Sans Rival

by raimperial

 

I find it amazing how the process of adding some customary suffixes at the end of masculine names makes it almost immediately fitting for any member of the female race to adopt them. Add –tine to Chris and he produces a Christine. An –ia to Victor and he suddenly finds himself a Victoria. A Gabriel could become a Gabrielle or Gabriela or even a Gabriella, ultimately depending on the parents’ discretion. It may not seem original, but it sure is economical.

Although there might not be any striking phonetic differences between that of the male and female varieties of her name, there was nothing particular in that phone conversation the other day that caused me to suspect her as a man who somehow suffered from a failed pubertal development. “Alright, See you on Saturday afternoon then!” Her voice was too gorgeous to be a man’s.

And it wasn’t just her voice. Chef Adrianne Sakuramoto was blooming, blossoming, someone living at the peak of her womanhood, someone who probably never knew that she was once a timely goddess who fell from the heavens because of her jealous mother and sisters. “I see that you’ve already lined the undersides of those baking pans with aluminum foil,” she told me. “Good. But shouldn’t you be preparing the meringue now? We won’t be eating those foils, you know.”

The cold orange sun penetrated through the windows, the foil I just wrapped on those baking pans glinting like a deep sea. She looked at me in the eyes, and I looked back, and gave me a laugh that made my groin cringe a little, and then told me to beat the eggs and cream of tartar together at medium speed. That was something I already learned from my mother whom I always used to watch bake cakes and cookies and other pastries on Sunday afternoons, but I continued beating them as if I’d never worked in a kitchen before.

“No, no, no. You should do it like this. Let me hold your hand. You hold the bowl with that other hand of yours like this. There. There. Medium speed. Just nice.”

Do you have like, umm.. a step-by-step list of what to do? I asked. In fact she had one placed on the table when I arrived at her house, which I cunningly hid in my attache-case, leading her to think that she had never actually written one or she had probably lost it somewhere.

“300 degrees F for 45 minutes to an hour, or until it turns golden brown.” “Cook until the syrup spins a thread – you might want to use my candy thermometer, it’s on the lower cupboard!” “Sprinkle with lots of cashews alright – do you love cashews? You’re not allergic to them are you? I love cashews so you gotta put lots of them.” “Oh and don’t forget to spread some buttercream on it.”

And some love too. Ha-ha.

She smiled. “That’s great; buttercream will suffice.”

*

I took the sans rival out of the freezer after we had finished eating the dinner she prepared. I put the dessert on the table. She stood and grabbed a silverware – a forkette – and took a small piece into her mouth.

“Wow. Very delicious. Very, very good job. Sweet and rich, thick and tasty, never expected the baker in you to come this early.” She smiled.

So what’s the menu for next week, Adrianne?

“I can teach you how to make different kinds of sushi.”

That sounds nice. Japanese. I’d like some of that.

“Tomorrow, if you want,” she added, as I started drawing my body closer to hers.