John walks in on Bob and Yelena sitting on the counters in the kitchen early one morning. Late one night. … It’s 3:47 AM.
They’re shit talking and eating cheap ramen straight from the cup.
Bob watches John’s face morph into an expression of disgust before he turns away from them. Ignores them. Is thankful when Yelena scoffs and says, “What is your problem? We are at least using chopsticks. We are not animals, Walker.”
“I put an egg in mine.” He says proudly.
“Yeah. Bob put an egg in his.” Yelena adds with a slurp.
John finally turns back to them with his eyebrows furrowed and his glass of milk in hand. He moves like he’s going to say something. And then John just waves them off and leaves the kitchen, “Whatever.”
Bob and Yelena laugh about it for a good fifteen minutes. John has always been a bit of a food snob. Insisting on cooking for everyone more often than not. Frequently turning his nose up at the cadre of prepackaged meals and processed snacks.
But for some reason, the interaction plays in Bob’s mind even after their conversation has moved on. This didn’t feel like it was that. Eventually they go to sleep.
For the next week, John keeps making variations on pasta for dinner. Every night.
Spaghetti with meat sauce. Yakisoba with chicken. Tuna casserole. Fettuccine Alfredo. Sesame chili noodle salad.
They’re all recipes he’s made before. And the flavors are there. It’s good. Nothing to complain about even with the high frequency of pasta if only because of the diversity of flavor profiles.
But of course… there’s something nagging him. Bob’s no food critic, but he knows something is a bit off with each dish. He eventually lands on the noodles.
Decides to do some reconnaissance. See exactly why the noodles are off if John keeps insisting on using them.
He shows up early to dinner on Sunday while John is still cooking. An action that is a cardinal sin for anyone on the team, but one that John seems to excuse for Bob.
He sits at the countertop silently and kicks his feet. Watches John make pasta from scratch. Mix the dough. Sheet it. Rest it. Run it back through the spaghetti cutter.
John curls the noodles into what is almost a noodle ball. Like a nest. And that’s when it clicks for Bob.
John has been plating pasta dishes all week to make use of his practice attempts. Substituting the called for noodles with his steadily improving ramen.
Bob opens his mouth to say something, but John somehow knows he’s about to speak without even looking up. Cuts him off, “Do you know the nutritional value of those cups, Bobby? Or the lack of, I should say. The sodium content alone would make even the most grizzled school lunch lady balk.”
He blinks. Tries to process what’s happening here. Watches John form noodle nest after noodle nest. Sprinkle flour on top of all of them. Wash his hands.
Then John is setting both hands on the edge of the counter. Sleeves of his blue button up rolled up past his forearms as he leans forward. Gives Bob a genuine smile he knows he’ll be thinking back on for days, “Once I get this down, I can prepackage servings with flavoring and vegetables for y’all. It’ll be as easy and convenient to make as what you do now. But ya know. Better for you.”
Bob finds his jaw dropping. His face flushing. He thinks he sees that John has the decency to reciprocate the blush. Hopes it’s not his imagination at least.
But then John is turning away, “And I can make ramen marinated eggs for yours, Bobby.” John has a hand behind his own head, scratching his hair, “If you’d like that.”
Food for Bob was always a need. Sometimes a luxury. Something to spend money on when his belly was particularly empty or after he’d already gotten his fix. Taste didn’t matter. Nutrition didn’t matter. Survival did.
Extravagant meals his mother made to please his father meant nothing to Bob. They were never for him. Never even appeased his father, really. Felt hollow. Ended up on the floor more often than in his belly. Sometimes both.
But that wasn’t this. John wasn’t putting food on their plates out of fear or obligation. He wasn’t turning his judgment of junk food and fast food on them for his own benefit or avoidance. He genuinely wants them to be happy and healthy and taken care of. In a way he knows he can provide.
The realization catches Bob off guard. Adds complexity to his opinion of Walker that wasn’t there before. For once, Bob thinks he understands what people mean when they say food can mean security. Companionship. Love.
He offers John a lopsided smile in return, “Yeah. I would. I’d like that, Walker.”
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