51.

The Second Mouthful

Eydin, Year 200 AGH

The third dish would fit if Colet moved his own bowl.

He moved it. Then he considered where he would put his supper. There was room a little to the left, provided he kept his elbow in, and the two white dishes of barley broth now stood with the pepper paste between them. He had taken both portions of broth from the same pan. The one nearest his place would come last. There was enough in it for another comparison afterward, when they had tried the fruit.

He straightened its spoon.

The paste was still warm. A little fat shone around its red-orange edges, and when he leaned over it the smell came up bright and almost floral. He had eaten some on bread while preparing it. Afterward, a spoonful of barley had tasted as if something in the grain had been toasted, though the barley had never gone near the frying pan. He wanted to do it again. He wanted to watch someone else discover it.

On the worktop lay the bread he had used, torn into pieces before crisping. He took one of the small dark corners, dipped it in a smear of paste left in the pan and ate it standing up. The edge broke against his teeth. He brushed crumbs from his fingers over the plate, then heard the knock.

Nessa was on the step with one hand already lifted to knock again. His daughter had come from her own place a few streets away. She was twenty-seven now, a tall tabaxi woman whose cream muzzle he could see above the folded scarf at her throat. Beside her stood a woman with short dark-blonde hair pushed up at the front and a wide face, full at the cheeks.

“Dad, this is Maren.”

“Come in. Both of you.”

He drew the door back far enough for them to pass together. Maren smiled at him.

“Thank you for having me.”

“I'm glad you could come.” He took the scarf Nessa handed him and found himself with it stretched between his hands. “There are hooks. Just here.”

Nessa put her coat on one. Maren chose the next, and he hung the scarf over his daughter's coat before she could ask him what he was doing with it.

Maren Delt was twenty-nine and, like him, human. He knew that, and that she and Nessa were together, and a few things Nessa had said which he was now trying to remember as if there might be a useful question among them. He had not expected to need help finding something to say in his own kitchen. At fifty-two, he would have liked to meet his daughter's partner without first becoming one of his daughter's stories.

“It smells good,” Maren said.

That was something he could answer.

“Second-bite pepper. Have you had it?”

“I don't think so.”

“You taste it, and then you taste something else. What happens afterward is the interesting part. Not that the pepper isn't good itself. I've got barley, and there's fruit if you'd like to try that with it.”

Nessa had gone to the shelf for the big serving bowl. She knew which stack it was in, though he had put two smaller bowls on top of it since her last visit. Her long tail curved clear of the chair as she reached.

“You can leave that,” he said. “I've put things out.”

She looked at the table, then at the pan warming on the stove.

“Where's the barley going?”

“We only need a little at first.”

“After that.”

He looked too. The three small dishes occupied the middle, with the fruit plate beside them and the water jug at the far end. The place he had cleared for his own bowl was no longer clear; he had put the bread knife there.

“I'll get it.”

Nessa stepped aside. He took the serving bowl from the shelf, filled it and set it near the stove with a plate over it. Then he moved the final white dish closer to his elbow and put the jug on the corner of the worktop. The larger bowl would fit now, when they wanted it.

“You can sit there, Maren.”

She had stopped beside the bread.

“Is this for the table?”

“Those are the pieces I was trying it on.” He picked up the plate. One strip was nearly black along its thinnest edge. He had meant to put the plate farther back before they arrived. “An experiment.”

“Could I have that one?”

He looked where she pointed.

“It's quite dark.”

“I like that edge.”

He held out the plate. She broke a corner from the strip and ate it. The sound of it was small and distinct in the kitchen.

“Oh, that's good.” She looked at what remained in her hand, then ate that too. “Have you fried it?”

“Just in a little fat. You have to watch the thin pieces.”

“Have you been practicing?” Nessa asked.

“I've been making supper.”

She smiled, looking at the three little dishes, but took the chair he had left for her. Maren brushed a crumb from her lip with her thumb.

