by Adam Sidwell
“Nope, just from the airport in New Orleans. We brought it in on one of Ms. Casa’s cargo jets. It‘s our mobile command center. Can’t leave home without it. Been all across the countryside and halfway through Europe in this thing.” He laughed and pointed to the satellite dish on top of the huge motor home. “It’ll pick up any TV program you can think of!” he said. “Even ones that haven’t been made yet!”
Mom came from the kitchen, Henry Junior on her hip, Mariah right behind her. Dad had left for work hours ago.
Mom licked her hand and smothered Guster’s hair into place on one side of his head, just before the door slid open on the side of the motor home right where the ‘FC’ logo was painted.
Out stepped Felicity Casa herself. She was dressed as the most fashionable farmhand Guster had ever seen. Every hair was in place. She wore a set of blue denim overalls cut to fit perfectly around her slender waist, with a red checkered button up shirt underneath that. Two tiny pitchfork earrings dangled from either ear.
Felicity scanned the house and the land. “So, this is your home,” she said. There was neither condescension nor compliment in her voice.
“Felicity, so good to see you,” said Mom, drying her hands on a towel and stuffing it in her apron pocket. She embraced Felicity with her free arm.
“Likewise,” Felicity said, smiling at Mom.
Guster was a bit surprised to see Felicity return the hug. He’d never been quite sure what to make of Felicity Casa, the Queen Bee of the American Household, the Czarina of Chocolate. She was very powerful and used to getting what she wanted. If that lined up with the Johnsonville’s interests, good for them, but if it didn’t, it wasn’t wise to stand in her way.
Felicity turned to Guster. “Hello Guster. It is an honor to see you again.” She shook his hand vigorously.
An honor? She was saying that to him?
Guster nodded. “Hi.”
He didn’t know what to think about her being here. They had been through a lot together, but she was the reason that he wasn’t going to Camp Cucamunga and that bothered him.
Felicity grasped Guster by both shoulders and sniffed in a long, deep breath of air, almost as if she was smelling him. She closed her eyes and lingered there for a moment too long. It felt uncomfortable to be smelled like that.
“Now . . . that’s unexpected,” said Felicity in a low voice that only Guster could hear. She opened her eyes and studied him.
He squirmed. He did not like being the center of so much attention.
“Your mother tells me that you’ve been . . . tasting things,” said Felicity.
So she’s getting straight to the point, thought Guster. At least she wasn’t hiding the reason for her visit.
“Nothing special,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her about the sandwich he had eaten the day before. He would ask her about that—and a hundred other questions—when everyone else had gone.
“We’ll see,” said Felicity. She nodded her head toward the giant vehicle. “I have so much to show you.”
Guster looked back at Mom. “Now?” he asked.
Mom nodded and waved her hand toward the door of the RV like she was pushing him to it.
“I see no reason to delay,” said Felicity. She turned and held her arm up toward the open door, inviting him in.
Guster had to admit, he was curious. There were things that Felicity would understand, things that he could ask her or explain to her that he would have a hard time explaining to anyone else.
He climbed the three steps into the RV. Felicity followed, and the door shut behind him. The latch clicked.
Inside, the RV was not like any other motorhome he’d ever seen. The countertops were sleek black granite, the sink and oven fixtures gleamed with silver polish. It was like a cross between a spaceship and a fancy furniture store.
To his right, there was a wall with a door that Guster guessed led to the driver’s cabin, and on the other side of the kitchen was a hallway that must have led to the bedrooms and bathroom. If Guster hadn’t just been outside, he wouldn’t have known he was in an RV at all.
“Have a seat,” said Felicity.
Guster turned toward the couch.
“Not there. Here,” she said, pointing to a counter-height table in the kitchen next to the oven.
Guster took a seat on one of the chairs.
Felicity tied a white apron around her waist, and removed a small glass vial from one of its many pockets. The apron looked more like a lab coat than the cooking apron Guster usually saw Felicity wear on her show. She set the vial on the table in front of Guster.
