The Last One(75)

It’s nice to feel this way—even over a potato—but it also makes me nervous. I’m like a turtle pushing her head into the light while predators still peck at her shell. It’s a stupid move, I’m putting myself in danger, and yet—I need to feel this. I need to know that I’m still capable of joy. I brush the halved potato with my hand, and I give in.

First I grin, then I whistle. It’s a nothing tune, full of halting trills and looping, lifting patterns. Not a song, an outpouring. I’m not musical; it’s the best I can do. I dice the potato, and another, and am about to toss them into the boiling water with the lentils when I think—No, home fries. I hurry back to the cooking-gear aisle and grab a frying pan. I dice an onion, mince four large garlic cloves, green sprouts and all. Digging my hand into an oven mitt, I hold the pan over the grill, heating a swirl of olive oil. Once it’s hot, I dump the potatoes, the onion, the garlic all inside the pan at once. The sizzle, the smell; I laugh. I sprinkle a hearty covering of black pepper and a few red pepper flakes, toss it all with a flick of my wrist, then cover the pan and leave the home fries to cook. I chop more onions and garlic, peel some ginger just to smell it, then into the lentil pot it all goes, followed by the canned carrots, beans, and peas once I drain them. The tomatoes I dump in juice and all. At least a tablespoon of dried thyme, more pepper, both red and black, then at first just a dash of rosemary, then another. And—why not?—a single broad bay leaf. I uncover the home fries, give them a stir with a plastic spatula.

Suddenly Brennan is at my side and I’m happy to see him. “That smells great,” he says.

“Why don’t you see if you can find some canned chicken to toss in?”

“On it!” He hurries off.

It’s dark in the store now. My cooking area is well lit from the fire, but only a hint of moon and starlight enters from the vents above. I have no concept of how much time has passed since we entered. It simultaneously feels like only a few minutes and many hours.

Brennan returns and dumps half a dozen cans of cooked chicken breast on the table. I peel off the tops of two and scoop the contents into the lentil stew, which is thick now, bubbling and topped with white foam. I give the lentils another few minutes to cook, then pour in half a bag of quinoa. “It’ll be ready in fifteen or twenty minutes,” I say.

“What about those?” Brennan asks, nodding toward the home fries. I give them a stir and poke one with a plastic fork.

“Almost done.” I leave the cover off so they can brown.

“I was thinking,” he says. “What if we collect all the kitchen towels and stuff, use them to pad the chairs for sleeping?”

An hour or two ago I probably would have dismissed the idea as unnecessary, but now it tickles me. I agree, and Brennan begins hefting armfuls of tiny towels over from their aisle. He tears off the packaging and dumps them onto a pair of beach lounge chairs.

“There might be beach towels somewhere,” I say. “We can look after we eat.”

He nods, then sits across from me. I scoop a hefty portion of potatoes onto a paper plate and hand it to him. Remarkably, he waits until I’ve served myself before eating. Then he’s like a vacuum, steadily inhaling. I hesitate, though, relishing the smell.

“How are they?” I ask.

His answer is mangled by his refusal to stop shoveling food into his mouth, but I think he says, “Awesome.”

I pierce a piece of potato and onion with my plastic fork. I lift the fork and take my first bite, allowing the food to sit between my tongue and the roof of my mouth for a moment. The give of the potato’s flesh, the resistance of its browned skin, the tang of lightly charred garlic, the sweetness of caramelized onion. I’ve tasted this same dish countless times since childhood, and yet I’ve never appreciated it like this. It’s ambrosial. All it needs is—I put down my fork. “One second,” I say, and I jog off into the darkened store. I can’t read the aisle signs, but spot an endcap with pancake mix and turn in. A moment later I have it, a small jug of “real Vermont maple syrup.” I haven’t put maple syrup on home fries since I was a kid; that was how my dad always made them, and as an adult I decided to cut out that extra sweetness.

When I get back to the table, Brennan has finished his potatoes and is eyeing those left in the pan. “Go ahead,” I say as I crack open the maple syrup’s cap. Just a drizzle, that’s all I want. The thinnest dribble atop my portion, maybe a teaspoon’s worth. I clunk the bottle onto the table and stir my potatoes with my fork. The next bite I take is pure comfort, a composite of every positive moment of my childhood. My parents are reservoirs of love, my life is made of toys, sunshine, and maple. It’s a sensation of memory rather than memory itself. I know my childhood was never that easy, but for a moment I allow myself to feel like it was.

Brennan is refilling his plate. I reach over and drizzle syrup over his portion too. He looks at me, surprised—about my sharing or the syrup itself, I don’t know. “Trust me,” I say, and then I think: hot chocolate. I want hot chocolate next. I stand, glancing at the lentil stew and giving it a stir. The quinoa hasn’t popped yet. I head back to the aisles and return with a box of Swiss Miss, a teakettle, and another gallon jug of water. I tear the packaging off the kettle, fill it, and set it on the grill. I forgot to get cups, though. I turn back toward the aisles.