Chapter Text
The guy or the girl gets into an accident and the other only realizes their feelings for them only as they're already at risk of shuffling off the mortal coil, or some sort of crappiness ruins their day but brings them closer together, or they have some sort of big celebration like a festival, a concert, or a birthday party when they finally realize the other person means so much more to them than they realized.
Most famous love stories start with this, some sort of big bang.
Maybe the guy (or girl) was always there to open the door for the girl (or guy), walk them to class every morning, and walk them back home every end of the day. Maybe they were there for them when they were suffering a crappy day brought upon by some tiny thing that meant the world to them. Maybe one day, as they were hanging out and doing their usual thing, something clicked, and they finally realized, they wanted to do this with them for the rest of their lives.
Other famous love stories start with these little incidents that are mostly meaningful and interesting to the couple only, and remembered because of what it all added up to.
Mine was a combination of both: little incidents that gradually built up to a big bang.
I could pin-point the exact moment when it started: when my Abuela (“Grandmother') Diaz came to visit.
My family on my dad's side is not shy when it comes to our love of Mexican food. We love eating it, we love making it, and pretty much every Diaz has their own specialty—mine are my “Super Awesome Nachos,” which really are super awesome, if I do say so myself.
My abuela's specialty are her “Muy Bien Grande Tacos,” these monstrous tacos filled with pretty much every ingredient you usually put on a taco, only more so, and with a few secret ingredients. It was a beast to eat, it was messy, but it was delicious, some kind of tasty meaning to the madness that only my abuela could understand.
(And before you complain about the name, it was made by a non-Spanish speaking friend with the help of a second-rate English-Spanish dictionary, and my abuela kept the name for their sake.)
The rest of the family kept trying to make it themselves, but as a second inherited trait in our family, no one could ever recreate another member's specialties exactly as they did it, and the recipe died with them.
“It's called the Diaz Culinary Curse.” I told my friend Star after we ate the last of my abuela's tacos, and she had already left and couldn't make more.
“They could have written it down, they could get it published, they could have personally taught it step by painstaking step, but so long as it wasn't made by their hands, it just isn't the same.
“It's even worse if you're not a Diaz: at least most of our attempts come close, but not quite; other people's are really lacking at best, way off the mark, or even just something else entirely at worst.”
Most people would get discouraged at that, and just give up and resign themselves to enjoying as much of the dish as they could while the creator was still living.
Then again, most people were not Star, and if there was something she was, it was completely, absolutely determined and kind of stubborn.
“Well I'm going to try anyway!” Star said as she scooped up in her hands the last stray bits of meat, vegetables, and spices on her plate. “It's a crime that only two, maybe three generations get to enjoy tacos this good!” She punctuated her sentence by shoving all the crumbs and stray bits she'd gathered into her mouth, then moaning and shuddering in pleasure as she chewed.
Yes, it really was that good.
I shrugged and got up to put away both of our plates, both completely, absolutely spotless to the last taco shell crumb. “Suit yourself, Star, but don't say I didn't warn you if they don't come out exactly like grandma's!”
Star laughed. “That's okay, Marco, because I plan to make even better tacos than her! Maybe call them Star's 'Muy Muy Bien Grande Tacos!'”
I decided not to comment. I was sure that in the short term, Star would find some new obsession to occupy her time, and in the long term, the plan would fade away from memory like so many other of Star's well-meaning but misguided projects.
I was wrong.
The next little incident was a trip to Quest Buy. After deciphering where the Kitchen, Grocery, and Culinary Arts departments were, Star proceeded to get a cart and bought almost everything they had for sale.
It got so bad that I had to get my own cart and let Star fill it with even more stuff.
“Are you sure you're going to need this much stuff?” I said as I pushed. “You're just starting out cooking, I think what we have in the kitchen back home is going to work just fine!”
Star waved me off as she used her wand to summon more critters to fly out and grab things for her, seemingly normal pots and pans made with exotic materials and kitchen equipment that looked, well, out-of-this-world.
“Trust me, Marco, I've seen what we've got there, and it just isn't enough for the kinds of meals I'm going to be cooking!” She said as the critters kept on dumping things into our carts. “As a matter of fact, I don't even think the kitchen can take the level heat I'm planning on turning everything up to!”
I decided to take Star on that later, and wondered how refunds or returns at Quest Buy worked. How we managed to pay off all of those is a story all on its own, which I won't get to, because it isn't this one.
After we managed to get all of Star's purchases back to the house, she went and used her wand to transform part of her room into a full-blown professional multidimensional cooking kitchen for one. I can't even remember the words she used, because I was too busy not getting brained, bashed, or stabbed by the flying pots, pans, and utensils, a lot of them with more sharp points, edges, or really heavy parts than I remembered at Quest Buy.
Finally, it less than three minutes, Star's personal kitchen was stocked, equipped, and ready for action.
After I got over the initial shine and almost painful sparkling of it all, I couldn't help but ask, “Are you really going to use all of this?”
Star blew on her wand like it was a smoking gun and she was a cowgirl in the Wild West. “Yep! And if you'll excuse me, Marco, I've got to start breaking in my new kitchen, and finding my groove as a chef! Star's 'Muy Muy Bien Grande Tacos,' here I come!”
Star magicked a chef hat with devil horns on top of her head, I decided now was a good time to leave the room before she turned on anything that might use gas or have moving parts, or needed to find something she'd left in some sort of obscure drawer.
Boom!
An explosion rocked the house just as soon as I closed the door after me.
“I'm okay!” Star cried immediately after, which was good because she was okay, bad because the incident hadn't stopped her, as evidenced by...
Kaboom!
… The second explosion that happened not five seconds after the first.
“I'm still okay!”
I frowned, shook my head, and went back into the safety of my room, keeping my phone and all the emergency numbers on speed-dial just in case. Normally, this would have been where I'd stay just outside of Star's room with a fire extinguisher in hand, but I had this feeling, what was going on inside that kitchen was going to be more trouble than I could handle.
It really was. But not in the way I expected.