“Whatever.” I flushed at the flashback of Alex’s hard chest pressed against mine in the pool. “Just don’t use mine for any of your extracurricular activities.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know I won’t be around either.”
“Oh?” For some reason, I had to know exactly where Alex was spending the night, and with whom.
“Since you’re all away until tomorrow, Captain Bailey’s letting the crew roam wild and free.”
“You’re staying overnight in Santorini too?”
“No, I’m going here.” He pulled out a cookbook from the shelf and flipped it open to reveal a folded piece of parchment paper. Inside was a beautifully pressed white flower—fragile and delicate, looking like it was picked early in the morning, with its petals just reaching out to the sun.
“Folegandros.” Alex held it up for me. “It’s where I was born—raw and rocky, with cliffs and caves, and an unforgiving terrain. But the flowers still find a way to grow. My mother loved that about them. The white ones were her favorite. We always had bouquets of wildflowers around the house. She picked this on the day she died.”
Sunlight filtered through the paper-thin petals as Alex twirled it slowly. It wasn’t just a flower—it was a time, a place, a feeling—suspended on a still-green stem. I could almost feel the moment she plucked it, not knowing it might be the last white flower she ever picked. I gazed at it in silence, overcome by its beauty and tragedy. Then, just as reverently as he had retrieved it, Alex placed it back between the parchment paper and returned the book on the shelf.
“Did your mother give you this book?” I ran my fingers over the spine. It was old and thick, the cover stained with use. “Did she teach you how to cook?” Maybe the magic of Alex’s food had been passed down from generation to generation, a secret family tradition that—
“Cooking was not my mother’s forte.” Alex smiled. “In fact, my father and I did everything we could to keep her out of the kitchen.”
I chuckled.Well, there goes that theory.
“This was my first cookbook.” He tapped the cover. “It was a gift from our neighbor. She was a bitter old soul. After my mother died, I spent all my time outside, raising hell. I kept getting into trouble with Mrs. Tavoulari. One day, she was trying to take a nap and threw this book at me from her kitchen window. I was fourteen. I’d never been off the island. I opened the book and suddenly, a whole world was out there—things I’d never seen or tasted or imagined. I spent hours looking over the photos. When I went to return the book, Mrs. Tavoulari told me I could keep it, provided I made something from it every day. She gave me a small blue bowl, told me to fill it, and bring it to her as soon as it was ready. The book was mine as long as I kept that bowl going. So, every day after school, instead of stirring up trouble, I was in the kitchen. She was a smart one—she kept me busy, got her nap,anda meal out of it.”
“And you learned how to cook.”
“This book taught me a lot of things. Cooking wasn’t one of them. Sure, I learned to follow instructions. I learned the basics. But the most important thing I learned is that it’s a privilege to cook for someone. What passes through your hands is received by their senses and becomes a part of them. It took me a while to understand that.
“At first, I picked dishes I wanted to eat, or that were easy to make. Then, as I watched Mrs. Tavoulari eat, I wondered about her family. She had no photos on the walls. No one came to visit. It was probably because she was so cranky. No matter what I made, she complained. Too much salt. Not enough salt. Not the right texture. She was annoying as hell.” Alex chuckled as he plated a stack of pancakes and topped them with berries and powdered sugar.
“One day, I was sweeping walnut shells off her floor. They were everywhere. She never bothered with a bowl—just pounded them with an old hammer and left the shells lying around. I found a whole bunch of walnuts that had rolled away intact. I took them home and made her a walnut cake. Things started turning around that day. For the first time, Mrs. Tavoulari said nothing. She finished the blue bowl and asked if there was more. I realized I’d been cooking for me the whole time, not her. The more attention I paid to the things she liked, the more she opened up. She started savoring every dish and looking forward to my visits. One evening, she opened the door before I knocked, and she was smiling. Beaming. The dusty curtains were gone, the floor was clean, and a hairdresser had been in to cut her hair. All for a little thought, a little care, and a little love in the kitchen. I’ve taken this book with me on every charter to remind me of the transformative power of food. And of home.”
Alex’s magic. It wasn’t the kind Ma Anga practiced. His book had no spells or incantations. It was more powerful—a white flower and echoes of walnut shells caught between its pages. Every story has a beginning, and I loved Alex’s.
“You’re heading home then?” I asked. “Tonight?”
He turned around and glanced at the potatoes I was grating.
“You should soak them in ice water when they’re done,” he said.
He had a habit of inspecting everything I did and then adding his two cents worth.
These are not uniform, Moti. They won’t cook evenly.
Don’t touch that! You have lemon on your fingers.
I said dice the tomatoes, not hack them. This is a massacre.
I rolled my eyes, but secretly daydreamed about him issuing other orders.
Lick it, Moti. You know you want to.
“Moti?”
“Huh?” My cheeks flamed as Alex interrupted my Fifty-Shades-Of-Kitchen-Scenarios.
“You want a lick?”
Crap. Did I say that out loud?
