The Slice

Tonight’s dinner was served with a side sprinkle of tears. Agatha wasn’t normally the crying type, just like Vance wasn’t normally in town, sitting at her dining table as he was tonight. But Vance’s favorite dish called for a full pan of caramelized onions, which left Agatha chopping and crying over her cutting board earlier this evening. 

But that was all behind them now. Agatha set the serving dish down at the center of the round table. With no cover to protect the unpolished wooden surface from the sauce dripping down the sides of the shepherd’s pie, Agatha scrambled to wipe up the drops with napkins before they seeped deeper into her handmade table.

“I really should’ve polished this,” she said, laughing nervously. 

“It’ll be fine,” Vance said. He made no move to help. Instead, he reached for his fork and knife.

“Right. There we go.” Agatha set the soaked napkins aside, away from the two of them. Vance jabbed his fork into the dish, submerging it and scooping out a hefty portion. He balanced it on his fork until it safely splattered onto his plate. “Have as much as you want,” Agatha said. She held her breath as he took a large bite. Watching each of his slow chews, she chewed on her lower lip. He pushed the food around inside his mouth like a cow on the road chewing a mouthful of grass. 

Agatha leaned forward. “Well?” she said. “How is it?”

Vance licked his lips. “Not bad,” he said, “but there aren’t enough onions in here.” He craned his neck and stared down at the serving dish. “See?” He lifted the crust with his dull knife to reveal a thick layer of melted cheese.

“But the onions are right under the cheese,” Agatha protested. “I even doubled the onion part of the recipe.”

Vance shook his head. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to make this, Aggie.” He gestured toward the pie with his knife as he spoke. “It needs onions between each of the layers, or it’s all wrong.”

“’All wrong’!” Agatha huffed. “After I went through all this trouble--”  She stuck her own fork into the pie and scooped out a small portion. Without dropping it onto her plate first, she shoveled the half-slice into her mouth. The flavors across the pie’s layers mingled perfectly. The roasted chicken layer was nicely seasoned, and the creamed vegetable layer added the soft, pleasant textures of steamed carrot cubes and peas. Her homemade crust was a bit tough, but Agatha didn’t fuss over it because it was so thin. The taste of the melted cheese blend lingered on her tongue after the portion was gone. 

The onions were carefully caramelized, too. Agatha had a near-perfect technique for preparing the onions for Vance’s visits, a few times a year. She wasn’t a huge fan of them, but she didn’t hate them either. It was the process that she resented. She had to chop and slice and dice so many onions every time in hopes of satisfying Vance, and her eyes always stung and watered in the process. But she didn’t commit to buying goggles to prevent the tears either.

“See?” Vance said, leaning back in his chair. “Surely you get it now.” He was right about one thing: Agatha did get it. But what she understood now was not that the pie was all wrong; with any more onions, the pie would have been ruined--not for Vance, but for her. She thought back to her onion-chopping tears from earlier and instinctively wiped her nose with the back of her hand. 

“Not enough onions,” Agatha said, slowly nodding as she stared at the serving dish.

Vance’s eyes grew wide. “Yes!” He gestured excitedly at his plate, where scraps of each non-onion layer remained. “The onions are the best part of the pie, you know.” He pushed the rest of the portion around his plate with his fork. Agatha stared at him. “I’m so glad you get it, Aggie.” His metal fork sharply scraped the bottom of the plate. 

Using the same set of utensils, he reached for the serving dish again. Agatha pointedly raised the still-unused serving spatula from beside the dish and extended it to him. Vance froze. “What’s the matter?” he said. 

Agatha gestured toward his plate with her eyes. “You didn’t finish your slice,” she said.

Vance looked down at his plate before returning Agatha’s gaze. “Oh, you know me,” he said, waving his fork dismissively. “Can’t eat this pie without the onions.” He pointed down at the plate with his fork. “All out of onions in this slice already.”

Agatha nodded slowly as he reached for the serving dish with his used utensils again. She intercepted him with the spatula. “Use this,” she said. 

“But I need to really slice into the pie,” Vance protested, “since you barely put any onions this time.” 

Agatha gritted her teeth. “Did I?” She leaned closer to the dish and stared down at the stray onions that had spilled out of their layer onto the empty space where their slices once were. “Oh, you just missed some.” She waved her pointer finger in a circular gesture over the empty space. “See? There are some right there.”

Vance leaned forward and scoffed at the sight of the few onions at the bottom of the dish. “See what I mean? We wouldn’t have to fish for them at the bottom if there were enough.” But as he spoke, he did exactly that, still wielding the same fork. As Vance shoveled more pie onto his plate and scooped out the onion layer, Agatha set down the spatula. She watched him chomp down on the sweet onions until all that remained on his plate was the rest of his slice, again. 

“I thought you said shepherd’s pie was your favorite,” Agatha said. Vance was back to prodding and pushing the food around on his plate. 

Vance’s eyebrows twitched upward. “I did?” His gaze wandered. Looking back at Agatha, he said, “It isn’t, though.”

Agatha interlocked her fingers under the table. “Huh. You told me it was, a few years ago.”

Vance clicked his tongue. “I’ve got it,” he said, pointing a finger at her with the same hand that still held his fork. “It must’ve been when we went to that pie festival, that time they made the onions just right.” He nodded to himself. “That must’ve been the best shepherd’s pie I’ve ever had. How could I forget?” Agatha let out a deep breath through her nose as she dismissed the memory of that now-distant date. He was remembering it wrong anyway; it was a harvest festival, not a pie festival. Setting down his fork, Vance continued, “You know, you could be really good at cooking, Aggie. You just need to practice some more.”

“Sure,” Agatha said, ignoring the stinging sensation in her chest. She glanced down at his plate. “All done?”

“Yeah,” he said with an exaggerated burp. “Thanks for the meal.” He patted his flat stomach. Taking his pie-coated plate and stacking it on top of her own, Agatha guessed he was only skinny because he barely ate anything that wasn’t drowning in a bed of onions. 

That night, Agatha sent him away with a to-go plate that was heavy on the onions she had cried over time and time again, a lingering bittersweet flavor.