Chapter 2: The Taste of Austerity<\/p>\n
Thursday morning dawned with the brutal reality of consequence.<\/p>\n
I was already dressed and answering emails when Daniel padded downstairs in his silk pajama pants, halting abruptly in front of the espresso machine.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are the beans?\u201d he called out, confusion lacing his morning gravel.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t look up from my screen. \u201cThose were part of the comfort.\u201d<\/p>\n
He opened the pantry cabinet, his eyes scanning the empty space where his artisan bags usually resided. \u201cWe have to have coffee, Esme.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pointed a perfectly manicured finger at a massive, plastic cylinder of generic, pre-ground coffee sitting on the counter. \u201cWe do.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stared at the red plastic lid as if I had just presented him with a jar of hazardous medical waste. \u201cWhat is that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is not the coffee we drink.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is starting today.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shot me a look of pure betrayal, scooped a tragic amount into the machine, and brewed a cup. He took one sip, his face contorting into a grimace of profound sorrow. \u201cThis tastes like\u2026 a neglected conference room.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cConference room coffee has successfully kept millions of corporate employees alive,\u201d I replied mildly, typing out a response to a frantic head chef. \u201cYou\u2019ll adapt.\u201d<\/p>\n
The deprivation escalated rapidly. On Friday afternoon, my phone buzzed on the conference table.<\/p>\n
Daniel: Did you cancel the cleaners?
\nMe: Yes.
\nDaniel: Why???
\nMe: Comfort.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t reply for twenty agonizing minutes. When he finally did, the panic was palpable through the text bubbles.
\nDaniel: So who\u2019s cleaning the house?
\nMe: We are. 50\/50.<\/p>\n
When I arrived home that evening, the scene was worthy of a renaissance painting. Daniel was standing frozen in the middle of the hallway corridor, holding the vacuum cleaner by its neck as though someone had handed him an unexploded mortar shell.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere do the brush attachments go?\u201d he asked, his voice tight with stress.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have lived in this house for four years, Daniel.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t vacuum!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am aware.\u201d<\/p>\n
Saturday morning delivered an even sharper sting. Daniel descended the staircase holding two wrinkled, tragically crumpled blue dress shirts. \u201cMy dry cleaning wasn\u2019t picked up on Thursday. I need these for a client meeting on Monday.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDry cleaning courier service was comfort,\u201d I reminded him, flipping a page in my financial magazine. \u201cThere is an ironing board in the utility room.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stared at me, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. \u201cDo we own an iron?\u201d<\/p>\n
That was the exact metric of how insulated he had been. But the minor inconveniences of household chores were merely the tremors before the earthquake. The true test of his new financial philosophy arrived at two o\u2019clock on Saturday afternoon, when my cell phone rang. The caller ID flashed: Patricia.<\/p>\n
\u201cEsme, darling!\u201d Patricia trilled. She only ever deployed \u2018darling\u2019 when she was about to demand culinary excellence. \u201cWhat magical tapestry are we weaving for lunch tomorrow?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said evenly.<\/p>\n
Silence. It wasn\u2019t her usual theatrical pause to build suspense. It was a deep, frightened, abyssal silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat on earth do you mean, you don\u2019t know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDaniel is handling lunch tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
Another silence, followed by a sharp, barking laugh. \u201cOh, darling, good one. Very droll.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am completely serious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDaniel?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy Daniel?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, Patricia. Your Daniel.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her voice dropped an octave, morphing into a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. \u201cHas something happened to you? Are you ill? Did your restaurant group lose its coastal seafood supplier? Is this about the hepatitis rumor at the downtown location?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere is no hepatitis rumor, Patricia. Daniel is simply cooking.\u201d<\/p>\n
She breathed heavily into the receiver. \u201cAll right. I just\u2026 wanted to make sure.\u201d A long pause stretched. \u201cShould I bring my own European butter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat might be wise.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sunday morning arrived with the grim inevitability of an execution. I awoke at eight to find Daniel standing in the center of the kitchen, clad in sweatpants, furiously scrolling through his phone.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom texted,\u201d he announced, his voice carrying a tremor.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe says she\u2019s \u2018palpitating with excitement\u2019 about lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe asked if we were doing a seafood narrative.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAlso lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n
Daniel turned to face me slowly, the phone drooping in his hand. \u201cEsme\u2026 what do you normally make?\u201d<\/p>\n
I poured myself a mug of the conference-room sludge. \u201cDepends.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDepends on what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat I purchase.\u201d<\/p>\n
He frowned, his brow furrowing in a desperate attempt to manifest culinary intuition. \u201cSo, what should I purchase?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFood, Daniel. Edible matter.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shadowed me around the island, his panic thickening the air. \u201cBut what does Mom like?\u201d<\/p>\n
I leaned against the counter, savoring the cheap coffee. \u201cShe is your mother.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know she\u2019s my mother! But you\u2019re the food person! You speak her language!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour mother,\u201d I said carefully, \u201clikes attention arranged on a porcelain plate.\u201d<\/p>\n
