“…Because I’m scared.”
“What?”
“Of starting all over again.”
We’re silent for a moment.
“Uncle.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think I’ll be here when the cosmos bloom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I want to come up with a new way of cooking, from a peaceful and safe place, and not worry. Here, no matter what I make and eat I only feel sadness. I just want to be somewhere else.”
“Are you tired, or are you looking for something new?”
“Both.”
Uncle doesn’t tell me not to go or to have a good trip. He doesn’t ask when I’ll be back. As if he knows I’m blatantly lying. It’s not like that, Uncle. Why do people feel love and hate toward the most fundamental things? Why do I always feel sorrow even when I eat something delicious?
“I want to eat something made by your grandmother,” Uncle says, stretching.
“Me too.”
“You’ll make it for me when you come back, right?” Uncle turns his head to look into my eyes.
Of course. I nod. “Do you know what my favorite smell is?”
“What?”
“The smell of someone cooking for me.”
“Yeah, I think that’s the same for me, too.”
“Next time I think Mun-ju will be coming instead of me. That’s okay, right? And the salt you gave me, I think I’ll take it with me.”
“Okay.”
“But do you still need the washcloth?” I ask, narrowing my eyes mischievously.
“No, I’ll be leaving here soon.” Uncle gets up with me.
Farewells are always difficult. You can’t laugh and you can’t cry. It was the same way when Grandmother passed away. It was the same way when he left and when Paulie died. At the entrance to the hospital, Uncle kisses the top of my head. Then he says, Don’t forget that cooking is the one thing you can do with your two hands. That you can push yourself up from the ground with those hands.
As I walk away, I think of the question that Uncle asked himself that changed him and wonder what question I need to ask myself. If I couldn’t do it now, what would happen? If I didn’t leave now, what would happen? If I don’t talk about it now, what would happen?
These questions aren’t right for me at this moment. What I have to do now is what I already decided to do. There’s no reason to hesitate. You can’t understand everything about love or force someone to get it completely. I won’t ever be able to break free from this love, even if right now I think it’s what I need to do. If I were a fish I wouldn’t be able to think of myself as a separate being from water. Don’t hesitate, I encourage myself in a loud voice. I know that a train with flashing red lights is rushing toward me at full speed, sounding its horn. And that it will eventually overtake me.
CHAPTER 33
I TELL HER THE FABLE of the tettorwort—you put it by the head of a sick person. If he’s going to get better he’ll shed tears and if he’s going to die he’ll sing. And I put a bundle of tetterwort with orange blossoms by her head.
We have to wait and see, but I think it was the right choice to select B and D. For a while we trained our eyes on them, on the ones we hadn’t wanted to hire. Thankfully B had the qualities D lacked—the basic, simple techniques and practicality—and D had a more vivid imagination. They knew how to share their talents, owning them together. Even better was that they were both conscientious. Before, I used to think of cooks as being either technicians or artists. I might have categorized Chef as an artist, waiting for inspiration, wondering how his food will set off fireworks. And I’m awkwardly straddling the two.
As I watch B and D, I start to think that all cooks might be craftsmen. Mastering the techniques and pursuing new ideas and having pride in their expertise and being happy to satisfy customers. The important thing is not whether a cook is a technician or an artist but whether he leaves the kitchen or not. A great chef never leaves the kitchen. After Chef became owner, the time he spent in the kitchen remained the same even though it became more important to serve clients than to cook. Still, the cook I prefer is B. Although D isn’t too bad, he is a little cocky. B blends in. For a chaotic, narrow kitchen, the person who doesn’t stand out is the useful one, although perhaps not so much in other situations.
Over the last thirteen years, Chef saw that I had finally become a useful cook, although I didn’t stand out at first. And if he watches me a little carefully now, he must know what I want. I put on his desk the new, still unused kitchen towel I received that day in February when I came back to work and the white envelope I bought for the resignation letter I never wrote when I quit four years ago. Sometimes you need formality. Chef takes the envelope without saying a word. He’s standoffish, as if he knew this would happen, disappointing me a little. Like a monk, he doesn’t talk when he eats and doesn’t smile easily and is stern. He knows as soon as meat touches his lips whether it was aged for a day or a week, and he sometimes makes a plate of tortellini for staff who have fallen in love, and on his shoulder and the back of his hand he has a tattoo shaped like a hurricane like the Maori, and if he gets into a fight he wouldn’t be easily knocked down and would probably still be standing for the last round. Chef believes that you shouldn’t be surprised under any circumstance. The man who led me into the world of cooking—can he really see through me, like through water? Does he know what I’m thinking?
I pry open her mouth while she is unconscious from the clove and pull at her tongue. Muscular, covered in membrane, sprouting from under the roof of her mouth near the jawbone, the tongue feels slippery and solid. I stretch out the muscle used when sticking out the tongue, the one that attaches the tongue to the jaw. It’s not as long as I thought it would be. If I cut the muscle along the jawline and pull open the glands under the chin, then I think I can cut the base of the tongue.
To cook you have to understand the anatomy of your ingredients. Especially for a meat dish. When you kill an animal, it’s best to hit it over the head. Because that makes the meat more tender. History shows that food lovers did not stop at anything if it pertained to taste. They kicked a pregnant sow until she was dead so the milk would mix with the fetus, then cut out the fetus and put it on the table. They plucked the feathers of a goose and buttered it and, to make sure it didn’t die of thirst, gave it a platter of water as it was roasted alive. When the goose leapt about madly and started to stagger, they cut into it and ate it up before it was dead. To obtain the best beef they grabbed the scrotum of a young calf, stretched it out, and cut it off in one swipe. When they butchered the calf they sprinkled water on its head, then grabbed it and shook it. They even killed trout in a sealed glass bottle, watching the fish jump around, trying to live, shiver, and slowly die, its color losing luster, and they felt excitement before even tasting it. Back in the day people thought food that died violently enhanced the taste and was good for the health. Now it’s been proven that a painless, calm butchering technique is better for the taste.
Careful not to nudge her too hard, I cautiously move her body so she’s lying on her back with her arms by her sides. All pictures of human bodies in the book are in this position. The typical dissection pose. You can taste even if you don’t have a tongue or a frenum. People who were born without tongues or whose tongues were cut off can still taste because taste buds are dispersed throughout the insides of their cheeks. The painful thing about not having a tongue is not that you can’t taste anything but that it’s painful when you swallow. Especially extremely sour or bitter food, which causes unbearable pain. I place a few kernels of sea salt on her tongue and close her mouth.