Add Spice to Taste

by R. G. Emanuelle

  Then I up picked the peeled orange and held it in the palm of my hand, juices covering my fingers.

  “You’re dripping.”

  “What?”

  “You’re dripping. Juice.” She pointed to the orange.

  Oh, that. Yeah. I moved my hand over the bowl. “Yeah, you want to catch those juices. We’ll need that for the dressing. So here’s what you do.”

  With the edge of her knife, I sliced through each segment, separated it from the membrane, and dropped it in the bowl. When all the segments were out, I squeezed the membranes over the bowl to extract any remaining juices, then dropped the carcass into the garbage bowl.

  “Okay, now you.” I placed the knife down on the board so that she could safely pick it up.

  I watched as she mimicked what I had done. After deftly peeling it, her orange was beautifully pith-less. With the fruit in the palm of her hand, she carefully ran the blade on either side of each section, and dropped the segments into the bowl. As I had done, she squeezed the membranes, letting the juices fall into the bowl.

  “Nice job,” I said.

  The mark of pride in students’ eyes when they’ve done a good job was always rewarding, but in Julianna’s eyes, it was inspiring.

  “You get a gold star,” I said, handing her one of her towels, which she’d put next to the cutting board.

  “Thanks.” She took the towel from me and brushed my palm. Could electricity actually flow between human beings? It was like a joy buzzer had shocked me, except that the sensation didn’t stop in my hand. The current travelled into my body and down to my lower regions.

  “Okay, well, carry on.” All flushed, I stepped away from her. I hoped that no one had picked up on whatever it was that had just passed between us. The only one who seemed to notice was Brit, who looked amused.

  I tried to focus on the rest of the students. Throughout the afternoon, they performed their tasks quietly, though a few chatted back and forth about what they were working on and peered at each other’s work.

  You’d never know that at the end, there would be tantalizing food on the table. It was like taking a drug and seeing the world in exaggerated Technicolor. The speckles of red pepper flakes on the glistening olives were like little jewels, facets around larger stones. The orange-radish salad was a mosaic of citrus flesh and thin white disks ringed by splashes of crimson. And the preserved lemons that the students had prepared were a hyperbole of yellow—sunshine under glass. The communal meal was uncomplicated but far from dull or ordinary.

  This was evident in the excited aspects of the students’ faces. As was usually the case, they were timid at first, overly polite in taking food, and unsure of each other. But once they took their portions, they delighted in the flavors and textures: Crunchy, soft, tangy, peppery, chewy, salty, sweet. Afterwards, they eagerly began packing up leftovers in the tin plates stacked on the supply table.

  “Mmm, this is delicious,” Julianna commented as she bit into a date. She had grabbed one and approached me. “I can’t wait to make these at home. The people in my yoga class would die for them.”

  “Does it make you want to come back for the next round?”

  “Definitely,” Julianna said, licking the tips of her sugary fingers in a way that made my knees weak.

  “Great. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” She walked back to her table. To the rest of the class, I said, “Let’s get cleaned up, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget your info packets. And your lemons. Remember, let them sit a couple of weeks.”

  Most of the students removed their aprons and towels, gathered their things, and filed out. My assistants collected the cutting boards, knives, bowls, and anything else that had been left on the tables. I tidied up my own workstation, engrossed in getting the room ready for the night class Anything that needed to be washed, I put in the sink, and I washed my personal knives in the secondary sink.

  The room had become quieter, except for the dishwashers furiously scrubbing all the pots and pans. When I turned around, Julianna was still sitting at the table, flipping through the illustrated pages of the knife techniques packet.

  She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back, a nervous flutter in my chest. Geez, it was like being a teenager again.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a question,” she said, her eyes bright and playful.

  “Sure,” I replied. Or at least I thought I replied. It sort of came out as a croak, but she seemed to understand.

  “I was wondering what it’s like being a chef. A woman chef. I mean, it’s been a pretty male-dominated field, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is traditionally that. But I can’t imagine doing anything else. And it’s a lot easier now than it used to be. Like most professions, I guess.”

  She looked thoughtful and held my gaze for a really long moment. I waited for her next question, but she didn’t have one. “Thanks,” she said. “I really enjoyed today’s class. I can’t wait for tomorrow.” She stood and gathered her things.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. See you tomorrow,” I said, waving like a moron.

  “Bye.”

  As she walked out, I couldn’t help but notice, again, her perfect ass filling out her shorts and her solid, muscular shoulders in her tank top. She obviously took care of herself, to great success.

  When she had turned the corner, the bathroom door, just a few steps down the hall, swung open. Brit stepped out, and as she passed the doorway of the classroom, she smiled and waved at me, her fingers wiggling in a to-do-loo gesture. There was something about that smile—beautiful but dangerous.

  This was going to be an interesting class.

  BOXES STILL CLUTTERED up the hall of my apartment, on their way out the door to be taken to my ex-girlfriend’s new place. I kicked one as I passed it and threw myself onto the sofa. At least I wasn’t the one who’d had to move after the breakup. Over the years, I had seen the building of my East Village apartment go from shabby to chic as the area became the new hotspot for artists and yuppies. The only reason I could still afford it was because it had once been my aunt’s and I’d been grandfathered into a rent control deal years before.

