This choice: getting a hobby? I'd be more than happy to teach you how to cook." • Go Back... Fukuda faltered a bit as soon as the words left Dr. Schwartz's lips. The two of them, have lunch with one another? It had been so long since Fukuda had ever ventured outside of her office during the lunch hour that she allocated every day, and it had been who knew how much longer since someone had actually asked her to eat lunch with them.
Dumbfounded, the vice administrator could only blink in response.
"You don't have to say yes, you know." Dr. Schwartz laughed, "It was merely a suggestion."
"No, no..." Dr. Hinamizawa gripped the armrests of Schwartz's oversized seat and pushed herself to a standing position, "I will see you... after classes, then."
***
Later that evening, Dr. Schwartz's trusty cart puttered up to Fukuda's cabin. She was precisely on time, perhaps even a little early if the microwave timer was to be believed; a trait that Dr. Hinamizawa had always appreciated in her coworkers and personal company. Tonight, they would overlap, as Dr. Schwartz... Helen... attempted to help her break through the rut that she had driven herself into. If she was going to learn how to cook, it might as well be on her time.
Dr. Schwartz was a bit more experience in these matters. Like Fukuda she knew far too much about what went into the food to trust anything served at Buttercombe or any Yeng Facility, but unlike Fukuda she could not afford to eat out as often and as extravagantly as Fukuda.
Today she arrived with some garlic, some sausage, a few pieces of flank steak, and an onion, and she hoped Fukuda would have anything else she needed.
***
“Is something wrong with it?” Fukuda simply asked
“It’s one of Evie’s.” The plump little doctor opened up the bottle and took a sniff.
“Addictive?” Fukuda asked with trepidation, not having really expected an answer to that question.
Helen shrugged. “A bit. But more importantly, fake. It’s not fermented, it’s adulterated.”
“Does that matter?” Fukuda said, curious what Helen was getting at.
“Well of course it matters. It tastes different. Stay here, I’ll be back with the real thing.”
Fukuda was uncertain what to do while she waited, looking at the steak awaiting marination. She reached for the bottle, and prepared to just do it herself. After all, what difference did it make? When Helen came back in proudly holding a large bottle wrapped in simple white paper, with Kanji markings on it. Fukada inspected it carefully. Kishibori Soyu, it was a kind of soy sauce fermented with toasted wheat. The level of craftsmanship in the bottle alone convinced Fukuda this was soy sauce made as it had been in Japan for centuries.
“Where did you find this?” Fukuda marveled.
“Shopping online.” Helen smiled.
“I didn’t realize you had such an appreciation of Japanese Cuisine.” Fukuda said appreciatively.
“I don’t.” Helen said bluntly. Fukuda turned away from her, and Helen realized that once again German directness had gotten her in trouble with Japanese subtlety. “I mean, I would like to have such an appreciation” she amended. “But I have rarely had a chance to try authentic Japanese food. I just sometimes use the sauce when I want something different.”
“Then why something sourced carefully?”
“Because anything worth doing is worth enjoying.”
***
“You cannot find joy at Buttercombe because you draw most of your happiness from the pride you take in ignoring or suppressing your needs. You’ve grown tired of that, but you’re still...blocked up. Unable to open yourself to new joys.”
“I see. There may be some truth there but...how can one draw happiness from suppressing their needs? That seems like a very rare problem.”
“Oh, it’s very common. We have a term for it.”
“And what is that?”
“The technical term is anal retentive.”
***
Fukuda sat in her chair, hands gripping the rests, her back straight as a rod. Helen and food in the same room set her on edge. Helen either didn’t notice, or chose not to acknowledge her fear as she sat cutting up the sausage into bite sized pieces, then the apple, then the cheese, and finally the fresh black rye bread. She stuck the fork through a single piece of sausage, and held it in front of Fukuda’s mouth, like playing airplane with a toddler.
The toddler was fussy. Fukuda pulled her head back. “This is one of your plots. You’re trying to make me fat.”
Helen chuckled. “No, I’m not. If I was, you wouldn’t know it." Helen could see her dark humor didn't put her boss at ease, so she quickly shifted to a different tact. "I’m your friend, and your therapist. This is not an exercise in eating more, it is an exercise in mindfulness. A joie de vivre doesn’t make one fat, and a philistine relationship with food doesn’t make one skinny...otherwise our customers would be.” Helen joked.
Fukuda closed her eyes, tightly, and bit the bullet. Or sausage, as it were. She chewed it hard and quickly. This was how Fukuda took most of her meals. She ate as quickly as etiquette would allow, so she could finish her meal and move on to more important things.
“Good.” Helen encouraged “Chew slower. How does it taste.”
“It tastes fine, I suppose.” Fukuda said, sounding distracted.
“No, no.” Helen shook her head. “How does it taste. What does it taste like, describe it for me.”
Fukuda swallowed the last of it. “It tastes like sausage.”
“Describe it to me. In as much detail as possible. What tastes are there.” Helen said, holding out another piece playfully.
Fukuda gave the piece of meat a hard look before she decided to continue. “Fat.”
“Good.” Helen nodded, encouraging her to keep going.
“Pork fat. It dribbles down my throat, in a way that’s not unpleasant.” She slowed her chewing to think about the question. “But there’s also spices.”
“Can you make them out?” Helen asked. Fukuda was starting to enjoy this. It had becoming challenging.
“Hmmm, I’m not very good at spices. I don’t know anything about cooking.”
“It’s okay to guess. Or describe them.” Helen said, guiding her along the baby steps of this challenge.
“Well...there is Pepper, I think. It has a little heat. There, there is definitely Ginger in this. I can tell because it’s not used in as many western dishes, and it’s a familiar taste.” Her caution gave way to optimism and excitement, it was like a floodgate was opening. “The other spices are very earthy. I cannot name them but they taste...green. They make me think of walking through a forest.” She was getting a little flush in the face like this.
“Very good, Fukuda.” Helen said with a smile. She reached out and touched the other woman’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. Fukuda very rarely was touched like that, but the doctor had a talent for making it feel intimate, establishing an immediate connection of trust through touch and sincerity. “How are you liking the sausage now?”
“Much better, thank you, Doctor.” Fukuda said, relieved. She felt the burden of her Man-neri lifted.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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