METHOD:
I’m at the dock, waiting for Emma to arrive. I almost want her to be late, so that we’ll miss the ferry and not leave the island, have our date within its magnificent borders. But I want things between us back where they belong, moments shimmering with lake water and joy.
I still went in for my training today, served Chef five omelets with sundried tomatoes, goat cheese and basil. She devoured one in minutes and then offered a couple of the others to Sue and the guys delivering produce. It’s the best I’ve felt hanging up my apron at the end of our sessions, and it almost made me wish that Emma and I could move the date to another day.
But that feeling falls away when I see Emma. She’s in a sundress, her bag’s strap across her chest. I can see a cardigan tucked inside the bag and the corner of a book sticking out. The smile is automatic, and, by now, if we’re not near the kitchen or our coworkers, so is the kiss hello. It is an incredible thing to have every day, this kiss hello.
“Fancy date time in Seattle!” I say, doing a weird little jig.
“That was interesting,” she says, eyebrows angled in amusement.
“Yeah, I don’t know where that came from. Let’s pretend it never happened.”
“Okay, but I accidentally took a video and uploaded it to the internet. Sorry.”
We take a seat on a bench at the dock, hiding from the afternoon sun. There are a couple of cars waiting in line to drive onto the ferry, which is just now in view. Inside, families of four and five sit looking bored. One kid is crying, while his mom tries to calm him and his siblings try to sleep.
“How’s your day been?” I ask.
“Pretty good. Slept in. Went to my meadow to do a little yoga. Now I’m here with you,” Emma says, folding her hands in her lap.
“Well, I guess it was good for a while, then. Sorry to ruin things.”
She nudges me with her shoulder and smiles. “How’s your day been?”
“Not bad. I think I’m the best omelet maker in the world right now. Your mom asked for some tips today. I think I’m going to start charging her for the lessons or maybe go start my own restaurant.”
She gives a little tight-lipped smile and cleans her glasses on the hem of her dress. She gets a little quiet. I should know better by now than to bring up the kitchen all the time. A sea breeze passes by, cooling the sun on my face. I close my eyes to it for a moment, try to let everything else float away. I’m young. I’m alive. I’m here. “Thanks for coming with me,” I say and give her hand a squeeze.
It brings her back to me, removes her mind from whatever worries her when she quiets down. She scoots closer to me, lays her head on my shoulder and we look out at the steel blue of the Pacific extending beyond us. No worries today, I tell myself. Just Emma.
The ferry arrives from Seattle with a couple of horn blasts and unloads a fresh smattering of tourists. “If you could start your own restaurant,” Emma asks, “what kind would it be?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it,” I say. We rise to our feet as people start to shuffle onboard. “I’ve been so focused on just learning little things. I’d have no idea where to begin. It feels impossibly far away.”
“Throw something out there.”
I think for a while, and the only thing that comes to mind is crazy concoctions, things that I would have no idea how to pull off technically, things that might not even be able to exist. “I don’t know. Something unreal.”
Emma laughs, leads us to the stairs to go up to the second level of the ferry. We stand at the front of the boat, leaning against the rails. “Unreal? Like...those every-flavor Harry Potter jelly beans? A whole restaurant of that?”
“I mean, not exactly, but that’s not far off. It’d be like...fusion. But not between different cuisines. More like between something real and something magical. Have you ever read Como Agua Para Chocolate? Like Water for Chocolate?”
Emma shakes her head.
“It’s this crazy love story where the food being cooked in the chapter has an emotional effect on the characters. Like, the main character cooks with rose petals given to her by this guy she’s in love with, and it causes her sister to go into this lustful state and run off with a revolutionary soldier.”
Emma takes her phone out to write down the title. “So, you want to cook so well it makes people horny.”
“Exactly,” I say, laughing. The ferry blasts a few deafening horns again and then pushes away from the dock, creating a slight breeze. “If I ever owned a restaurant like your mom does, I’d want the menu to read like that book. Dreamy ingredient combinations, entrées that sound like poetry.” I think for a second, look at Emma, who’s looking out at the water. “I guess what I’m saying is I’d want a super-pretentious restaurant.”
“With really long menus,” Emma says with a smirk. She leans over the rails, looking down at the hull splitting the water. “I guess you have time to figure that out.”
“I’m in no hurry,” I respond. We both fall quiet, looking out at the San Juan Islands passing us by. What a crazy notion, I think, that there’s a wealth of time out there for all of us.
After about thirty minutes, the Seattle skyline appears in the distance, and Mount Rainier, snowcapped and unobstructed by clouds. It looks superimposed onto the scenery, like skilled but still-obvious Photoshop. The city gets closer; the waves are a little rougher, sending a fine mist up to their deck, the tiny droplets sticking to Emma’s glasses and her hair. I wipe at her cheek and wonder how it is that I still get goose bumps at her touch.
When we reach Seattle, Emma and I follow the small crowd downstairs, toward the exit. “We’ve got a couple of hours before our reservation,” I say. “I figured we could just explore for a bit? If you know any cool spots you can lead the way, but no pressure. I like wandering.”
“Sure,” Emma says. “Do you want to see the touristy spots?”
I shrug. “If they’re on the way. I just want to walk with you. Then shove food in your face.”
“So romantic,” Emma says. “You pick.”
I look left, look right, pick the direction that seems more interesting (crowds, trees, restaurants). “You never told me what really made you decide to leave Mexico,” Emma says. “I know you said your brother had something to do with it and that you ran away against your parents’ wishes, but what was the thing that made you actually bolt? Was it a train of thought, an epiphany?”