Page 33 of Cakes for the Grump
After that day,it’s as if something has shifted. It’s as if we’ve accepted the presence of each other in our lives as something a bit more tangible and long-term. Our basic morning questions morph into chats that become less about inoffensive data-sharing, and more about real dialogue. For example, there aredetails. How appalling.
Not about our own lives, of course, because that would be wildly nonsensical, but about other topics that foster opinions. Over the next few days we discuss current news (“Did you hear about the revamped space program?”), tech stuff (“Apparently, there is another master computer trying to replicate human creativity”), pop culture (“Is it wrong to want a disaster shark movie where the sharks win?”), philosophy (“The afterlife better have Internet”), and paramountly, whether hot dogs are categorically tacos or sandwiches…
The conversations are unexpectedly rich, like meals you are surprised by when you sit for a blind tasting menu. You never know what is going to be served, but you look forward to it anyway, knowing you’ll taste it, regardless. Even when the flavors are argumentative. Challenging. And in the heat of the moment, reveal more than you thought would be shared.
“For a purist of nutrition,” I drawl on, “you must know the bananas I put in your smoothies never naturally existed in the world as they are now.”
“I’m not anti-science,” he balks as if I’ve suggested he’s a cave-dwelling cretin who blindly prays the ball of light in the sky will return on the morrow. “Obviously, genetic advancements have allowed us to create food that can survive drought and disease to feed more people and for longer.”
“So the reason you don’t like sugary food has nothing to do with being afraid of artificial sweetener?”
“While I prefer not to consume an ingredient list that requires a Doctorate in Linguistics to pronounce, that isn’t the entire reason for my particular diet.”
“What is it then?”
Luke moves a spoon around in his tea, though nothing in it requires dissolving. “We ate too much of that kind of food when I was younger.”
“Your parents let you have sweets? As a kid?”
“Not sweets,” says Luke. “But each meal was decadent, for lack of a better word. Overly so. It’s what got served to us by our chef, and what we had to eat whenever we were dressed up and taken out. I had caviar at five and hated it.” His nose wrinkles as if the bad taste coats his tongue through memory. “My dad loved it,” continues Luke. “Not the taste, but the status of being able to smear expensive ingredients over any dish. Caviar, duck fat, truffles, raw Kobe beef.”
“He made you eat all those?”
“On fortunate days, Henry, the chef, snuck me a sandwich, but only when my parents were preoccupied. It wasn’t often enough.”
A mysterious pang echoes through me. One might call it sympathy. “I’m surprised you don’t keep a live-in chef now,” I say softly.He can obviously afford it. And loads more live-in staff.The only person I see around the apartment is sweet, kind Valeria, who leisurely tidies between her multiple breaks.
“I’ve got no need for a chef like Henry, because I have you,” admits Luke. “What you make is good for me.”
Unexpectedly, I blush. “Was that—did you—compliment me?”
“I did not.”
“Don’t back down. It shows weakness of character.”
“We can’t have that.”
“Quick, compliment me again to recover.”
He glances up, eyes roving. “Your hands are less scaly than normal.”
“Tss. That was bad. My turn. How about—you’ve got some opinions I don’t entirely hate.”
Luke draws back as if legitimately surprised. “That’s a proper compliment.”
“Unlike you, I’m a saint who’s only got goodness in her heart.”
“Well then,” he says. “It seems like I owe you a proper one, too.”
“Go on, but speak slowly so I can replay this moment later.”
“Do you do that? Think about me later?”
Yes.
I’m grappling with the shock of being asked that, so I resort to a miffedoffensive. “Don’t turn this around. That’s not the point. Compliment me so my ego can blow up.”
“But then, who will make the smoothies?”
