Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(44)

He smiled. “We’ll have to hit the grocery store beforehand. My fridge is pretty empty unless you count the random condiments and bottles of iced tea.”

“You can’t cook?” I feigned shock by pressing a hand to my chest.

“Mac and cheese. Out of the box. And possibly ramen. Even then, it’s touch and go.”

“Let’s go get supplies then. Prepare to be dazzled.”

He smiled at me. “I already am.”



* * *





?After a trip to the nearest Asian supermarket, we headed for his condo. Daniel owned a two bedroom near Valencia Street in the Mission District close to his work. It was one of those narrow builds that had more levels than square footage. No wonder Daniel kept in great shape; he walked to work every day in addition to climbing stairs.

The clean and tidy spaces showed a minimalist aesthetic. Framed vintage sci-fi movie posters and the modern light fixtures added pockets of color. I lingered and studied the family pictures hanging against the wall by the staircases. The order of the shots was chronological, with the most recent ones taken at a family vacation in Hawaii. Daniel, his sister, her wife, their two kids, and his parents all sported sun-kissed smiles by the beach.

“I love that you’re close to your family.” I straightened one of the frames by tipping the bottom right corner down.

“I don’t know what I’d do without them. We all still take trips together every winter.” He set down a bag of groceries to point to a picture of his parents. “They’ve been married for thirty-three years. When my friends’ parents were divorcing, mine stayed united. I asked my dad about it, and he told me that it’s because he and Mom are a team. It explains why the childish tactic of asking the other one for a different answer never worked.”

“I wish my parents were like yours.” Envy coated my words the way powdered sugar clung to a beignet. “I loved my mother, but I never knew my father. He left us before I was born.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said.

“He made his choice. He’s out there in the world living his own life without a thought about what he left behind. I don’t know anything about him, not even his name, because Ma-ma never talked about him.”

“Your mother was a very strong woman. I wish I had had a chance to meet her.”

And with those words, the brief shadow of my father’s abandonment vanished in my mind. I smiled. “I think she would have liked you.”

“Maybe you’ll get to meet mine one day.”

The kitchen and dining area were on the second level. Daniel’s kitchen was empty of nutritional food, but like Celia’s cupboards, it was packed with snacks: roasted seaweed, potato chips, candy, cookies, chocolates, and sugared cereals.

I washed my hands at the sink. “Your nephews must love it when they come over.”

“Both my sister and mother are horrified at my diet. They’re very grateful I have a good income to make up for my deficiencies in the kitchen.”

He pointed me toward the cupboards that housed beautiful, pristine cookware: a set of pots, pans, even a roaster. I brought out a small pot and a wok. “These are aspirational, aren’t they?”

“My mother insisted.” Daniel leaned against the counter. “I may have used the skillet once or twice in my attempt to cook eggs.”

“Since you’re here, you might as well help me cook. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Like I had at Celia’s, I’d be cooking one of my own dishes, as the magical side effects were from Laolao’s recipes, not mine. At the supermarket, I decided to make classic comfort food: mapo tofu and fried eggplant with garlic sauce. The former was my idea and the latter Daniel’s request.

Daniel might not appreciate most of what his mother had bought him, but I was thankful for her generosity. The prospect of making a decent meal without proper tools and equipment was daunting.

After demonstrating how, I tasked him with chopping the eggplants. His dark brows furrowed as he approached the assignment with care. By the time he finished, I’d already started stir-frying the ground pork and chilies for the mapo tofu. We worked side by side, Daniel listening intently as I explained what I was doing. His thoughtful questions reflected his consumption of foodie documentaries, books, and articles.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the lack of measurements. It seems to be the common sign of a true chef.” He took out two large bowls and two plates from the upper cupboards. “My parents shared cooking duties. They made decent meals, but it was always from someone else’s recipes.”

I dipped a spoon into the spicy mapo tofu and blew across it to cool it down. “Here, taste.”

He hurried over to my side. “This is my favorite part.”

I slid the spoon through his parted lips. He let out a honeyed mmm.

“Good?”

“Not as good as the chef herself.”

Daniel slid his arms around my waist before lowering his head to kiss me.

The bite of the red chilies from the sauce lingered on his lips. He tasted like everything I always wanted and needed. While I drowned in his kisses, a glowing warmth radiated from our skin, sending tiny bursts outward like a Fourth of July sparkler.

If this was love, let me disintegrate into a thousand beams of light in the night sky.