“Thanks, Dad.” The lump in my throat is so big, my voice comes out like a whisper. Today’s meeting was a success in more ways than one.
Chapter 22
As soon as we get home, Dad opens the door, and we do a double take at the state of the place. It doesn’t look—doesn’t smell—like our house. Unlike the usual grab-and-go station set up for us on the kitchen counter, the table is neatly set with plates and silverware. And the aroma…it’s interesting and strong in a good way that makes my mouth instantly salivate. Stepping back outside, I check to see if I’m at the right house. Yep, it’s unfortunately the same house on the outside. Dad and I stare at each other, perplexed.
“You’re back,” Gavin says, greeting us from the kitchen with an apron tied around his waist.
“What are you doing standing out on the porch?” Mom says from behind him. “Come in.” She motions for us to join them.
Slowly Dad and I reanimate. So this isn’t a dream. This is our home. Er, temporary home.
“Sit,” Mom urges us when we are inside.
“Did you buy new stuff?” I ask, noticing the plates and silverware have a shine the ones from before didn’t.
“I used an old trick with baking soda and apple cider vinegar to buff out the scratches. It’s simple, really.” Mom waves it off as if it’s something she does on a daily basis.
“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. I didn’t know my mom knewhow to deep clean. Since we had a staff of maids, I didn’t know she knew how toregularclean.
“And these lights. They work now.” Dad points to the janky fixtures hanging above the dining table that are now fully functioning. I didn’t realize how much of a difference lighting could make, but the soft glow on the table instantly brightens the place. “Gavin, I’m so proud of you,” Dad starts, but Gavin’s quick to cut him off.
“I can’t take any of the credit. Mom did that too.”
“Mom?”I crane my neck to stare at her.
“We had very poor electrical connections when living on the farm, so I know what to look for. Turns out the wire had gotten disconnected, so I reconnected it.” Again Mom downplays her ability.
“Okay, that is seriously cool,” I say.
She smiles appreciatively.
Dad seems puzzled. “What about dinner, then? When did you have time to—”
“That’s all Gavin.” She gestures to him by her side. He smiles nervously.
Despite Mom’s very clear explanation, Dad still doesn’t seem to understand. So she explains, “Dale, just wait until you try what your son cooked for dinner. I have never seen anything so different and yet taste so familiar at the same time.”
“I call it spaghetti-bokki,” Gavin says more confidently after Mom’s strong endorsement. “It’s like ttuk-bokki, but I replaced one starch with another, taking out the rice cakes and exchanging them for spaghetti noodles.” He presents a platter with the same cheap lattice design around the edges that all our other plates have. Except it doesn’t look like a cheap meal. Far from it. Tiny garnishes of thin slices of green onion sprinkled with parmesan make this meal reminiscent of our former life.
Dad jabs a finger into the saucepan on the stove and puts it to his lips. “This reminds me of the street vendor we used to go to.”
“I know. I didn’t even teach him how to do it; he just knew what to do,” Mom says to Dad, and Gavin’s smile is so wide, it’s about to rip his face into two.
“Don’t take her word for it. Try it,” Gavin urges.
Dad and I just came from sampling an array of delectable bites from our meeting, and yet we both find ourselves sitting down, eager to eat.
Mom, Dad, and I begin twirling the pasta onto our forks while Gavin watches us with anticipatory interest. Dad is the first one to take a bite, slurping the longer noodles that aren’t neatly wrapped around his fork. Mom and I do the same. Holding his breath, Gavin intensely studies our faces.
“I don’t know whether I should be eating this with a fork or chopsticks,” Dad says after swallowing. He wipes his lips on a napkin, leaving a dark crimson stain. He shakes his head in disbelief. “The flavor, the texture. Even the color of the sauce takes me back to Korea.” He holds up the napkin to show us.
“Right?” Mom leans in excitedly at the shared emotion. “While he was making the sauce, I felt like I was fourteen again, hovering around the ttuk-bokki stand and eating the hot rice cakes slathered in the spicy sauce.”
“It’s definitely familiar but also has something else,” I say, thinking aloud. I’ve had ttuk-bokki before, but I’m not as familiar with it as my parents are. I’m more familiar with the American aspects of it. Like the al dente noodles and garnishes that aren’t normally paired together but make unique and surprisingly good flavor combinations. “It also kind of reminds me of the pasta at Wolfgang’s.”
“Exactly. It’s classy comfort,” Gavin says. “It’s my version of Roy Choi’s ‘food that isn’t fancy.’ ”
“That is seriously brilliant,” I say, staring at him as if for the first time. This version of Gavin differs from the boring, predictable person I thought I knew. He’s creative and innovative when he’s passionate about something.
