Page 46 of When Lemons Give You Life

“No, not like that. You’re fighting it. It’s a pumpkin, not a burglar.” I take the knife from his hand.

He steps back, sheepish.

I set the wedge on the board and press my palm flat against the back of the blade. “Watch. You don’t hack; you glide. Let the weight do the work.” The knife slices cleanly through the orange flesh with a satisfying thunk. I rotate the chunk, making clean, even cuts, each one exactly three fingers wide.

Scotty whistles. “Bloody hell. That was like butter.”

I hand him the knife. “Your turn. Relax your grip. Pretend it’s someone you love, but you’re still annoyed at them. And for god’s sake, keep your fingers curled in. You’re much more useful to me with ten.”

He grins, the blade now steady in his hand. He slices again, cleaner this time.

“You pick things up fast,” I say, watching him build momentum. There’s real instinct in it, the kind you can’t teach.

Nishan grunts beside us as he lobs the pumpkin onto a tray like he’s unloading bricks.

I slap a head of garlic down between them. “Roast these whole. Turns bitter into sweet. Like people, really—some just need heat to soften up,” I add, shooting a glance at Nishan.

Scotty chuckles under his breath.

We slide the trays into the oven, and I send Nishan to find the rest of the ingredients. Of course, all we’ve got is that powdered supermarket stock. Bloody disgrace. “We’ll use this for now,” I mutter, “but real kitchens make their own.”

When the pumpkin’s done, I make Scotty and Nishan taste it, a concept that seems totally foreign to them. No wonder the food has been so bad: we residents have been the guinea pigs.

“We’re not serving guesswork,” I say. “Taste, season, trust your tongue.” I hand Scotty the immersion blender. “Try not to redecorate the ceiling.”

He blends carefully and, to his credit, doesn’t screw it up. The soup thickens into something warm and luscious. He suggests a splash of cream; I grunt, which in my world is high praise.

We bowl it up. It smells like comfort.

I catch myself watching Scotty, how focused he is, how much he wants to be good. Not just at cooking—at being wanted, too. Nishan seems to have it in for him. The boy is a bit clumsy, but I see something in him. A younger, kinder version of myself, perhaps?

When the staff leave for lunch, I race back to the office.

Nishan mentioned something about a new weekend menu, which I’m guessing Martin hasn’t done. I grab a folder labeled Budget and Ordering from the shelf above the desk. My eyes flick to the budget section, and my stomach sinks. The criminals! I’m not expecting to be able to buy Wagyu steak, but this must be close to a prison budget: seven dollars per day, per resident.

I scan the monthly ordering list. Littered between pantry staples are atrocities such as Instant Mashed Potato, Bulk Gravy Powder, Artificial Honey, Essence of Chicken, Beef Booster and Packet Vanilla Cake Mix. I shake my head. Perhaps they are trying to knock people off, to increase their turnover? I paid for my place privately so know exactly how high the rates are. Where is our money going?

I grab a folder marked Fee Schedule. Residents are being charged sixty dollars a day for meals. Sixty. Only a fraction of it is being spent on food. The rest neatly siphoned into “administrative costs.” This isn’t a kitchen: it’s a profiteering racket.

To make a real change, I need more money and better ingredients. But it looks like the main head chef did the ordering for the whole week. Martin doesn’t have access. I rap my fingers on the binder. Back when I was a poor apprentice, I lived on zhuzhed-up ramen and fondant potatoes—anything I could make cheaply. A true chef can make something out of nothing.

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, my love,” says Beau.

I turn to see him leaning against the wall. I’m not sure if it’s a hallucination or a memory. Maybe both. Perhaps the stream of encouragement he gave me when he was alive was so great that it overflowed after his death and helps me even now.

I reread the list of available ingredients and get to work. It’s like a Mystery Box Challenge on MasterChef, in which contestants have to create a dish from pantry staples and one other item.

I listen to Martin’s message once more, my foot tapping the ground. The delete button beckons. Martin did say he hoped they found someone asap, and I’m more than qualified . . .

“Your message has been deleted,” says a robotic woman’s voice.

I make a quick call to Martin, and relief floods me as it goes to voicemail. “Hello, Martin, this is Allison’s assistant calling from Sunny Glen Aged Care Facility. Just wanted to let you know we’ve received your message. No need to put it in writing. Please don’t worry about the job, we understand and wish you and your mum the very best. You’ll be pleased to know we have found a very suitable replacement.”

29

Griff

I scrape the last of the velvety black-forest mousse I made from my bowl, cascading flavors of dark chocolate and cherry coating my palate. As I lick my lips, loud crying echoes down the hall. A gurney rolls to a halt in my doorway, while the orderly idles in conversation with the nurse. A petite, middle-aged woman clutches a red hanky, her sobs sharp and unfiltered. Oh no. It’s Walt’s daughter.