgiving dinner. We basically eat until we hate ourselves, take a nap, then eat some more.”
Floris’s eyes widened. “You mean the turkey and the…” He waved his hand vaguely. “The orange stuff?”
“Sweet potato casserole. With marshmallow topping. And yeah, but that’s only part of it. My mom makes this cornbread dressing that’ll change your life.” The memory of Mom’s cooking made my chest ache a little. “Though nothing beats her gumbo.”
“Gumbo? That’s the famous soup from New Orleans, right?”
“Calling gumbo soup is like calling the Rhine a creek. It’s more like…” I searched for words that would do justice to Mom’s gumbo. “It’s history in a pot. Every family has their own recipe, passed down through generations. Mom learned hers from my grandmother, who learned it from her mother. The secret’s in the roux; if you don’t near-burn it, you’re not doing it right.”
“Burn it?” Floris looked genuinely intrigued now, abandoning his assault on the burger. “On purpose?”
“Almost-burn it,” I corrected. “It needs to be dark brown, like chocolate. Takes forever, standing there stirring flour and oil until your arm feels like it’s gonna fall off. But that’s what gives gumbo its depth.”
“That sounds intriguing.”
“What are some classic Dutch dishes?”
Floris shifted in his seat. “The Netherlands aren’t known for haute cuisine either. Most fancy restaurants back home serve French food since the majority of our classic dishes are basically farmer’s food. Takestamppot, for example. It literally means mashed dish, and it’s mashed potatoes with vegetables mixed in, usually served with bacon bits, smoked sausage, and sometimes, gravy or butter.”
“Mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables? Like what?”
“Depends on the version. Carrots, sauerkraut, or even broccoli. My favorite is kale.” He grinned at my expression. “I know, I know. Americans think kale is this fancy superfood, but in the Netherlands, it’s traditional winter food. Poor people’s food, really. Though now it’s having this weird renaissance because suddenly, everyone has discovered it’s healthy.”
I had trouble looking away, his enthusiasm infectious. The careful mask he usually wore had slipped, revealing something more genuine underneath. His eyes lit up when he talked about home, and his hands moved expressively as he described Dutch comfort food.
“Sounds pretty hearty,” I said, trying to imagine it. “We’ve got something similar in New Orleans: dirty rice. Though we add more spice.”
“I would kill for some spices. Everything here so far has been completely bland.” Floris took a brave bite of the vegetables. His expression cycled through several emotions before settling on resignation. “Well,” he said after swallowing, “let’s hope the vitamins haven’t been cooked to death.”
“That’s the spirit. Lower your standards enough and everything becomes edible.”
