The herbal and citrus infused scent of the baking fish blended with the spicy aroma of pan-fried garleeks and sliced tubers. A pot of mixed veggies steamed on the back of the stove, adding in their own contribution of earthy fragrance to the mix. A happy humming came from the graceful woman dancing from pot to pan and back, keeping the side dishes stirred and unburned. Clearly, I get clumsy from my dad, and my love of cooking from her, or I’d have less trouble walking across the bathing room.
To be fair, I got my start in cooking in self-defense. My first mother had cookbooks like “No Fat, No Sugar, No Salt” and “The Healthy Heart Meals” and she just didn’t know when to ignore the recipe. The rest of the family once placed a sticker with the words “no food” next to the name of that first cookbook, that’s how dull and uninspiring most of the offerings in it turned out. But this mom… even when I was self-absorbed, I could sit and watch her cook. If for no other reason than it usually meant a fantastic meal was coming.
Dad cooked too, but his meals were more simple. They were filling, but something was missing. They were decent, but they weren’t the masterpieces my mom would make when she put in the effort. I landed somewhere in the middle, between adequate and excellent. I didn’t have the variety of spices I’d learned with, and since self defense was unnecessary here, I hadn’t had the same incentive to really learn to really use what we had.
“Supper will be ready in a moment, would you fetch your father?”
She didn’t even look up from her work, it’s like my very presence had altered the balance of the room, and in her zen-like state, she could notice the smallest changes.
“Is he out front chatting with the neighbors again?”
She nodded.
Dad had all the social genes in the family, and he hadn’t passed many on to me. It’s part of why he worked the counter and mom worked the books, in both senses of the word, managing the stock and doing the recordkeeping. I walked outside and found dad in a friendly argument with the neighbor about the weather and how it compared to last year.
I waited for a lull in the banter, then interjected, “Dad, mom says supper’s almost ready. She’s making the citrus-stuffed fish.” I had a head start and I barely beat him back into the house.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Sitting down in our places, mom looked over at me with a smile.
“Congratulations on your new job, Grint.”
“Thanks mom, you didn’t have to do all this.”
“Of course I didn’t, but it’s nice to have you back with us for a while longer. Now, enough chatter, dig in!”
The smells did not disappoint for the flavors were phenomenal. I don’t even like veggies all that much, but somehow she made everything work together like a virtuoso conductor guiding a responsive symphony. We demolished the meal. OK, I demolished the meal, they served themselves generous portions then left the rest down near my spot. I decided that meant I got the rest. So. Very. Tasty.
I detected some shared glances between my parents, amusement I’m betting, maybe with a little exasperation. I’m sure I didn’t catch all the glances, because I was busy with the stuffing of my face. Food, now. Conversation could totally wait.
As I began slowing down, savoring the last few morsels of each dish, I looked up, and saw my parents staring at me in what I hoped was mock horror.
“What? I’m still growing.”
I hoped that wasn’t true, I was just about used to my body now. Clumsy was at an all-time low, minor bathroom slippage aside. That stuff happens to everyone. Even if it doesn’t.
“Grint. I need to ask you something.” Uh-oh. Mom had issued the dreaded pre-question warning. Whatever was coming up next was gonna be a doozy.
“You were so red at the pump, I would have sworn you had gotten a bad sunburn out there or something was going on.”
That wasn’t a question, so I kept waiting. I didn’t know how to say I thought I’d developed a new magic talent, since they didn’t really think magic was a good subject for dinner conversations (CSL 19, “No magic at the dinner table”). The pause grew awkwardly long, and I lost the staring contest.
“Aww, mom. You know how I get when I do anything physical. The kids used to call me beet boy when we were playing outside, even when I didn’t have a burn.” True, but deceptive. Hopefully good enough for now. Great supper, getting along with the parents pretty well, don’t want to ruin it. Once I have some more idea what the heck is going on with me and my psionics, then maybe I can open up more. For now, it’ll just cause worry and may inspire bonus rounds of the triple-threat lecture hour, now starring CSLs 22, 15, and 19 . She didn’t look like she completely bought it, but she didn’t appear willing to push the issue today and ruin the mood. I’ll take the tie.