Never quite sure of the ratios for his rice cooker, Arman checked and re-checked his mother’s notes. Written in sloppy Farsi, he sometimes couldn’t make out whether that was a seh or neh. Seh makes sense, right? He went with it.
He hadn’t cooked in a few weeks, but on a certain Friday morning, with the luxury of putting work on the back burner, he found himself in the kitchen. His sister always scolded him. No tomato paste? No garlic? No chicken stock?! It’s not like he was a gourmand at home, so he never knew why she expected Wolfgang Puck to stylize his studio apartment’s kitchen. It was a thin spread, and he used Grubhub to order Taco Bell more time than his budget would recommend. Of course, his budget would also recommend putting more towards retirement, but with the market in the tank and the temperatures rising, he typically ordered a second crunchwrap supreme.
His mother hated that he only knew how to cook ramen and katsu. What about sabzi, what about geihmeh, what about fesenjun? Arman knew these dishes best by the blisters he cared for on his mother’s feet, the ones she earned after standing tending to a stew or sauce for 6 hours before their family came over. And he loved them: you would never know the bitterness could hide behind sweet pomegranate without trying his mother’s cooking. But working from home meant he home became work, and somehow the kitchen felt like another thing on the to do list.
Lithe and quiet, Mushu slalomed between his legs. A new addition to the apartment, Arman bought her on a whim from a friend who had kittens. He bent over, his knuckles grazed against Mushu’s brow, she lifted slightly to meet him. A moment later, she leapt onto the island, and watched Arman slice two green onions with frailty. It seemed that, if he went too fast, they unraveled like confetti.
A pan was warming on the stovetop, the small flame acting like a hearth against the winter. Dollop of canola oil, and then large egg. Its shell was dappled with freckles, blue and brown. Arman could not say what the benefit of fancy eggs were, or whether they tasted better, but the moment he gleaned while he suspended the egg above the edge of the pan was worth the price of admission. He stepped away as the fireworks went off in the pan, splashing against the backsplash. The egg developed a brittle, autumn bottom.
Click. The rice was done. Working quickly, he fluffed the rice and portioned himself, then flipped the pan to release the egg atop its new home, and placed it on the counter. Top with furikake and hoisin sauce. A hand prevented Mushu from testing for poison. She instead found a seat next to Arman. Steam slowly pooled in the air above the dish, and Arman took a breath. And then another breath, this time eyes closed. He saw numbers, descending in orderly, grid-like fashion. He re-opened is eyes and ate his breakfast. He was 20 minutes late for work that Friday.