“Shall we try it while it's warm?” she said.

“Yes. That's best.”

He put the bread near the stove and sat down. Nessa shifted her chair slightly to give him room to reach past her. His curls had worked loose from their tie; he gathered them back with one hand before taking up the spoon. There was a little paste on the back of his other hand, bright against his deep-brown skin. He wiped it off with the cloth at his place.

“The broth first.”

He gave them each a small serving from the first white dish, then took some himself. Nessa brought her bowl close and tasted it. Maren blew on her spoonful. He liked watching her settle into the chair, her shoulders coming down as she put the bowl where she wanted it.

The barley tasted as it should. He had left it enough time to soften without making the broth thick. A few grains stayed at the bottom of his spoon after he swallowed, and he tipped them into his mouth.

“Now a little of this.”

He passed the paste. Nessa took a dab on the tip of her spoon. Maren took about the same amount, looked at it and tasted. He followed them. Warmth spread along his tongue, then the faint bitterness he was waiting for.

“It's got a lovely smell,” Maren said.

“Yes. Now the broth again.”

He served from the second white dish. There was still plenty left; he set it carefully beside his own bowl. Nessa ate her spoonful, paused and took the next.

“Oh. That's different.”

Colet looked up at once.

“What do you get?”

“Like the bit that catches at the bottom. When it's good, I mean. Before it burns.”

“Toasty,” he said.

“Yes.”

He tasted his. There it was again, fuller than the first mouthful, the warm note spreading through the barley. He had wanted someone to notice that. He looked toward Maren, who was still holding her spoon over the bowl.

“The pepper stays,” she said. “I can taste that all the way through. And the broth's a little rounder, perhaps.”

“Not like the first one.”

“A little different. Mostly I can taste the pepper.”

“Try it once more. A smaller bit of paste, perhaps.”

He moved the dish toward her. She took a smaller dab, then waited while he gave her another spoonful of broth.

“You need to follow it fairly closely,” he said. “If you wait too long, there's less left to compare it with.”

She ate it. He stopped speaking so she could taste.

“It's still quite slight,” she said. “There's a warm, bitter bit at the back. The smell's stronger to me.”

He looked down at the paste. It had worked for Nessa, and for him. He could feel the last of it now, though he had not tasted another mouthful. Perhaps the fruit would make the difference clearer. He reached for its plate.

“This changes too. You can get quite a sharpness from it.”

“I like the sharp fruit anyway,” Maren said.

“Yes, but try a piece first, before the paste.”

She took one. It was soft enough that she used her spoon to lift it from the little pool of syrup. Nessa leaned forward to take some too, and Colet held the plate for her.

“This is the same sort you had last time,” he told his daughter.

“I remember.”

“I cut it smaller.”

“I can see.”

Maren was chewing. He waited with the paste ready, then set it down because she had not finished. The fruit took longer than broth. It needed a little time before the next taste as well, or everything would arrive together.

“There's no hurry,” he said.

Nessa got up and went to the covered serving bowl. She lifted the plate, breathed over the steam and put a spoonful of plain barley into her own bowl.

“Nessa. If you have that now, you won't have the same taste left for the fruit.”

“I want some barley.”

“There's plenty. I meant, just while we're doing this.”

She looked at him with the spoon still in her hand. Maren glanced from her to the small dish he was holding, and he wished Nessa had waited. There was no need to begin ordinary supper on Maren's behalf before they had tried the thing he had made for them.

Nessa set her spoon down beside her bowl and sat. She left the barley where she could reach it.

Maren took a little paste and followed it with fruit. A soft piece slipped sideways on her spoon; she steadied it against the plate before bringing it to her mouth.

“I get the bitter taste coming through it,” she said. “And it's sharper at the end. It was sharp before too.”

“Less fruit might do it.”

“Colet, I like it already.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

He was. She had eaten what he had offered, and she could describe it precisely. He had not yet found the comparison that made her stop as Nessa had stopped over the barley.

