Strange Ingredients

Luc gripped his paring knife as if it were the tiller of a storm-tossed boat. All around, members of the little Thursday night class worked in messy enthusiasm—laughter mingling with the rattle of colanders, the slap of wet herbs on wooden boards. Sunlight through leaded windows grazed the benches, turning the basil a shocking, almost theatrical green. Madame Blanche moved among them, radiating wild assurance, twirling wooden spoons with a conjurer’s gusto.

Luc normally would have ruled such a kitchen with silent precision, but here his gaze darted between chaos and order. Every bit of his body screamed to show these people—these hobbyists, these retirees, these schoolchildren and their sleepy-eyed parents—how it was done. Instead, he found his hand faltering at the most basic of tasks: peeling a carrot, measuring out pasty dollops of pistou, adjusting the heat beneath a battered saucepan.

He caught Pierre watching, kindness shining through a furrowed brow. “Try the garlic?” Pierre offered, pushing over a bulb. “Or do you prefer to lead?” He said it without malice, but it stung all the same.

Luc nodded, trying to mask a surge of embarrassment. He crushed the garlic with the blade flat and minced, realizing with a start that he was using too much force—the cloves splintered messily. He scraped them into the communal pot where Hugo, silent and intent, already hovered with a handful of green beans.

“May I?” Luc asked, reaching for the beans. Hugo blinked briefly, considering, then nodded, not meeting Luc’s eyes. The boy’s movements were methodical, delicate. He lined up each bean and snapped them precisely at the joint, arranging the pieces in little lines that pleased him for reasons Luc could not guess. Then a subtle movement: Hugo pressed each snapped end between his fingers, closing his eyes as if listening for some internal resonance. Luc regarded him, mystified.

Chopping onions pushed Luc nearly to the brink. Used to performing a brunoise so swift and neat guests gasped, tonight he could not trust himself—he could neither taste the seasoning nor know if the knife edge was right. He went through the motions, but the sound, that musical tap of blade on wood, was off. Even the scent—a chemical trickle that should have sung of sweetness and earth—washed past him, flat.

Across the table, a mother and daughter giggled over a misshapen mirepoix, while Pierre hummed a distant folk tune, oblivious to the commotion. Luc’s pulse thudded in his ears. He sensed, with sharper shame, how his hands moved more stiffly, more uncertainly, than the rest.

Blanche’s laughter chimed from the far end, where she was demonstrating how even a bruised tomato could be redeemed. She caught Luc’s eye. “Don’t fret about the shape, Monsieur Moreau. The heart of good food is in its purpose, not its perfection!”

Luc fought to maintain composure. The pot, once assembled, was set to a low flame. Amid the bustle, Hugo skittered nearby, tugging at Luc’s sleeve with a wooden spoon. The boy held out a handful of uncooked pasta shells—pale, spiraled, imperfect. He placed one in Luc’s palm, then demonstrated, rolling it between his palms, listening, then feeling its shape along the inside of his wrist. Hugo met Luc’s gaze, eyes bright, then mimed the act, inviting Luc to imitate.

Luc hesitated, self-conscious, but relented. The pasta was cool and grainy. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, rolling slowly—and to his shock, found he was paying attention to sensations he’d long ignored: the hardness giving way beneath pressure, the faint compacted ridges, the way heat from his skin softened the rough edges.

Madame Blanche wandered over, watching the pair with undisguised pleasure. “Hugo’s recipes are always a wonder,” she murmured. “He cooks with his hands—with what they tell him. Some of us use tongues, others use touch.”

Hugo looked up, expression unchanged. He moved to the pot, dropping in pasta shells one at a time, listening closely as they plopped into the broth. Luc realized with a startling twinge—the boy was timing each ingredient by sound, by rhythm, not by any sense of taste. He watched as Hugo poked the beans, nodded solemnly, then turned down the flame and gestured to Luc: it was time to serve.

Self-conscious, Luc ladled the soup into mismatched bowls. He carried them to the long table, where the community gathered—the retired seamstress with her embroidered apron, a university student with blue hair, the mother and daughter pair. Pierre poured wine. Conversation swelled as they tasted the collective creation. Luc allowed himself a spoonful—not expecting flavor, but seeking something else. The warmth of the broth, the soft give of bean, the pop of the pasta, the way the vegetables slid and settled in his mouth—these, he realized, could be noticed, could be catalogued, even if his former pleasures were lost.

Pierre leaned over, raising his glass. “To new ways. Eh, chef?”

Madame Blanche gave Luc a sly, approving nod. “Every kitchen has its own flavor,” she said, “and sometimes you find your sense in other senses.”

Conversation spun around him—stories told, laughter bubbling up at spilled soup and the clatter of crockery. Luc, accepting a slice of over-crusted bread from Hugo, felt some knot loosen. He was not confident, but for the first time in months, he was curious. After the meal, Luc washed dishes with Hugo, hands plunged into soapsuds, both silent. For a while, that was enough: the weight of the plates in his hands, the music of a child’s quiet hum, the sense that he might, through texture and temperature and touch, still make something that mattered.