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Looking into a mirror, a single eye peers back at Sunny. The place where the other would have been is obscured by freshly-wrapped medical gauze. This mirror is the same one he once had in his old home, before he moved away from New Jersey into a small, cramped apartment hundreds of miles away. Now he is in an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar house, bearing an unfamiliar face. It seems his past is the only constant in his life. Sunny doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sight of his face. For the rest of his life, his one surviving eye would be the sole gateway through which he will observe the world. Although, the state of his face was more his fault… as were many other things. How quickly he had ended a life and ruined two others in an afternoon, and how slowly he condemned himself further still over those four years. And he still hasn’t gotten Mari-
Sunny stops. Here in the living room of his house, he has no time, nor willpower, to retread the same thoughts that have defined his life for the past four years, especially not when his only remaining friend, Basil, is going to be arriving at his house later in the day. Although this isn’t the first time Basil has visited since his departure from New Jersey, Sunny does not intend to meet the blonde-haired gardener a mess.
I am Sunny Suzuki. I am 16 years old. I have brown eyes, and black hair. I once had a sister, Mari Suzuki. She is no longer alive. I live with my mother in New York, though I do not have a home. It has been 20 days since I confessed and skipped town. My friends hate me. Except Basil Hyacinth, who doesn’t but should. How does he not, when I hurt him the most? Most likely he does. It would be best if he does…
Sunny’s introspection is only stopped by his mother’s voice.
“Sunshine… are you alright?”
Sunny looks up at his mother, and shakes his head. Here he was, worrying his mother again.
She frowns. “Do you miss New Jersey?”
New Jersey. Faraway. Home. The place he had spent 16 years of his life, where had had experienced his best and worst memories. He missed his childhood; Mari, Basil, everyone else… when he had friends, a functioning family, and nothing to worry about but violin lessons and figuring out what to do with his sextuplet of friends. He misses these things, but he also knows that he lost access to that place of sepia-toned memories much further back than when he had moved out of his two-story, suburban house in New Jersey less than a month ago. He had spent the better part of the last four years isolated in that same house, spending most of his days dreaming, successfully repressing the mere memory of the crime he had committed to end his youth.
He misses home, but New Jersey had stopped being home a long time ago. He would be lying if he said that he particularly missed that suburban house, and its absurdly long staircase which dominated the living room—even if this current 4-room New York left much to be desired in the living situation. He misses his friends, but aside from his partner in crime Basil, he harbors no delusion that any of them will ever willingly want to see his face again. He shakes his head again. His mother and this small apartment are all he has left now. Well, except Basil.
“Okay, Sunshine,” his mother says softly. She looks at him for a brief moment, and then lights up. “Sweety, I have an idea of something that could cheer you up!”
Sunny looks quizzically at his mother.
She turns around, retreats into the living room, and returns carrying a large book. “While I was unpacking, I found this old cooking book,” looking down, she says, “The Benefits of Tofu.” Noticing Sunny’s increasingly concerned stare, she says, “Well, I was going to throw this away, but it got me thinking… with Basil coming over soon-”
Sunny already knows where this is going, and he is frankly shocked he hadn’t already thought of this before.
“-maybe, just maybe, you and Basil could cook together?” Her voice is laced with hope.
The overture swells in Sunny’s head. It’s hard not to see his mother’s ulterior motive—to get her son to do something other than read books or take photos when Basil is over—but his mind dwells more on Basil. The blonde flower boy, his partner in crime, his best friend. In the week he spent in the hospital after the fight between the two that had cost Sunny his eye, he had lost count of how many times he had apologized to Basil.
Yet despite everything Sunny had done to ruin his life—including dumping even more trauma by reacting to Basil having a psychotic breakdown by beating him black and blue (Sunny losing his eye to his gardening sheer was a small compensation), Basil remained in his life, and more amazingly still as his best friend. Perhaps finally making something with and for Basil was in order. As the thought of making Basil happy threatens to undo Sunny’s stoic expression, he vocalizes a quiet “yes.”
Sunny’s mother must know that a vocal answer is the single largest sign of approval Sunny can give, because not even a second later she begins to beam. “Sunshine, that’s wonderful! You’re going to have so much fun, okay?” She turns around, and hands Sunny the large red cookbook she had been holding. “Why don’t you look through this book? See if there’s anything you want to make with Basil?”