He took another piece of fruit himself. Its sweetness came first, then a tartness that made the sides of his mouth draw in. With the pepper still there, it was almost too much. He would have preferred the barley. But the fruit was useful because the difference was so clear.

“Could I have some more of that bread?” Maren asked.

“Of course.” He pushed back his chair. “That might help. Something plain between them.”

The plate beside the stove had kept a little warmth. He chose a piece with a broad middle and only one dark edge and brought it to her. She looked past his hand.

“There was a thinner one.”

“This one's less cooked.”

“I liked the thin one.”

He went back and fetched it. The piece she wanted broke as he lifted it, leaving a little point on the plate. He brought both parts on a plate.

“Thank you,” she said, and drew the paste toward her.

She spread some on the broad end, then added a small piece of fruit. He remained standing beside the table. A drop of syrup slid into one of the holes in the bread.

“You can try it without anything first,” he said.

“I did, by the stove.”

“Yes. You did.”

She bit through the crisp end. Some paste caught at the corner of her mouth; she wiped it away, smiling at the piece left in her hand.

“I like that.” She turned the plate toward him. “Try the edge with it.”

She broke a little from the unbitten end of her bread and put it on his plate. He added paste and a little fruit. There was not much room. He held it level, sat down and ate it before the fruit could slide off.

The bread broke well. Then the fruit filled his mouth, sweet and sharp against the warm bitterness, with a soft wetness where he had wanted the crisp part to remain. He finished chewing.

“It's the fruit,” he said.

Maren looked at him.

“Too much of it with the paste. For me, I mean.”

“I like that part.” She picked up another small piece with her spoon. “Especially with the dark edge.”

She was already putting it on the remaining bread. Colet looked at the broken point on the plate. It was bare and quite brown on one side.

He put paste on it and ate it without fruit.

That was better. He could taste the bread through it. There was a little salt on the surface, and the crispness lasted while he chewed. He reached for his bowl, found it empty and looked toward the stove.

Nessa was already up. She carried the serving bowl to the space he had cleared, took off its cover and laid the plate aside.

“Pass yours,” she said.

He gave her his bowl. She filled it, handed it back, then filled her own. Maren moved the fruit plate to let the serving bowl settle properly between them.

The broth was hot enough that Colet waited with the first spoonful near his mouth. He could smell it beneath the pepper. When he tasted, the grain seemed to open into that rounder flavor again, something brown and warm which had not been there in the first plain spoonful.

He took another. Nessa was eating beside him.

“Still want yours plain?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He put the paste where Maren could reach it instead. She thanked him and broke her last piece of bread in two.

For a while they ate. The chair was more comfortable now that Colet had moved the small white dish farther from his elbow. He could set his forearm on the table. His supper bowl warmed the base of his thumb where he held it, and he found he was hungry enough to mind the little wait between one spoonful and the next.

“There's more bread,” he said.

Maren looked up.

“Of the crisp kind?”

“Quite a bit.”

He fetched the whole plate. There were more pieces underneath than he had remembered, overlapped during the rehearsal so the soft middles would not lie flat against the warm plate. He tipped them into a looser heap and brought it between the barley and the paste.

“You really did practice,” Nessa said.

“I told you I was making supper.”

She took a piece. He chose one beside it, a narrow strip with a fat brown end, and broke part of it into his barley. The fragments floated. He pushed one beneath the surface with his spoon, then ate a piece which was still dry on top. It gave way differently from the grain, and left a sharp little corner to find with his tongue.

He broke off more.

“Over your bowl, Dad.”

“I am.”

Nessa pointed at a crumb beside her spoon. He picked it up and ate it. She moved her bowl a little nearer herself.

Maren had found a dark corner that Colet had nearly thrown away. She put paste on it, leaving the tip bare, and ate from the bare end first. He watched her take the second bite.

“That one's almost burned.”

