Page 6 of On Tap for the Bear
After she leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the plate of muffins. They're perfect—golden tops with visible blueberry bursts, the kind of muffin that should make my mouth water just looking at them.
I've always been able to taste things in my mind. Before I even put food in my mouth, I could anticipate the flavors, predict how ingredients would interact, imagine the sensationon my tongue. It's what made me good at my job—that ability to deconstruct and reconstruct flavor profiles, to understand food on an almost molecular level.
Now, looking at these muffins, I try to summon that sense memory. Blueberries should be tart-sweet with that slight vegetal note. Lemon should be bright and clean, cutting through the richness. The crumb should be tender, slightly sweet, with that perfect balance between cake and bread.
I know all of this intellectually. I can describe it in perfect detail. But I can't feel it, can't taste it, not even in my imagination.
I pick one up. It's still warm.
I take a bite.
Nothing.
The texture is there—tender crumb, slight resistance from the berries, the barely-there grit of lemon zest. But the taste? It might as well be cardboard. I chew mechanically, swallow, and set the rest of the muffin back on the plate.
Three days. Seventy-two hours since my sense of taste vanished, and it hasn't come back. Not even a hint, not even a shadow of what flavors should be. Just this emptiness where one of my most essential senses used to live.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. I shouldn't look—I know I shouldn't look—but I do anyway.
It's from a colleague at Epicurean Monthly. Someone I thought was a friend. The subject line reads: "Heard about the situation."
I don't open it. I can imagine what it says. Either sympathy that's really curiosity, or carefully worded distance as they make sure not to be associated with the "disgraced" writer who tried to steal credit from a respected veteran. Word travels fast in food writing circles. By now, everyone probably knows. Everyone probably has an opinion.
I delete the email without reading it and turn off my phone.
I unpack with the methodical focus of someone trying not to think too hard about anything. Clothes in the dresser, laptop on the desk, toiletries in the bathroom. My camera goes on the nightstand next to the plate of muffins—one with a single bite taken out of it. My grandmother's knife stays wrapped in its cloth in my bag—I can't bring myself to unpack it yet, can't face the weight of what it represents.
By ten-thirty, I'm back in my car, driving down Main Street because sitting in that beautiful room was making me feel like I might scream. The town is awake now, locals mixing with what must be the tail end of the morning tourist crowd. I pass a bookstore called Between the Pages, a antique shop with furniture spilling onto the sidewalk, a gallery displaying paintings of seascapes and redwood forests.
And then I see it—the familiar turquoise and yellow of Cilla Morgan's Sweet On You food truck, parked in a lot near what a sign identifies as Workshop Row.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Relief and dread and a longing so acute it physically hurts.
I park and walk over, my hands shoved in my pockets, trying to look casual even though I feel like I'm made of glass and might shatter at any moment.
Cilla sees me before I reach the truck. Her face lights up with genuine joy, and she's around the counter and pulling me into a hug before I can say anything.
"Quinn! You made it!" She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, like warmth and safety and everything I'm not right now. "I'm so glad you called. Come here, let me look at you."
She holds me at arm's length, and I watch her expression shift from joy to concern as she takes in whatever she sees in my face.
"Oh, honey," she says softly. "You look exhausted. Have you eaten?"
The question almost makes me laugh. Or cry. I'm not sure which. "I'm fine. It's good to see you, Cilla. You look...” I pause, searching for the right word. "Happy. You look really happy."
It's true. Her shoulders sit easy, no tension in her neck. When she laughs, it's unguarded.
"I am happy," she admits, and there's wonder in her voice, like she's still surprised by her own good fortune. "Redwood Rise has been good to me. Really good. Better than I ever imagined." She links her arm through mine. "Come on, let me make you something. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I just made a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls."
"Actually, I...” I stop, not sure how to explain. "I'm not really hungry right now. But I'd love to just... talk. If you have time."
"For you? Always." She guides me to a small picnic table near the truck, the kind of casual outdoor seating that defines food truck culture. "So tell me what's going on. You sounded pretty shaken on the phone last night."
I tell her. Not everything. I can't bring myself to go into all the details about Vanessa, about the article, about watching everything I'd worked for collapse in a single morning. But I tell her enough. About needing to get away, about San Francisco feeling like it was suffocating me, about remembering her posts about Redwood Rise and thinking maybe a change of scenery would help.
I don't tell her about my sense of taste. That feels too raw, like admitting something fundamental inside me has broken.
"Well, you picked the right place," Cilla says when I finish. "Redwood Rise is good for healing. There's something about this town...” She pauses, like she's searching for words. "It's hard to explain, but it feels safe here. Like you can finally breathe."
