I glance up and finally let myself get a real look at the crowd.
It’s packed. Wall-to-wall Brooklyn chaos. Couples leaning on each other. Lots of women. Lots. Solo food nerds with phones still up. A few older folks scattered around, nodding like they’d seen it all, until I said “situationship,” and they nearly fell out of their seats. There’s even a baby in the back, chewing on a copy of the book. Honestly, same.
I take a deep breath before giving the mic a little tap. “Alright. Hit me.”
A hand shoots up immediately, a wiry dude in the second row with tortoiseshell glasses and a pen tucked behind one ear.
“Okay, so, if you were doing this with rye instead of sourdough, would you adjust the butter or pan temp?”
“Great question,” I say, enormously grateful the question is not about my dick. “Yes. Rye bread’s denser and has less sugar,so it browns more slowly. I’d bump the heat just a touch and let it sit longer. But you also want more fat. Slather both sides.”
He nods solemnly, as if I just blessed his sandwich marriage.
The next question comes from the back, a woman with a giant iced coffee. “What kind of cheese would you like, pair with like, fig jam, instead of hot honey?” The ice in her drink rattles as her hand flicks with each of her “like”s.
“I’d go brie or a goat blend. Something creamy with some funk. You want that smooth and weird counterpoint to the sweet.” I gesture with my water. “That’s the chemistry—fat, acid, sugar, salt. You play the levels.”
Some murmurs of approval. Another phone click. This is going well. Too well.
The next question is annoying as hell, but I expected it, honestly. “So is this book real science, or just the sexy kind you use to get clicks?”
“Well,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I have a PhD in food science. And I just finished my postdoc. I also have hundreds of thousands of subscribers onNakedReactions. So both, I guess.”
Thank Jesus that gets laughs.
“How does your mom feel about your content being on a porn site?” the woman with the baby chewing my book asks.
“She feels fuckin’ proud as hell!” I hear my mom yell from somewhere towards the back.
The crowd cracks up.
“Thanks, Ma,” I grin.
The next hand is up before I can even find where she’s sitting. A guy in a blazer, no shirt underneath, with his phone half-raised to record. Oh god. Here it comes.
“On that episode where you made that peach cobbler, was it just the fruit you were plumping, or was there some, uh, extra juicing involved?”
There’s a sharp inhale across the room. Half the crowd glances at me. The other half glance at their neighbors. I don’t know where to look. My hands? The floor? Inwards, to ask myself,How the fuck did you get here?orWhat the fuck are you doing?
I’m still trying to form a reply when a voice slices through the air like a Katana.
“Are you really asking if he fucked a pie?”
Heads snap. Necks swivel. I think the baby gasps.
Every single atom in my body freezes, and the sweat on my body turns into ice.
Am I having a stroke? Am I dead? Did I just astral project into hell?
I look.
There, maybe six rows back. Standing with her chin tilted up and murder in her kohl-rimmed eyes, is My Annie Li. Annie “Whom I Love” Li.
Wearing my hoodie.
I suddenly cannot breathe.
I look to her right and see my mother and sister sitting next to her, grinning like this is exactly what they came for.