Then she grabbed Guster by the wrist, and, without a word, swiftly pulled a needle from another pocket and stabbed Guster on the finger.
“Ow!” he cried, the pain shooting up his hand. The needle hadn’t hurt him so much as it had surprised him. He hadn’t expected Felicity to do that.
Felicity squeezed his finger until a few drops of blood oozed out into the vial.
“What was that for?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead she turned to the stove, setting the vial down next to a small saucepan. She turned on the burner, still not answering him, and began to add ingredients. First a cube of butter, then a handful of flour, then milk. She precisely measured everything in little cups before she stirred them into the pan. She worked so quickly that her hands blurred with motion. Guster could hardly keep up with his eyes.
“This is a mother sauce, Guster,” Felicity said when she was finally done. A beautiful but indistinguishable smell rose into Guster’s nostrils. It did not have any particular scent, not sweet, or savory, just mild and warm.
“The mother sauce is the base for a thousand different culinary masterpieces,” Felicity said. “When cooking, a master chef begins here. It has infinite potential; it can become a savory pasta sauce or a gourmet fish pie. Its destiny stands at a crossroads and is determined only by the ingredients you add to it.”
She tasted the sauce on the end of a wooden spoon. “Mmmmm.” She sighed. “I want you to taste this now, so there won’t be any doubt in your mind how different it is after I add the final ingredient.”
She stuck a clean wooden spoon into the sauce then held a spoonful of thick, yellowish liquid out to Guster. He pressed it to his lips. The sauce was just as he’d smelled it—mild, and basic, with almost no significant flavor to it. Sure, he could taste the age of the butter, or when the wheat in the flour was harvested, but other than that it was, well . . .
“It’s quite ordinary,” Guster said.
Felicity smiled. “Good. Then you will notice the difference,” she said, and she scooped up the vial, dripped Guster’s blood into the sauce, and stirred.
Guster felt his stomach turn. “What are you doing?” he asked. It was too strange and sickening—adding a part of him to the sauce?
“We’re going to taste Guster Johnsonville.” said Felicity. “If my suspicions are correct—and I think they will be—we will learn something very important about you, Guster Johnsonville, Evertaster.” She turned down the burner.
Guster did not like the sound of that. This was the same problem that had persisted for as long as he could remember: everyone was far too concerned with what was going on inside Guster’s mouth. Hadn’t he solved that?
“I eat my mom’s cooking all the time now,” he said defensively.
Felicity laughed. It was almost a cackle. “Oh, I don’t care much whether or not you eat your mother’s cooking. This is much bigger than that.” She looked Guster square in the eye. “Guster, it is time for your training as an Evertaster to begin.”
Guster looked down at his hands. That idea seemed strange to him. Zeke could train to get better at football, or you could practice to get better at the piano, but you couldn’t just train to be an Evertaster. Could you?
She turned down th
e dial on the stovetop. “I’ve set this sauce to simmer. Three hours should do it.”
“And now for something else,” she said, turning to a cupboard. She removed two glass pie pans and a set of glass bowls of various sizes. In each of them was a different ingredient: ground beef, spices, a yellow sauce that Guster did not recognize, and a large lump of dough.
“Today we’re going to make gourmet meat pies,” Felicity said in a smooth, polished voice. “These are an Australian and New Zealand delicacy, rarely enjoyed here in America, and now I’m bringing it to you. You start with a mixture of the finest ground beef; you want to use a lean beef so that it will accentuate the flavor.” She dumped the bowl of brown spice onto the meat and mixed it with a fork. Suddenly, Guster felt like he was watching her show.
She removed a rolling pin from a drawer, sprinkled flour across the tabletop, and rolled out the lump of dough. “You must make sure the crust is light as satin,” she said.
It all smelled so wonderful, but why was she showing this to him? Was this how you trained to become an Evertaster? He didn’t care so much about learning how to cook. What he wanted to do was taste.
