Page 154 of Cakes for the Grump
As for my work, it’s a business of small steps—by choice. Every time I visualize what I want to be doing, I remember the night of my first catering event. How deliriously happy I felt with that scale of work.
That’s the feeling that feeds me.
Luke has—to my chagrin—put my name on his bank accounts. I can take whatever I need at whatever point without question. That is a terrifying amount of trust and responsibility, which I have only nibbled on. It’s not because I believe in suffering my way to success or because I’m self-sacrificial. My boyfriend is rich. He won’t miss anything I take.
No, it’s because I’m not built to run a big operation. It’s not what makes me happy. I’m a baby entrepreneur who has gone into business with my best friend, Kiren, who has discovered great skill and talent with marketing. (Noor is a cheerleader but finds her happiness in studying animation).
With Kiren’s help, we’ve grown Boutique Desi Catering and successfully pulled off a hundred and twenty-five events so far. People choose us not for our volume, but for the innovation of our dishes created with local, sustainable ingredients. We are hired by those companies who want to treat their employees to a culinary journey they won’t experience anywhere else. Along the way, we’ve hired two new chefs, Sheeta and Dirgal, to join the team. Practically what that looks like is three heads in one mad-scientist kind of kitchen, brainstorming food. The last dish we created took us awhole week where we obsessed if a fusion balsamic vinegar fish pakora could exist (it can).
Speaking of inspired, I’ve also finally discovered Luke’s perfect dessert. It’s barfi, a milk-based sweet, but not in its usual form. No, it has to be coconut milk, and the sun has to dry it out until it loses all moisture and is a crumbly, kind of chalky consistency. I remain horrified, but we found this out after he ate one left out, mistaking the little square for a mint.
As for our relationship, we finally moved in together. In the beginning, because of schedules and the slow pace of integrating in a completely different kind of city, we only saw each other every second or third day. But then, Luke bought a home and gave me the key, saying he missed me whenever we were apart. Seeing as I’d taken to stealing his clothes to wear them around the house so I could smell him always, I agreed.
I didn’t want to leave Uncle alone, though.
It wasn’t an issue. Luke bought us a home where we all fit, even the guests that show up unannounced. Sistine visits, but has not threatened me with a knife since our first meeting in Barcelona. To Luke’s great relief, she has ceased going to sketchy animal mask parties for blackmail purposes and has decided to become a fashion influencer. I’m not surprised by her immediate success. She’s a muse for one of the biggest designers in London.
As for other guests, Theo shows up at the oddest of hours, for he likes to cause ruckus. For these visits, he insists we adventure around the country. Because of him, I’ve rafted the Brahmaputra River and paraglided in Goa. His next request was to heli-ski in the Himalayas, but Luke threw him out of the house before he could convince us. It’s a game they play. Theo shows up, is welcomed, then is kicked out, and then shows up again. I pretend not to know that Luke sends the jet whenever Theo asks to come over.
Dad does not live with me. He prefers a permanent stay in a retirement and rehabilitation center where he is surrounded by support. There were relapses and a time where we stopped talking altogether. However, we’ve picked up a biweekly visit schedule that feels tentatively healthy for me. I’m happy he is happy. I’ve also had many sessions with Dr. Mangat alone where we figure out how I can stop feeling guilty. I’m teaching myself the importance of boundaries and protecting myself. That it’s okay to have the courage to love myself, even when it risks disappointing others and cultural expectations.
Love helps.
Luke finds me in the kitchen opening up a rice cooker after it’s been warming up garlic for two weeks—to turn it into black garlic.
The air is thick with fermented sweetness.
As soon as I notice Luke standing in the doorway, I rush around the kitchen to fling open windows. He hasn’t complained that I’ve stunk up this quarter of the house, but he’s dressed in a crisp-collared shirt, luxe black trousers and his favorite fitted jacket, and I don’t want that to smell.
“Is there a gala I forgot?” I ask, looking myself over. Secretly, I was baking a cake to mark the anniversary of when I became his cake servant in Barcelona. Sweet nostalgia is why I’ve recreated themonstrosityI’d left in his office that first day. What started it all. The tiered chocolate hulk of sweetness is hidden in the fridge. There is flour in my hair.
“No gala.”
I unpin and shake the strands of my hair. “Then why do you look so hot?”
“Perhaps I wish to tempt you.”
I grin. “In that case, you should divest yourself of all clothes.” I’m already taking my apron off in anticipation.
“Before you objectify me, darling, I have something for you.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Does it start with a C…?”
He laughs—and it’s my favorite sound from him. Loud, coming from the belly, and delighted as if he can’t get enough of me.
Then Luke goes down on one knee.
I gasp and clutch the edge of a counter.
“Rita—”
“Yes!”
He hasn’t asked anything, and it’s already my answer. In this kitchen, cloying with flavor, he comes to me dressed in his warrior armor, and I’m in my tank-top and leggings. I’m no longer the woman who wonders if it will last or if we are too different.
Trembling a little, Luke opens his fingers to reveal the ring.
“It’s the same one! How did you find it?” The engagement ring—the golden band we’d chosen together in a jewelry store after Luke cooked me pasta for the first time. It has been living in my drawer. One of my most precious objects.
