French Toast

“Why do you cook?”

That question. Those four simple words, echoed so many times. By friends, by family, by strangers, and by myself. Although there’s no one else left to ask it now.

The answer is complicated, and yet simple in its complexity.

Why do I cook?

Because I want to. Because it brings me joy. Because it brings warmth to the artificial world that surrounds us. Because of the sights, the smells, the tastes, the feeling of creating something worthwhile.

Every day I wake up and look out at the barren landscape outside, devastated by the nuclear explosions foolishly launched by our forefathers so long ago. Every day I glance at the tiny chip beside my bed, and ask myself what if? I imagine living as merely a resident inside my brain, without awareness or pain, only happiness and comfort till death. And every day, every single goddamn day, I shake my head and turn away. (How many days has it been already?) What is happiness without the satisfaction of earning it? What is comfort without the balance of pain? What is life without fulfillment? 

99% of the human population is Chipped, including everyone in my life. I don’t blame them. Occasionally someone will emerge out of their virtual utopia to visit me, lavishing me with extravagant descriptions of beauty, happiness, and delicious food. The last time was 10 years ago. 

That doesn’t matter. I step outside my room slowly, joints aching, and grab the polished wooden cane resting lightly against the door frame. I ignore the steaming breakfast of bacon and eggs offered by a robotic arm. It won’t be wasted, merely deconstructed and reshelved in the storage room. Everything in this complex is maximum efficiency, designed to house the entire human race (or what was left of it) for at least a couple of centuries. But there’s no one left but me to use it now.

Traveling through the barren hallways, I finally reach the kitchen. It’s very large but dusty and desolate, having been replaced quickly by quicker, more precise machines. Ground spices, sugar, butter, eggs, milk, vanilla extract, and white bread are already sitting on the table, my having preordered the ingredients to this location the night before. And of course, they are already perfectly measured out in the amounts I need. There are some benefits to this whole dystopian robot affair.

I get out a small bowl and mix together the sugar and spices, then set that aside. Then, with great effort, I haul out a large skillet from a stainless steel cabinet and plop it onto the stove. I’m getting so old…

With the heat cranked to medium, I drop the butter into the pan and watch it sizzle, sliding around. After that, I whisk together the sugar-spice mixture, milk, vanilla, and eggs in another bowl, then pour it into a pasta bowl. In goes the bread, each slice meticulously dipped and then carefully placed in the butter. 

As I cook, familiar memories press against my mind. The warm, wrinkled hands of a loving grandmother, afternoon sunlight streaming into a cozy kitchen, soft patterned aprons, the gentle laughter of a child learning to do something he loves. 

I’m shocked back to the present by something wet sliding down my cheek. I can hear trembling sobs. Are they coming from me? I glance down to see my shaking hands. The smell of burning bread fills my nostrils. 

I squat, head over my hands, rattling weeps threatening to shatter my frail figure. An overwhelming sense of nostalgia sweeps over me, a longing for the past, a longing for my family and friends, a longing for the simple times of whipped cream on a sweet golden loaf and the pure, untainted laughter of a child.

I don’t know how much time passes. It could be a minute or it could be a century. But slowly, I stand back up again, the cold steel kitchen swallowing me. I remove the burnt bread, retrieve a new one, and dip it in the egg mixture, then fry it on the skillet. It’s perfect this time, the wonderful smell overtaking the bitter burning one. After placing the slice on a plate, I place an order for whipped cream, honey, and strawberries on my standard-issue tablet. My grandma’s favorite. My favorite.

After a couple of minutes, the steaming french toast has cooled down a bit and my order has arrived. I excitedly dollop a generous portion of whipped cream onto the bread, drizzling honey on top, and plop plump red strawberries into the fluffy white cloud. For a second, I feel like a kid again, forgetting about the coldness that surrounds me, hovering in my bones like an aching phantom. For a second, all I feel is warmth, sunlight, love. 

The honeyed cream smears on my face, strawberries bursting under my teeth, full of juice. I crunch into the sweet golden bread, savoring the taste of my childhood. I close my eyes.

When I open them again, the food is gone, the only remnants a couple of stray crumbs and my sticky hands. I feel something cold beneath me. Since when was I on the floor? I try to get up, my frail legs pushing, but this ancient body has finally failed me. My wizened hands grasp at the countertop, trying to haul myself up, but I slip.

Suddenly I’m floating. I look up and I’m in the kitchen again, my small hands kneading dough, the gentle presence of my family surrounding me. Sunshine beams in through the cozy little window, warming my nimble and energetic body. My grandmother wipes away a bit of flour smeared on my cheek, and I giggle. For the first time in a century, I feel true happiness again, not noticing the darkness closing in around me.

The last human being in a ruined world breathes his final breath, the scent of honey and laughter still lingering on his broken mind.