Page 40 of The Cerulean Sister
"Well, I am no cook, but overseasoned is my specialty, hides the mistakes." He laughs.
"No, no, it’s very good." I smile.
"Come, I want to show you something." He gestures with the returned spoon for me to follow him.
For some brief but odd reason, I hesitate. It doesn't feel strange to be alone with 99's father. It's just, I didn't think I would be spending any time with him without the filter of 99’s thoughts deciphering some of Allister's word choices.
The kitchen is a lot like the rest of the house, a little messier with pots and cut-up, discarded vegetable pieces. Allister stirs the large pots of steamy broth, then places the spoon sloppily to the side.
I awkwardly stand next to a small, round table with rickety looking chairs surrounding it, watching him wipe his hands and hoping he is the one to break the silence.
He turns to me, leaning his back against the countertop. "I thought about what you said."
"What did I say?" I do my best to not sound defensive.
"About handwritten books. I searched the whole house for one, and none of mine or the old children's books were anythingbut printed copies. But!" He pushes off the countertop and pulls a bound-looking parcel out of a high cupboard. "Then I remembered this."
He hands me a suede book with long cording that wraps multiple times around the middle to keep everything together. When he nods encouragingly, I start to unwrap the tie.
"My wife had many recipe books, but she journaled her favorites and added her own flare to them."
It takes me a minute to realize what he said as I stare at the beautiful, scrolling penmanship of a recipe on the first page. There are some words underlined and circled, and in the margins are tiny doodles from a child.
When I look up at him, he is smiling. I run my finger down the margin carefully, a little astonished at what he is sharing with me.
"This is . . . It's beautiful."
He hums affectionately as I turn the page to another lovingly written recipe with flowers drawn on the border.
"The stew I made tonight is . . ." He flips a few pages while I hold the journal steady. "Here. I've made it so many times, I haven't looked at the recipe in years."
I scan the page and can't help but notice the wordspinch of saltis underlined twice aggressively, like she was reminding him, like he had made it for her in the past and she found it too salty then. And now that he isn't looking at her careful instructions, he has fallen back to salting it to his own specifications.
My heart feels tight at that thought. I'm in absolute awe of him showing me such an intimate manifestation of his memories. It's inspiring how willing this man is to trust and even accept me and my way of thinking enough that he thought long and hard of what I said in contradiction to his original opinion. Enough that he needed to understand by trying to findhandwritten books, and when he couldn't, he found his wife's journal of their family recipes to help guide the understanding.
He flips to another page, and I see a doodle that's clearly done by a child in a bright green color. It's a messy looking depiction of a face with a downturned mouth and an arrow to the nameOliverlike a proud signature of who adorned the page.
"Oh yes, my youngest did not like this one." He laughs, and I can't help but join him. "I think one of the pages is even ripped out. My sons did not like the vegetable-based recipes!"
I smother another laugh, thinking of tiny 99 and Oliver tearing pages of their poor mother’s journal so she couldn't make a recipe. "Thank you for showing me this, Allister. I loved seeing it." Just as I close the pages, my eyes quickly scan over a drawing of a sky ship and I notice another messy signature beneath it. But the name is clearly different from the other, the penmanship crisper, more practiced.
And then I realize it might have been 99's birth-name. It was there, written in a time when it was still used and I just missed it. I could not make the letters out fully, but I have no intention of opening it again to satisfy my curiosity. He took vows to forsake his name when he became the 99th Commander. My curiosity of those vows drove me to research the details on my data pad some time ago. I won’t deny the thrill that ran through me reading about previous commanders of his status, who shared their birth-name with the person they chose to enter into a marriage union with. Opening the page and reading the name would feel like tarnishing that sacred tradition. I want to know . . . badly . . . but not like this.
Allister's grin reaches the crinkly lines around his eyes as he takes the journal back and gingerly wraps the long suede cord around it again. As he reaches to place the precious item back in the tall metal cupboard, he glances over his shoulder, eyes catching something behind me with a pleased expression.
"Ah, here is one of the little vandals now."
99 is standing in the threshold of the room, his helmet off and eyes watching me in an unreadable expression. I shift on my feet and smile, probing our tether to see what he is thinking, but he does not answer, just stares.
Allister's hand on my shoulder draws my attention back. "I'm going to take in the tea if you will help me."
"Oh, of course.” I take the little metal bowl of sugar that doesn't fit on his tray.
"Relax," Allister leans in to whisper to 99 as he passes him.
I follow after Allister, but 99 gently encircles my wrist with his bare hand for me to wait behind with him. When we are alone, his other hand slides up to my neck.
"Everything alright?" I ask, wondering why he stopped me.