“And in just a few easy minutes . . .” she said. She stopped, suddenly aware of herself. “I’m sorry. I was doing it again. It’s hard to break showbiz habits.”
And with that, Felicity suddenly pulled two fully cooked, steaming hot meat pies from the oven. Each one was complete. “You have the final product, delicious and ready to serve.” She seemed to be in a trance, like she had floated away to an imaginary studio somewhere.
“Your guests won’t stop talking about this taste experience.” She smiled with her porcelain white teeth, shining in Guster’s eyes. She smiled left, then right, as if to an imaginary audience.
“Ahem.” Guster cleared his throat.
“Right,” she said, straightening.
She set all three pies on the table in front of him, a fork beside each of them. “Eat,” she said. Suddenly the studio-poised Felicity Casa was gone. In her place was the Felicity Casa who meant business.
Guster did not have to be persuaded. The pies smelled so good, and he never passed up an opportunity to taste Felicity’s cooking.
He pressed his fork into the first pie and scooped up a tender morsel of steaming brown meat and sauce wrapped in a flaky crust. He brought it to his lips and closed his mouth around it. It was delicious: savory, spicy, and succulent, a treat for a hungry palette. It melted onto his tongue, first with a bold and courageous meat flavor, then with a steady, confident soft crust, and then . . . Guster stopped chewing. There was something there, hidden between the flavors. It was hard to decipher at first, faint and elusive, but it was there nonetheless: sadness.
Felicity was staring at him, a tablet computer in one hand. She was tapping down notes. “Yes?” she said, expectantly.
Guster shook his head. “It’s like there’s a feeling inside this pie. This dish tastes . . . sad.”
A slow smile spread across Felicity’s lips. She tapped something onto the computer. “You can taste it.” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “Guster, I did not make this particular meat pie. It was made by a man who’d just lost his brother to a heart attack.”
Guster didn’t know what to say. He felt sorry for the man, though he’d never met him. He wished he could reach out to him somehow and tell him that everything was going to be okay.
But how could Guster taste that from a pie? He’d tasted subtle flavors before, like an extra grain of sugar in a cookie. He could trace back the history of an ingredient, or tell you where it was grown, but feelings? Now that was new.
“Try this one,” she said, pointing to the next pie.
He was curious, and a little afraid of what he would find. He lifted his fork. The second pie tasted like the first, but this one had a layer of something bright inside it, like a springtime morning after the frost had melted away. It was a happy, thrilling taste that sent a tiny part of his head tumbling on a roller coaster of glee.
“What do you taste?” Felicity asked.
How could he describe it? “Happiness. Excitement,” he said. They were the best words he could muster.
Felicity punched more notes into her tablet. “This one was made by a newlywed bride. I wouldn’t expect you to understand romance at age twelve, but you’ve found it anyway.”
If this were true, what else could he taste?
“Guster, your sensitivity as an Evertaster is growing,” said Felicity. “You can taste emotion. You can taste experiences.”
Guster shook his head. But how? And what did that mean?
“It’s Taste Resonance Theory,” said Felicity.
“Taste what?” asked Guster.
“The Theory that flavors resonate from creator to consumer, and with them they can carry information, or even emotion, to your subconscious. Have you ever seen someone stare at a painting and begin to smile? Have you ever read a book that made you laugh? Or seen the way music moves people at a concert? They begin to dance, or cry, or cheer, even when the artist who created the work isn’t there. Each creator has a distinct level of power to convey emotion or experience through their work. Painters or sculptors are the first level. Authors have even more influence. Then musicians. The most powerful of them all, though, are chefs. They can communicate directly to your subconscious through taste.”
That made sense. He’d felt it happen. He just wasn’t sure he believed it.
“A chef can evoke his intent or emotion. Most of the time it’s inadvertent. They don’t even know they’re doing it,” said Felicity.
