If it was anyone else, York would’ve disagreed.
Well, perhaps not disagree . . . but, they wouldn’t have been saved from his sharp tongue and dry witticisms. It was in his nature to be contrarian, but now -- well, he didn’t feel the need to be.
Perhaps it was the company. There was no doubt in his mind that Xiangling could master such a feat. It didn’t seem farfetched, as ridiculous as her little quip may have sounded. Cooking was a form of art ; if done well, who’s to say what it can make you feel? She approached the subject as a writer would novel, a painter to canvas -- wasn’t artistry but all a master of the senses? If so, then cooking was a mastery of taste and smell, no different than a form of music or style. Art has achieved far greater ends than a simple forgiveness ; who’s to say she wouldn’t succeed such an endeavor with colorful flavor?
It could’ve been the atmosphere, too. A hazy, warm sort of day. The kitchen was stuffy, but this wasn’t an unusual happenstance ; most kitchens were stuffy. He’s read about that in books and experienced that firsthand while spending his time on the Mother of Invention. As a little boy, they didn’t have much in the way of a kitchen -- it was them crowded over stacked wood and hoping against hope that the fire would be hot enough. Simple meals with bland flavors, drowning them all in peppers and hot sauces for even the smallest bit of taste . . . he wouldn’t really call that a fond memory. Nothing like it is now.
The MOI was closer, but different. It was almost never stuffy. Not when York went in to make something. The languid atmosphere of home kitchens was an art in and of itself ; you had to be a certain person to achieve it. Of course, maybe it required more than just you, the presence of a loved one. The MOI’s kitchen only ever got stuffy when York was with his friends -- helping North stress - bake at midnight and flinging bits of sauce to speckle Lina’s fair skin, powdering Wash’s face with flour as they roll for bread . . . there was a lot of memories in that kitchen, the more York thought of it. Perhaps there were some here as well, warming the place with fragrances of love & care, something tender and cozy . . .
The MOI’s kitchen was long gone now -- so were his friends. His smile bared the faintest of sadness, as he watched Xiangling stir, his chin resting in his hand. “ i dunno . . . my father did somehing pretty unforgivable. but, if your soups are as powerful as all that, you think you can make a soup powerful enough for me to forgive myself? “
A moment of vulnerability, perhaps, but what can he say? A kitchen can be a magical place, if you make it just about right.
