Like many young-marrieds in the 1970s, Bob and Jill devoured Siddhartha and Vonnegut, appreciated Hendrix, and filled their bodies with revolutionary meals from the spiralbound pages of Moosewood Cookbook and the Diet for a Small Planet.
They bought a small, shingled house, set back from the Seattle street, which they papered, painted, and flower-potted with vigor. Both got good jobs and then had a healthy, happy son.
On TV, Julia Child stirred an enticing pot of life’s possibilities which captured their imaginations. They took notes, tried some of Julia’s recipes, and realized their palates were a flavorsome balance of personal and well-informed taste.
To indulge a wide exploration of foods and flavors, more money was needed. Jill got a job as a technical editor.
That’s when Bob, an early house husband, joined a natural foods store. After quickly mastering the lingo of mung beans and sesame crackers, he was offered the chance to travel the country. He could sample ethnic and regional products and ultimately advise the store owners on what to buy.
He’d return from each foray with a goody bag of samples, like Santa Claus. Standing at the cream-colored Wolf stove, he and Jill mixed dishes which they savored. As their palates matured, their tastebuds became more discerning and harder to please.
They tested new combinations of food offerings that teased the senses. Bob took detailed notes of every new dish’s texture, aroma, and temperature. They discussed at length what flavor sensations should dominate: bitter, sour, salty, sweet, or, once it was named in the mid-80s, umami.
Bob curated the most exquisite or unusual food ingredients from diverse international cultures to satisfy the growing sophistication of his store’s consumers. They lapped up floral Amish honey, punchy heritage carrots from the Netherlands, red rice from Bhutan, mushroomy sea truffles from Norway.
Jill worked like a chemist to compose flavorful blends of spices, herb mixes, and piquant sauces. She counterbalanced these with mild or ‘shy’ foods that offered just the right crunch with softness or a certain squish with every chew.
For these happy endeavors, the couple upgraded their kitchen with an extension and the latest in epicurean cookware and accessories. Particularly a gleaming Wolf stove.
On one of her weekly country walks, Jill found a dried dwarf cherry tree. She spray painted it gold and propped it in a Dale Chihuly vase beside the new heritage brick hearth. In winter, strung with miniature fairy lights, the tree cast a magical spell. The first week in December Bob and Jill would host a small party. They’d serve homemade tapas alongside fruity Rioja or brandied Sangria, with almond-flavored cherry clafouti for dessert.
As their son grew, Jill shifted to work as a freelancer for the local paper. When he began junior high, she moved into a series of well-paid stints as a corporate writer at a meaty salary.
This largess enabled the family to indulge in forays down to Oaxaca, Mexico, to sample smoky-sweet chicken mole, and up to Alaska for wild salmon. Bob grilled it outdoors with a touch of Meyer lemon, a tablespoon of cranberry-tart rose hips, and a dusting of crushed wild tea leaves.
Theirs was the sated life of two sugar snap peas in a pod.
Yet the satisfying routine faltered. Perhaps it was the pressure of her corporate metrics or his ever-widening store travel. Perhaps it was their son’s lackadaisical approach to higher education.
Maybe they’d all finally had their fill of peppery Le Puy dal. They replaced it with resentment. Feelings became challenging words which cooked into snide remarks. They picked at each other’s choices – and temperatures rose. The son split to rent with a pal.
His parents’ relationship frothed then boiled over into a distasteful situation.
At first, they took a mature approach, ending the marriage without further rancor that might spoil their son. He was now developing a penchant for – horror – fast food and their full attention should have been on staging an intervention.
Instead, Jill and Bob tussled over custody of the house. Theirs was a community-property state. Yet each refused to sell out to the other.
In fact, Bob protected his rights by moving into their guest room and putting a freeze on his travel. Jill didn’t consider changing the locks on the doors when he was out of the house. They seemed to relish marinating the marital wounds.
This tussle was over more than a deed of title, more than the net value of the real estate, which had mushroomed in a phenomenal manner. Bob and Jill had blended desire and pleasure and layers of creative expression into every room, but especially the kitchen.
It was their golden egg.
After a year of frisson, Jill stopped pushing Bob and hired an attorney to do it for her. Bob held fast, convinced that he could crack the kernel of Jill’s resistance. The tug of war went on for six months until, emotionally whipped, he folded.
Bob swallowed a bitter pill and slid downtown to a condo. Jill celebrated by upgrading the Wolf. They both remained in the same city, the base for their initial happiness and now the place for their separate slow burn.
A year later, they met on the street. Cautiously walking closer to one another, they simultaneously burst into tears and embraced. The hard feelings seemed to deflate like a flan.
They exchanged light, friendly banter then moved to a nearby wrought-iron bench for more.
At some point, Bob said something about Jill being a tough nut to crack. He smiled, but it sounded snide to her.
She pulled away, lips puckered. Why did he want to reopen old hurts? His face clenched like a sour apple. She didn’t look back as she left.
In cookery, it’s easy for the bitter and the sweet, the tart and the sour, to mix with or repel each other. Jill and Bob had concocted enough delights to know that if either sensation is out of balance it ruins the emulsion, removes any experience of pleasure. This leaves a bitter taste in one’s throat, not to be confused with a sourness.
Regardless, the best antidote is something salty and tart.
Back at the condo, Bob mixed an extra-large margarita and flopped on the redwood deck. He idly massaged the knot in his gut. The way he’d rub oil and honey on a spatchcocked quail.
In the small house, Jill fixed a tall glass of cucumber water with basil leaves and a splash of gin and drank it all down.
She leaned against the Wolf. The Bakelite control knobs bored into her fleshy hips like unshelled macadamia nuts.
The hardest edible nut in the world.
—About the author—
Karin Doucette has published short fiction and nonfiction stories, and is a playwright. She has ranked in international story and stage play competitions and also reads for top international writing competitions. Karin has lived and worked on four continents and resides in Canada.
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For more on the toughest nut to crack, check out this article!