Page 72 of Aftertaste

“No, Chef! Just trying to live up to your exacting dumpling standards.”

“How dare you? These arevarenyky.”

“Potato, po-tah-to.”

“Potato’s pierogies.” He shook his head. “Don’t make me demote you to dishwasher.”

THEY FILLED THEmeat ones first.

He placed ground beef and pork into a bowl, streamed salt through his fingers, cracks of fresh pepper, made a well for the onion with the back of a spoon. She stopped rolling dough to watch him chop it, his knife slicing so quickly through, down, across, over, tapping it into perfect, tiny cubes—tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—that she applauded when he was done.

“I’ve never been so moved by an allium. I could cry.”

“That’s the champagne talking.”

“No. Watching you in your element—it’s something else.”

SHE STARED AShe drained the ricotta, twisted the cheesecloth, and scooped fresh cheese into a bowl, a little salt, sugar, touch of honey.

“I’m sorry, so you just, like,madecheese? Like out of air?”

“No, like out of milk. You just need an acid to get it to curdle. No big deal.” He turned pink, pleased despite himself. “Ricotta’s pretty idiot-proof.”

“If I ever tried to make ricotta I would poison us both.”

HE DRAINED ANDsugared the frozen cherries, put them on the stove over medium heat until their juice warmed, thick syrup, sweet-tart and perfectly balanced.

“That smells like Heaven.”

“Taste it.” He fished a spoonful of soft, warm fruit from the saucepan and fed it to her.

“Marry me.”

“We gotta seal these first.”

HE SET Abowl of water on the table and showed Maura how to cup the dough in the palm of her hand, how to spoon the fillings in, less than you think you need. How to trace the edges with a wet fingertip to make them stick. How to fold one side into the other and pinch both tight, crimping the seal. Their fingers slipped together over the dough, water and flour like glue, goopy by the end. There were dozens ofvarenykywhen they finished, perfect little packages ready for a bath.

“Here,” Kostya said, replacing her champagne flute with a glass of Cabernet. “Have some wine, and I’ll boil these up. Should be ready to eat in ten.”

“Heard, Chef!”

“Remind me to stop teaching you kitchen talk.”

As if in agreement, the lights above them blinked.

“Was it something I said?” Maura laughed.

They stuttered out, casting the room in dark.

“Shit, not again!” Kostya fumbled in a drawer and found a match, a couple candles. “It’s been happening all week. The wiring’s like a million years old. Held together with paper clips and prayer. The breaker’s in the basement, lemme just—”

“Actually? It’s nice this way.” Maura took the candles from him, set them on the table, lit the wicks. “Leave them off.”

IT WAS SOMEof the best food he’d ever made.

And sharing it with Maura, along with tidbits from his dad, felt like he was passing on a legacy. The way she closed her eyes; the small, appreciative sounds she made; her smile,thatsmile; the way she wouldn’t let him take her plate until she’d savored every bite—it all made Kostya full in a way entirely divorced from food.

Maura inhaled the savory course, bathing the pelmeni in a spicy, creamy, soupy blend of mustard, vinegar, and sour cream.

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