“This bit is. The rest isn't.” She showed him the cross-section left in her hand. “I like having both.”

He took another piece from beneath the heap. It was wider, with a pale strip in the middle. He held it up to the light from the lamp, then broke it across that strip and tried the browned part with paste.

“This is the one I'd have,” he said.

“Then have it,” Nessa said.

He did. She helped herself to more plain barley.

Maren asked whether he had torn the bread before cooking it. He explained that he had, because the torn surfaces took up more fat than a clean slice. She turned her next piece over to look. Nessa used the serving spoon to gather the grains which had settled at the bottom of the larger bowl, and gave herself some with the broth.

“Dad used to trim bread into squares when people came,” she said. “All the pieces had to be the same shape.”

Colet put down the paste knife.

“They didn't have to be.”

“They were.”

“It was a small plate.”

Maren looked at the heap of ragged pieces between them.

“What happened to the corners?”

“He ate them. A whole loaf's worth of corners, before anyone sat down.”

“Two slices,” Colet said, through the bread he was eating.

Nessa looked at his mouth. He held up two fingers.

“Two,” he repeated after swallowing. “You make it sound as if I stood there eating half the supper.”

“I remember a great many corners.”

“You were looking at them.”

“So were you.”

Maren laughed, leaning back a little from the table. Colet felt himself smile. He took a larger piece and put it on Nessa's plate, where it covered a smear of fruit syrup she had been avoiding.

“There. Entirely untrimmed.”

She lifted it by its edge.

“Thank you.”

“You can have the corner,” he said to Maren, finding the small point which had broken away beneath it.

She held out her plate for it. He gave it to her and went back to his barley.

His bowl was nearly empty. There was broth in the small white dish beside him, and he used its spoon to put some over the last grains. He had a piece of peppered bread ready. He ate that, then the barley, and scraped the side of his bowl with the back of his spoon to collect a softened crumb.

“Have you got enough?” he asked Nessa.

She nodded toward the larger serving bowl. “I'm having more.”

She took it without getting up. Maren reached for the first small dish, which still held a few spoonfuls of plain broth, and tipped those into her own bowl. The paste had been spread around its dish in broad marks. Colet turned it so he could reach the thicker part at the far side.

“I can smell it better now I'm not waiting for the barley to do something,” Maren said.

He looked at her.

“The pepper?”

“Yes. Though I still don't get much of that toasted taste.” She drew the fruit plate nearer. “I'd have some more of this.”

He passed it. He took the piece of bread with the pale middle and put a little paste just along its edge.

The small white dish was close to his hand. He lifted it and drank the last broth from its rim, then used his spoon for the grains at the bottom. One grain clung stubbornly in the curve. He loosened it with a drop from the jug and ate it with the water.

Nessa was telling Maren where he kept the cloths. Maren had syrup on a finger and did not want to put it on the one she had been using for crumbs. Colet pointed to the shelf as Nessa spoke, then reached for the fruit himself.

“If you wanted to try it once more with the other broth...”

He looked at the dish by his hand.

It was empty. So was the first one. Maren had put her spoon across it, and the paste dish had only a red smear in the middle. He could see where he had dragged his own bread through that smear.

Nessa followed his glance.

“Do you want more?”

He looked toward the warm serving bowl. There was still barley in it. Then he looked at the bread in his hand.

“In a minute.”

He ate the edge before it softened.

Maren brought a clean small plate between them. She put a crisp piece on one side and two pieces of fruit on the other, leaving a dry space between. There was enough paste on her knife for the bread. She spread it thinly and laid the knife down.

“This way it stays crisp,” she said.

Colet took the offered piece. It broke cleanly. He tasted the paste, then used his spoon for some fruit from beside it. The fruit came cool against the warmth left in his mouth. He chewed, reached for another corner from the heap and put it on the clear part of the plate.

Nessa held out her hand for the dish. He passed it to her with his mouth still full.