Sunny takes the book that has been bequeathed to him, and makes his way across the living room into the divot of the kitchen. A cut-off corner of the living room bathed in off-white tiles, the kitchen’s harshly-scrubbed marble countertops fail to conceal its old age. The installation itself was fairly minimalist, as far as appliances go. There was a oven and stovetop, refrigerator. Placing the book down on the countertop near the knife holder and some assorted sauces, he quickly flips to a page in the middle of the book. Pan-Fried Tofu. Tofu Sandwich. Vegan Beef. There were presented a variety of tofu-centered dishes, complete with juicy-looking photographs. Just how many ways was there to replicate meat using this infernal substance?
And why did he have a book on tofu, anyways? He’s always been lukewarm, at best, on tofu and his mother never dared to go beyond using it in the occasional miso soup. The thought puzzles him for a moment, until he remembers the reason. Of course, it was Basil. He must have wanted to cook something for the blonde when he was eleven, so he got it from the local grocer. Probably, he had seen Mari and her boyfriend, Hero, cooking something together. They were always such a cute couple… but Hero is the last person Sunny wants to think about. He hasn’t spoken to the 19-year-old since his confession in the hospital; which is all for the better, since at the time, he seemed torn between throwing Sunny out of a hospital window or jumping out of one himself.
Sunny is once again startled out of his unceasing introspection by his mother, who has now entered the kitchen. “Find anything you like in that book?”
Sunny points to the cookbook, now lying open on the counter. “The pan-fried tofu,” he says. “I remember Basil’s mom made it for him.” Which must have been significant, he thought, because that time was the only occasion he had ever seen Basil’s parents—not hired caretakers—in the five years the blonde had been in his life.
“That’s a good choice. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to two to cook, and it might mean a lot to Basil. Good job, sweetie!”
Sunny’s thoughts are interrupted once more by the ring of a doorbell.
His mother is quick to note the sound, and says “You know who that is. I’ll leave you alone while you get acquainted.” After a short chuckle, she continues, “If you need me, I’ll be in the bedroom.” Hurrying across the living room and walking up to the closed wooden door, he takes a deep breath. Sunny slowly opens the door to be met with golden-blonde hair, pale white skin, and two round blue eyes staring right at him.
“H-hi Sunny. It’s nice to see you again,” Basil says with the nervous tone—and the half-forced smile—that seems to have permanently imprinted themselves onto him. He takes Sunny’s trademark silence as his cue to come inside.
“Hey, Basil. It’s nice to see you too,” Sunny says quietly.
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Gradually, they move from the entrance to the apartment to sitting on the couch of the living room, where the cookbook is still lying open on the kitchen counter in the corner. As they’ve done the last three times Basil and Sunny have visited each other, they begin slowly, talking about school, how Sunny’s been adjusting to New York, or how Basil’s doing with his new caretaker. It doesn’t take long for Sunny to talk in more than staccato phrases and for Basil to swap his forced smile for a genuine one.
After a particularly long pause, however, Sunny sees his chance. “Hey Basil, I have an idea.”
Now, it was Basil’s turn to give Sunny a quizzical look. “Y-yeah?”
“I think it would be fun for us to cook some food.”
“I-” Basil is caught entirely off guard, seemingly both by Sunny’s initiative and by the idea itself. “I am hungry but,” Basil is silent for a moment, as if trying to remember something, “You don’t know how to cook.”
“I found a cookbook. Plus, you could teach me.” Sunny says with more determination in his voice than usual.
Basil chuckles nervously before scratching his head, “I’m not Hero, it’s not like I know how to cook that well. And what if we ruin the food? Tofu isn’t cheap, and your mom might get mad at us, and then she might kick me out, and then I’d never see you again, and-”
“Basil. That’s obviously not going to happen. Besides, so what if we ruin the food? I want to learn. With you.” Sunny retorts. Hopefully adding enough sarcasm to make the joke obvious, he adds, “Besides, I don’t think Hero would want to teach me much of anything right now, so you’re my best bet.”
“A-anyways, what would we even cook?” Basil says, sidestepping Sunny’s previous question entirely. Good, Sunny thinks, he must like the idea if he’s asking for clarification.
Sunny feigns looking thoughtful for a moment, as if he doesn’t already know what he wants to make. “I was thinking we could cook some grilled tofu.”
“Tofu? But I thought you didn’t like tofu…” Basil gives Sunny a concerned glance.
“I didn’t like tofu when I was 12. But it’s been four years.” Sunny retorts.
