Simple Enough

The pan sizzles with an overwhelming smell of spices filling the air, flowing through the small kitchen and burning the old man’s nostrils in the process. He coughs, keeps his head turned as he tosses around the pan a bit too high in the air. A few pieces of burnt veggies fly onto the nearby cups and bowls in the dry rack with each toss, but the man hardly notices with the tears in his eyes.

It doesn’t take long for the pan to slip out of his hands completely, crashing down with a metallic clank, a variety of dark reds and greens covering the wooden counters with a splash of melted butter running down the window above the nearby sink.

“For gods’ sake!” Simon shouts, brushing bits of buttered spice off his woolen sweater as he turns off the stove and pushes the window open. The hot air moves outside, inviting more room for the incoming cold, salty air breezing in. The smell of the ocean lets itself known, and for only a moment the old man is distracted from the scene before him.

Oh how he hated the sea and that foul salted smell! It follows him everywhere, covering nearly every surface the second a window or door opens. A candle hardly keeps it away, or freshly picked flowers or a new shipment of books. If only the smell of books would fill his library instead of that awful sea smell!

Simon shakes his head. Now wasn’t the time for such nonsense, especially with this mess he made. And with time notably gaining on him by the minute.

He quickly picks up each sliced pepper, carrot, pea, tomato and wipes down every counter and wall while scanning through the old cookbook on the dinner table. It’s been passed down through a number of generations in his family, with recipes added throughout the years, some being from someone married into the family and others made out of the blue on a random Sunday. Old notes surrounded the instructions to all the dish, detailing suitable substitutes or simply complaining about the silly name given to a meal with no relation to it.

Since Simon was the only living member left in the family’s hometown, he was the one to look after it and keep the recipes alive. However, that was proving more than difficult tonight as he flipped through the crinkly pages. It seems living off the food from the local inn has worn down his cooking more than expected. Although, he has cooked a good number of times, not completely dependent on someone’s hands.

He leans into the cookbook, staring at the yellowed page with the words roughly carved in with black ink and a quill pen. A fine-looking dish, one of the simplest but finest in the cook, or so he thought it was simple. His most recent incident proves he hasn’t been as ‘adventurous’ as he should have cooking at home. The same three meals really didn’t help his case.

A long sigh leaves him with a deep frown. What was he going to do? Pick another to learn off the bat? At this time and hour? How would he finish it in time before it was too late? Can he even make toast at this point?

Simon let out another huff before realizing he started pacing around like some retired marine preparing a group of new sailors onto his ship. He was making a big mess over nothing.

He picks up the book, decades of edible history making his weary arms pop. After taking a quick sniff of the aged pages, greatly improving his mood from the lingering sea salt air, he looks on, eyeing anything else that seemed as impressive as it was easy to make. More notes scattered around the newer pages, but all of them had some child-like drawings at the bottom corners.

Finally Simon’s eyes set on one of the newer pages, with only a few scribbles on the sides and doodles drawn with crayons instead of pencils. The title, Simple Enough, catches his attention. Would it insulting if he tries to make something for someone with a title like that? Would it come off the wrong way? It isn’t like he would display the recipe itself, listing off how he crafted such a meal with the name ‘Simple Enough’. He can keep the book locked away if need be.

With a swift turn to the fridge and scan for the necessary ingredients, Simon sets to work. Potatoes, tomatoes, broccoli, cheese sit close to the heating pan as the old man cuts small slices of duck breast, a suitable substitute for chicken. He glances at the curvy lettering while cutting a bit of butter for the pan, but as he turns to put it in, he realizes a minute too late that the whole stick was in instead.

“Good—” He begins, but a sound outside his window steals the rest of his words. It’s subtle under the sound of butter melting away on a steaming pan, slowly being more noticeable with the solid crunch of gravel.

Simon steps closer to the window, and nearly jumps into the start of his next life when he sees the cause for the noise.

“Simon!” The figure below waves at him, an old lantern swinging in the other hand, illuminating the face of an old man with a childish smile. Dear gods, is it already time? Or is he early?

“I thought we agreed to seven o’clock!” Simon calls from atop the hill his house rests on. He can feel the frown across his face, but the man below does not notice, or is choosing to ignore it.

“I finished my chores early, so thought I’d start walkin’ here before ol’ mom caught me,” The old geezer chuckles, waving the lantern from his side. “My, what’s the smell up there? Are you tryin’ ta burn your house down to not see me?”

Simon scoffs. “That’s the smell of cooking! It’s perfectly natural when you don’t eat things raw.”

“Ha ha,” The man below mocks. “Can’t wait to see what this thing you call ‘cooking’ tastes like!”