  So typical of Brenda. Leaves some of her shit in my apartment for a year and a half, finally says she’s going to come get it, then doesn’t. “I’ll come next week,” she’d said the last time. That was three weeks ago.

  My phone rang. I looked at it and debated picking up. Speak of the Devil. Brenda.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Jo. How are you?”

  “When are you coming for your shit?”

  “Well, aren’t you in a mood.”

  “Look, I pulled all your boxes out, like you asked, and now they’re sitting here for three weeks.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. That’s why I’m calling. Can I come by tonight?”

  “A little notice would’ve been nice.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a hectic month. But an appointment got cancelled, so I thought it would be a good time to come over.”

  “Fine. Come now, if you want.” The sooner I had that crap out of my sight, the better. “And bring your key.” I emphasized that part to let her know that I was annoyed that she had not yet handed over her key to the apartment.

  “Okay. See you in a few.”

  I sighed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I should have been more forgiving. After all, it was probably my fault that she’d left. All those hours I’d spent at the cafe, trying to make a go of it, had been rough on her and by the time I closed the café and began teaching—a much more predictable job—we were already doomed. Things only got worse over the course of the next couple of years. Ironically, once I started teaching and had more time to spend with her, the less she wanted to spend with me.

  I went to the refrigerator and opened it, staring. Ah, there was still a little bit of the Riesling left from the other night. With the bottle up-ended over my glass, the last drops of the semi-dry white wine dribbled out. My stomach grum
bled but I just didn’t have the wherewithal to fix myself some dinner. Although physically hungry, I had no appetite.

  Nothing seemed to be going right for me—alone for going on two years, and still paying for a degree that wasn’t serving me in quite the way I’d hoped. I enjoyed teaching, but it just didn’t pay enough. I was barely making ends meet. And I was still living with the belongings of a woman who no longer loved me.

  My feet throbbed from standing all day and I pushed my shoes off. I needed to get totally relaxed so I could wallow in my self-pity in comfort. I got up and made my way toward the bedroom and tripped. I caught myself on the doorknob before I fell. On the floor, just outside the threshold of the room, was a shoebox. I had thought it was Brenda’s when I’d put it with the others, but looking at it now, I didn’t see her name in black marker that denoted all her other boxes. I didn’t recognize it, though, so I picked it up and removed the top. It held a bunch of photos of Brenda and me. She must have sorted through them, picked out the ones she wanted, and put the rest back.

  Wow, that was harsh. She didn’t want any of these? It’s not like we hated each other or anything. I took the box back to the couch and flipped through them. Who knew, when I was grinning for these photos, that I would one day be looking at them in a box as the discarded memories of a fractured relationship and broken heart?

  Looking back, I couldn’t blame Brenda for cheating on me. I hadn’t been there for her and she had needed someone. She was the kind of person who didn’t do well on her own. The funny thing was, I had tried to make a success of the café for both of us. I wanted her to be proud of me. I wanted her to be able to say that her partner had accomplished something.

  But I guess I wasn’t a very good businessperson. I just couldn’t make the café work. The whole time I had it, I barely broke even, and after three years, I still wasn’t making a profit. At least not enough to make the intense work and long hours worth it. In the end, I couldn’t even say that we were financially secure.

  Brenda wasn’t a bad person—flaky, yes—and she deserved someone who could make things happen. I, evidently, wasn’t that someone. I put the shoebox on the upper shelf of the closet and grabbed some sweats. And she sure was taking her sweet time getting her shit out of here. A year and a half. Who leaves her stuff in someone’s apartment for almost two years? It wasn’t urgent stuff but it was still her stuff. And no matter how many times I’d asked her to come get it, she’d tell me she would, and then wouldn’t.

  I should’ve burned the shit.

  Back in the living room, I finished the wine and sat in silence for a few minutes. Then I got up and grabbed my jacket. I needed pizza. Right now. Brenda could let herself in—if she remembered the key—and, hopefully, she’d be gone by the time I got back.

  WHEN I RETURNED to my apartment, I heard noises through the door and my stomach lurched. Shit. She was still here, though I hadn’t seen her car on the street. The thought of losing that delicious pizza I’d just eaten so soon troubled me almost as much as having to face Brenda. But unless I wanted to spend the rest of the evening outside on the stoop, I had no choice. I steeled myself and went in, noticing right away that some of the boxes had been removed from the hallway. Very quickly, I realized why I hadn’t seen her car—she’d come in her girlfriend’s Beemer. Jocelyn the Adulterer came out of the bedroom. “Oh, hey,” she said, as if we were pals. “Sorry that we had to let ourselves in. You weren’t home.”

  “Yeah, I know that.” Brilliant deduction, Golda Meir. I called her Golda Meier because she was older—older than I thought Brenda would want—and what they called women like her years ago: handsome. She also liked to take charge of things and rule her domain. Golda Meir.

  My keys hit the kitchen table with a jingle just before I opened up the refrigerator. I didn’t know what for, since I’d just eaten. It was just something to do. There was a full bottle of iced tea and I decided I needed some. The pizza had been salty. Besides, the night had turned sticky and still and I felt that I could use something refreshing.