That diagnostic truth did absolutely nothing to soothe him. At nine-thirty, he sprinted to his SUV and drove to the supermarket.<\/p>\n
At ten-fifteen, my phone rang. \u201cWhy is wild-caught salmon twenty-two dollars a pound?\u201d he hissed from the aisles.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause it is salmon.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo we usually pay that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOften more.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about the frozen blocks in the freezer aisle?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBuy the frozen blocks, Daniel.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWill Mom know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe will absolutely know.\u201d I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing aloud. He had become completely infected by Patricia\u2019s neurotic pretension.<\/p>\n
At ten-forty, he called again, sounding breathless. \u201cThey don\u2019t have the little potatoes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat little potatoes?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe fancy ones! The ones that look like pebbles!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBuy normal potatoes, Daniel. Russets. Idahos.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut what makes a potato fancy?\u201d he pleaded.<\/p>\n
\u201cApparently, fear,\u201d I replied, and hung up.<\/p>\n
At eleven-twenty, he crashed through the front door, his arms overloaded with plastic grocery bags that rustled with the frantic energy of a man who had panic-bought half the store. I retreated to the living room, opening a novel, determined to remain an impartial observer.<\/p>\n
For the next hour, the kitchen sounded like an active war zone. Every few minutes brought a new auditory horror: the deafening clatter of a heavy pan hitting the tile, the violent slamming of cabinet doors, the aggressive whine of a blender, followed predictably by the shrill, piercing shriek of the smoke alarm.<\/p>\n
Through the chaos, I heard Daniel roar a profanity I hadn\u2019t heard him use since college.<\/p>\n
I took pity and strolled to the kitchen threshold. A fine mist of white flour coated the dark hardwood floors, the countertops, and the front of Daniel\u2019s shirt.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy is it snowing in here?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m making bread!\u201d he panted, aggressively kneading a sticky, gray mass on the cutting board.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have never baked bread in your life.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere is a first time for everything, Esme!\u201d he snapped, waving his arm. A heavy lump of wet dough clung tenaciously to his wrist hair.<\/p>\n
I nodded slowly, turned on my heel, and left him to his fate.<\/p>\n
At exactly noon, Patricia called. \u201cWe are departing the compound now,\u201d she announced, sounding uncharacteristically giddy.<\/p>\n
\u201cGreat.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, and I hope you don\u2019t mind,\u201d she added, her tone laced with venomous triumph, \u201cbut I happened to mention to Beverly Watkins that we were dining at your estate today.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sat up straight, my pulse quickening. \u201cWhy on earth would you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
Beverly Watkins was Patricia\u2019s neighbor and mortal adversary. They had been locked in a psychological Cold War for fifteen years, competing over trivialities no sane human noticed. They waged brutal campaigns over the circumference of Christmas wreaths, the vibrancy of front-yard hydrangeas, and the academic achievements of their respective grandchildren. Three years ago, Patricia had hired contractors to install a towering brick mailbox solely because Beverly\u2019s new wrought-iron mailbox possessed \u201ctoo much structural confidence.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBeverly has been absolutely insufferable lately,\u201d Patricia hissed. \u201cBragging incessantly about a Michelin-star tasting menu her daughter financed. I simply had to casually interject that I regularly enjoy private-chef-level gastronomy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou casually interjected that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. At my own home.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. Prepared by me.\u201d<\/p>\n
A fraught pause crackled over the line. \u201cI\u2026 may not have used those exact syllables.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat exact syllables did you use, Patricia?\u201d<\/p>\n
Another agonizing pause. \u201cI may have heavily implied that my daughter-in-law, the luxury dining executive, personally curates our Sunday experiences.\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes, massaging my temples. \u201cPatricia. She is going to be unbearable.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, is Beverly actually coming inside?\u201d I demanded.<\/p>\n
\u201cHeavens, no! I would never invite that viper into your sanctuary without prior authorization.\u201d She let out a haughty sniff. \u201cShe is merely chauffeuring us. Dropping us at the curb.\u201d<\/p>\n
Of course she was. Beverly wanted visual confirmation of the luxury she was missing.<\/p>\n
At twelve-thirty, Daniel stumbled into the living room, his forehead glistening with a thick layer of nervous sweat. \u201cDo we have fresh parsley?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have no idea.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMom requires parsley for the aesthetic!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I sincerely hope you purchased parsley.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowing as he detected my amusement. \u201cYou are enjoying this. Just a little bit.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n
At twelve-fifty, a sound erupted from the kitchen that chilled my blood.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo! No, no, no, no, NO!\u201d<\/p>\n
I abandoned my book and practically jogged into the kitchen. Daniel was backed against the island, clutching a wooden spatula like a broadsword. Sitting on the granite counter beside the stainless-steel sink were six massive, dark-green, entirely alive lobsters.<\/p>\n
I looked at him. I looked at the counter.<\/p>\n
One of the lobsters, seemingly annoyed by the ambient lighting, slowly raised a banded, crushing claw.<\/p>\n
What will he do now that his imported luxury has grown legs and an attitude?
\n<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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