Simon is about to reply, but briefly remembers that said ‘cooking’ is not even being made. As his dinner date takes his time heading to the front door, Simon scrambles to finish what he started.

The veggies are poorly chopped into bulky shapes before being thrown in the pan with a heavy sprinkle of cheese. The duck is cut down to mush, as Simon notes a bit too late that he’s using the wrong side of the knife. He considers finding a new substitute, but the sudden knock at the door jumps him into tossing all of it in with the rest of the disfigured contents.

“One minute!” Simon shouts, skimming the cookbook like his life depends on it. It doesn’t, for the sake of his dignity, it does.

“‘One minute’? I just spoke with you a minute ago!” The voice rings through the door but Simon keeps his focus on the burning veggies and duck to really notice.

A sprinkle of salt is thrown in as Simon tries to remember exactly what spice the book mentioned. Is it something like a leaf or handful of pebbles? He leaves the pan to analyze the loopy letters squished too close together, finger running along the page with puffs of smoke hitting the back of his head. He turns, expecting to find a pan full of charcoal in it, but is greeted with a fire half the size of a fat cat.

“Gah!” He can’t help but shout. There’s sounds coming from the front door, most likely from the man behind it, but Simon’s too occupied with putting out the fire to notice. He twists the stove off and nearly twists his own head off as he looks to each corner and flies to each cabinet, trying to find the pan’s top to trap the fire with.

The flames keep in the pan, more heat filling the room with the contents of said pan turning to nothing but black soot. Simon scrambles for something, anything that wouldn’t be a substitute for firewood to his ruin meal. Simple Enough. As if.

Simon nearly stops his hunt for a suitable cover and about to decide what piece of furniture he’d like to have in his next home, when a loud bang erupts from outside the kitchen. Incoming footsteps interrupt his thoughts, and there, now standing at the doorway, is his dinner date.

Arthur, though everyone called him Odd Joe for his outrageous stories, with tattered overalls and an equally tattered shirt covered by a long white beard, stares at the growing fire with only a bit of surprise.

Arthur walks towards it, an odd ease to his steps with a wooden cane tipping against the tiled floor. He moves past Simon, opening one of the cabinets next to him. He takes out a box of baking soda and, with as much grace as a fisherman tossing a fish back to the sea, dumps the whole box into the pan. The fire dies out almost immediately, leaving a mountain of baking soda with burnt veggies and duck under it.

“My,” Arthur says. “If I knew you were a minute from making a bonfire, I’d have climbed up the wall and through the window instead.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad.” Simon says. Hopefully his face wasn’t as red as he thought.

Arthur hummed, turning to see the cookbook had been knocked to the floor during Simon’s panic. “Y’know, for a librarian, you’re not that great at following recipes.”

“There’s a difference between taking care of a book and caring care of a fire.” He retorts.

“Usually you don’t have to take care of fire.” Arthur laughs while Simon snatches the cookbook, mostly from embarrassment but also the slight fear that Arthur might see the name of the meal that nearly renovated his whole kitchen into used firewood.

“I did try putting some effort into tonight,” Simon says, taking a step out of the kitchen and waving towards the small dining room. The table is covered with a deep velvet cloth, with shining silverware atop and a nice, simple rose in a blue glass vase. A truly romantic scene that even Arthur, an old fisherman who doesn’t hold much opinion towards anything fancy, let out a low whistle at the sight. All that was left was the food, which was causing Simon more trouble than appropriate. “Unlike that outfit you have on.”

“Ah, but I was at the port all day, teaching nearly every young man how to fish! When it all said and done, the Sun was starting to set.”

“Enough to where you couldn’t even change?”

“How could I make you wait any longer, Sammy? Besides, I got you something!” Arthur grins, the same grin he always pulls when he’s about to shock someone into silent. He holds out a lunch bag from his side, which Simon only notices until now. He brings it over to the sink and, with his grin being wider than ever, puts out an entire fish.

“Oh, Arthur!” Simon scoffs. Arthur laughs as he looks over the thing, pondering why the man would even bring such a thing in the first place. “This is supposed to be a romantic dinner! Fish isn’t romantic.”

“Well, this fish is gonna be the most romantic thing tonight! I caught it earlier and thought it’d be fun to make together.”

Well, that does sound romantic, Simon thinks, but it doesn’t stop him from crossing his arms. “I’m not the best at cooking,” He nodded to the remains of his last attempt still sitting on the stove. “You’d have to help. A lot.”

Arthur’s grin shifts into a smile. “I’ve had to teach boys how to catch a fish right when it jumped out of the water. You’ll be fine.”

Simon frowns a bit, but he can’t hold it for long when Arthur has that silly grin on him. He huffs, walking to the pan to empty it out. “Fine. But you’re the one cutting the fish.”

“Deal.”