  Brenda appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “I’m almost done. I’ll be out of your way soon.”

  I shrugged. “Fine.” I’d learned to make my face impassive. She hated that.

  “Is there something you want to say?” she asked defensively.

  “No. What? I’m just standing here drinking iced tea. What do you want from me?”

  “See, this is it.” She gestured in my direction. “This is what I’m talking about. This is the problem.”

  “What?”

  “This shutting down and not talking to me.”

  “Oh, that’s the problem? Not the fact that you cheated on me. The fact that I don’t spew my feelings all over the place.”

  “Okay, I started seeing someone else—”

  “Cheated.”

  She paused, glaring at me, then sighed. “But you know that cheating is a symptom of other problems.”

  “Oh, spare me your psychobabble. It doesn’t change the fact that you fucked around on me.” I was tired of this. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. What’s done is done and it’s over. That’s it. So just finish what you were doing and drop it.”

  Brenda walked away without another word. Within half an hour, they were both gone. And so was any possibility of tranquility. I sat down with my recipes and lesson plan for the next day, but I couldn’t focus. Brenda always managed to rile me, but after six years together, it was hard to just let things go, even after all this time.

  I put the glass in the sink, threw some papers into my satchel, and went to bed. Not that I slept. Lying there, all I kept thinking about was my inability to make relationships work, no matter how much I wanted them to.

  My mind reeled back to my girlfriends before Brenda—Mindy, Trish before that, and Sylvia before that. None of them stuck around, and looking back, I knew that it had been because of me. Well, maybe not all me, but mostly me. The time I had to put in for my career and to make ends meet had just been too much for them. Although I didn’t think it was right for Brenda to cheat on me, I couldn’t help but feel that I had driven her to it.

  Whatever. Right now, I needed to get some sleep, so I closed my eyes. When I woke up a couple hours later, it was really hot, even though I had the A/C on. “Shit,” I muttered and threw the covers off me. Tossing and turning didn’t help, as it only made me hotter. My skin burned from my mounting frustration, except that I no longer knew who I was angry with, my exes or myself. All I’d done was work hard to achieve my goals—shouldn’t they have supported me? Shouldn’t they have been glad that I wasn’t some slacker, content to sit on the couch all the time and do nothing? I got up to adjust the air conditioner and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, that was really what they had wanted. Not completely perhaps, but to a certain degree. Somebody who didn’t work all hours of the day and night.

  Well, I had worked hard, and for that, I deserved better that being cheated on. Would there ever be any woman who would appreciate me for who I was?

  Behind my closed eyes, Julianna’s face appeared and I wondered what she would think of it. Would she have stuck around if I had been a relationship with her at the time?

  The air conditioning finally started cooling the room down. After a while, a chill crawled up my legs. I pulled the covers back over myself and curled up, thinking about Julianna’s shoulders and how nice they must feel under the sheets. Finally, something pleasant. Sweet sleep finally took me.

  Day 2

  I SURVEYED MY workstation to make sure everything was ready to go. My class started in fifteen minutes. Several full-time culinary students in the chef program hurried past my doorway, talking excitedly, and a few came into my room and retrieved extra pots and pans. Evidently, they were preparing for one of their presentation meals and needed more equipment than was available in their kitchen. They looked at me apologetically and I waved them on.

  I was still a little cranky and irritated from Brenda’s visit th
e evening before. I tried to study my recipes, but I was finding it difficult. The measurements floated on the page, and the ingredients that I’d become so familiar with suddenly seemed ludicrous. Rosewater? Really? Who the hell thought to make rosewater? I put the recipes aside for a while and focused on the spices, which were lined up along the front of the counter. In front of each jar was a tiny bowl containing a mound of that spice. My students would come to learn about the flavors of Moroccan cuisine and the spices that give it its unique flavor profile. I’d pass each around so that the students could smell, touch, and, if they wanted, taste.

  The sweet cinnamon and heady cardamom scented the air deliciously, and the bright hues of red, green, brown, and yellow were like vivid dreams of caravans and camels. It reminded me of the souks in Marrakech, where countless merchants peddled their wares. The spice dealers, in particular, were like drug pushers, enticing you to come closer and peek at the conical mounds of powders, pods, and threads, to inhale the earthy, musty, sweet, and pungent aromas, to breathe them in deeply until they seeped into your lungs, addicting you upon first contact. To indulge in their vices. Spice—the drug of the gourmand. Soon, I would draw others into my underworld of lurid spice sniffing and unseemly finger sifting and pod squeezing . . .

  I chuckled softly and willed myself to stop feasting on the colors in front of me and instead prep my other ingredients. I set basmati rice in a bowl and couscous in another, and cut my vegetables into uniform pieces. I was scooping up my onions and placing them in a bowl when Julianna walked in. She waved and smiled and I waved back, suddenly feeling foolish. Her dimples were really cute. I forced my attention back to my ingredients.

  “Hi,” she said. She placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “I’m really stoked about today’s class. I really want to learn to make Moroccan food.”