“Like this pie,” said Guster.
“Exactly. But I think that Taste Resonance goes beyond just the creator,” Felicity said. “Any object or flavor that comes in contact with a dish can affect it. It can transfer information about itself. It’s like pouring strawberry sauce into a stream. Eventually it will spread to the ocean.”
Guster pushed himself back from the table. She was right. Hadn’t he even seen it in Mom’s dishes? There were times when he was almost certain he’d been able to tell what mood Mom was in by eating her food. “Or like an echo in a canyon,” he said quietly. “It can bounce away in many directions.”
Felicity smiled knowingly. “I see I’ve made my point.”
Guster looked up at her. There was something she wanted, but he still wasn’t sure what. “But why come here to tell me this now?”
“Remember that dessert you tasted last year in my castle kitchen in France?” Felicity asked.
That was a silly question. Of course he did. It had changed the way he saw the world.
“The One Recipe,” he said. “The Gastronomy of Peace.”
“Yes,” said Felicity. “Archedentus, the great chef, traveled far and wide to discover its ingredients and bring them together. He was an explorer.”
She pushed the pies aside and unrolled a world map on the table. There were dotted lines in red and black zigzagging from one destination to another. He recognized some of them: Peru, Tanzania, Bear Island. He had been to them. The lines didn’t stop there though. They circled the globe, some of them with question marks, others with notations in tiny, handwritten letters.
“Archedentus did not find those ingredients without searching. There were missteps along the way, backtracking and wandering. They were not his only discoveries. I am convinced there is more out there.
“Did you know that Italians didn’t even have tomato sauce until after 1492? Imagine! Lasagna without marinara sauce! Spaghetti wasn’t even born yet! Columbus brought tomatoes back from the new world. His journey changed the face of cuisine.
“That’s what Archedentus did, but behind the scenes and with an even wider effect. His travels united flavors from across the world in a way that history does not even comprehend! He is the basis for modern cuisine as we know it, and we’ve only discovered a
fraction of where he went and what he created. As near as we can tell, he created dozens of delicious things, all hidden out there, waiting for us to snatch them up and taste them!”
“We already found his One Recipe,” Guster said. It was his ultimate creation. What more did they need?
Felicity nodded. “But he had so much more to give!” She pointed to a spot on the map in Northern Africa where the lines squiggled and spiraled. There were several dots and notations clumped together. “Archedentus may have left entire colonies of chefs behind, all trained at his hand!”
“Then what does this have to do with me?” he asked.
Felicity sat down across from him. “Guster, we need an Evertaster to find them,” she said.
So that was it. Felicity wasn’t here to help Guster overcome anything. She was here to use him, and it was all right under Mom’s nose. He wasn’t a bloodhound or a clever little detective. He was Guster.
“No,” he said. He pushed the map away and stood up. “I’m doing just fine.” It had been thrilling to see the things that he did last summer. Gorillas, giant chickens, Torbjorn and Storfjell. But it had also been dangerous. Part of Guster also wondered if going with Felicity would mean admitting that Mom and Dad were right—that there was something wrong with him.
But there wasn’t. He was eating everything Mom made him. And now Mom thought that was the problem. He couldn’t win.
“Guster, imagine the tastes!” Felicity said. She sounded desperate.
He put his hand on the RV door and pushed it open. “No. I have everything I need right here,” he said.
“Think of what you’re turning your back on!” cried Felicity. He’d never seen her lose her cool like that. She was afraid of losing access to Archedentus’s world.
Guster leapt off the steps of the RV without glancing back. He ran. He needed to be alone. He needed time to think. He circled the house until the RV was out of sight.
He knew the Johnsonville land like he knew his own face, which meant he knew the best hiding places. He passed the old well and reached the back of the barn where he swung aside a loose board and squeezed through a narrow gap in the wood. He ducked inside where it was musty and dim. The smell of dry hay filled the interior like a puffy pillow of air.