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Carter had grown accustomed to eggs so runny that the whites were still clear, and to toast so charred that it could crack a tooth. He had come to look forward to limp and blackened bacon, no longer repulsed by its fleshy squish or the acrid sting of carcinogens on his tongue. Too much salt to be saved, not enough seasoning to be palatable—he had learned to enjoy it all.
See, Flora was smart. She was in the top of her class at university and hand-selected to be Carter’s assistant from a pool of applicants so esteemed it could shock the president. And he respected her work ethic and sincerity. But she couldn’t cook to save her life.
Carter did not have the heart to tell her. How could he? After years of scarfing down every meal she prepared with a smile on his face, he could not betray her trust by revealing the truth now. Of course, there were times when he lamented that culinary skills were not measured as part of the application process, but he could have never justified that to his supervisor, nor did he have the foresight to do so. He could only pray that other sad sack professors would fare better than he had come time to select their field assistants.
Their work in Forget-Me-Not far exceeded their original mission, and perhaps a lesser assistant would have skedaddled at the closure of his assigned term. Not Flora. She was committed to working with Carter until every last patch of soil in the valley was dug, sifted, and cleared. It’s for this reason that Carter began to view Flora’s horrendous cooking as symbolic of her perseverance. Perhaps something more.
Others did not have quite the same perspective.
Marlin warned of salmonella, E. coli, and listeria. Griffin straight up laughed, a rumbling chuckle that Carter swiftly shushed, lest anyone hear.
“You can’t be serious!” Griffin croaked, double over and wiping a tear from his eye. “If you keep eating like that, you’ll die!”
“I haven’t yet!” Carter exclaimed, face heating up.
Crunching on a peanut with the side of his mouth, Marlin said, “I think ‘yet’ is the operative word. Here,” he continued, sliding the bowl of peanuts down the bar top, “you need sustenance to keep up your strength.”
Carter suddenly downed his shot of whiskey, which he had been previously nursing slowly before the conversation took a turn.
Griffin frowned in a show of mock-sympathy. “He’s drinking now. To cope.”
“You know, I don’t have to come here anymore,” Carter hissed, though he still took a handful of peanuts.
Marlin waited until Carter’s mouth was full before he teased, “the things we do for love.”
*
His words nagged at Carter that night. Well, one word.
How silly. You don’t have to love someone to eat their terrible cooking, you just have to be a halfway decent person who doesn’t take pleasure in the humiliation of others. Sure, the meatballs Flora cooked that night had a strange aftertaste, but the spaghetti was al-dente! A little too al-dente, but al-dente nevertheless!
Carter’s stomach churned as he laid awake, while Flora snoozed softly on the other side of the tent, blankets pulled up right to her chin.
*
In the morning, Flora made breakfast sausage and eggs over easy, which actually tasted good, with a sliced apple and honey on the side.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Carter said before sipping his coffee.
“I know apple is one of your favorites,” Flora replied, smiling sweetly.
He did not admit it was because it was impossible to screw up an apple—which comes out of the earth tasting delicious—but he appreciated that she cared enough to remember.
*
Lunch was campfire potatoes and fish that was so dry it could have been jerky. Carter still slathered them with butter and gobbled them down like he hadn’t eaten in days, chest warmed by the wide smile on Flora’s face.
After, he found himself rushing back to work, driven inexplicably by the fact that the sooner he finished, the sooner dinner would be ready.
*
When Carter next emerged from the dig site, he was met with the pleasant yet unfamiliar scent of soup bubbling away over the fire.
Flora was reading over one of Carter’s latest papers, as she often did while cooking dinner. Pen in hand, she made edits in lieu of working with him underground.
“Something smells delicious,” Carter announced, plopping down on the log beside her. He genuinely meant it, too.
“It’s tomato rice soup,” Flora said. “I picked it up earlier from Ruby.”
“Can’t wait!”
Truly, he couldn’t. Everything Ruby made was gold, so this was certainly a treat.
“I’m making cornbread, too. It’s almost done.”
“Even better!”
*
The cornbread tasted of neither. Carter had to drown it in the soup just to be able to swallow it. But he fished it out with his spoon and popped it into his mouth with a smile.
“How’s the cornbread?” Flora asked expectantly, leaning forward with her fingers steepled under her chin.
Without missing a beat, Carter replied, “I love it.”
The words surprised him as they emerged, but, in light of how many times he’d risked salmonella, E. coli, and listeria just to make her smile, he also supposed that he had never uttered any truer words.