“Oh…” Basil almost looks hurt by the comment. “That makes sense.”
The pair of boys slowly makes their way to the kitchen corner, where cookbook remains open on Pan-Fried Tofu. Sunny’s a bit nervous--after all his cooking experience amounts to little more than microwaving steak--but with Basil next to him, he feels slightly more at ease.
“We’ll need some cooking oil, seasoning, a press, and a pan.” Basil declares.
“The pots and pans should be in the oven,” Sunny replies, “and there should be some oil the cabinet right above you.” The blonde leans down and grabs a black steel pan and a bottle of olive oil and places them both on the stovetop.
Sunny takes this as his cue to get the tofu himself, and opens the refrigerator sitting directly in the corner of the kitchen. Milk, cheese, eggs… but no tofu. Just before Sunny is able to start panicking at the sudden loss of his cooking plan, he notices a block of tofu about the size of his hand sitting on the counter near the fridge, wrapped in paper. That wasn’t there before! His mom must have placed it there while he was talking to Basil in the living room.
“Oh, y-you’ve already unfrozen the tofu! That’s perfect…” Basil says, before starting to look around, opening various cupboards and drawers. “Give the tofu a sniff… what does it smell like?”
Sunny leans in to smell the floppy-looking brick. Inspecting it closer, he notices first that it’s slightly wobbly, like gelatin. The second thing he notices is that it’s covered in holes, like swiss cheese. But it doesn’t smell like much of anything. The only thing he can smell is Basil’s ever-present floral scent. “It… doesn’t smell like anything. Is that a bad thing?” Sunny nervously asks.
Still rummaging through cupboards, Basil responds, “No, that’s perfect! That means its not spoiled. It would smell bad otherwise.” Without missing a beat, he continues, “Now, we need to dry out all of the juices.”
Sunny picks up the tofu. It feels surprisingly light, but smooth like a hardboiled egg. “How do we do that?” He asks.
“Just rub it with a towel to get rid of the wetness,” Basil replies.
Sunny does as Basil says. Grabbing a towel hanging from the oven, the brunette dries off the tofu, careful not to damage the half-firm surface of the tofu. “All done.” He says, placing it on the counter.
Sunny takes his favorite knife from a knife holder and cuts the now-firm block of plant matter into 4 equally-sized pieces, then cuts each piece into 2 more pieces, for 8 in total. Kitchen knives truly are one of humanity’s greatest inventions, Sunny thinks. Basil silently peers over the cookbook and motions for Sunny to come over. “We’ll need to heat up the pan, now, won’t we?” Sunny questions.
“I see you’re smart as always, Suzuki.” Basil replies cheekily. “We’ll need to heat it for a minute before adding the oil, so I’ll get that started.” A pan lies already positioned perfectly over the lower-left corner of the stove, the blonde turns a knob, and the smooth surface under the pan begins turning a dark red.
“Now comes the fun part, seasoning,” the blonde chuckles with an unexpected burst of mischievous energy, “What to add, Sunny?”
Sunny looks over the cookbook himself to see any suggestions: at the section which read Seasoning, he sees soy sauce, chili powder, fajita seasoning mix…
“How about chili powder?” Basil suggests, before his playful tone suddenly fades. “No, actually, you should decide by yourself. I-I’ve probably been doing too much… I’m sorry, this is supposed to be for the both of us.”
“No!” exclaims Sunny, perhaps more enthusiastically than he intends. “I… like how confident you are with this.” Basil was only confident with things he knew well. Up until now that list had only included botany and photography, but Sunny seemed to now be able to add cooking to that list. Or, at the very least, the culinary arts related to tofu. Remembering the point of this interaction, he asks, “What do we do now?”
Basil appears to regain his emotional wherewithal because his tone returns to what it was a moment ago. “Now we have to add olive oil, for the tofu to cook in.”
Sunny picks up a shiny orange-glass bottle lying in the corner labeled Olive Oil, and squeezes a few drops of the golden liquid into the pan.
“Just a little bit more, Sunny,” Basil comments slyly.
Sunny squeezes again, and this time a large burst of the liquid releases itself from the bottle. Oops. The pan is now soaked in olive oil, producing a satisfying sizzle at it settles on the quickly-warming surface. “That should be enough?” Sunny says, though it sounds more like a question.
Basil responds with a nod. “Now comes the fun part.”
“You already said that.” Sunny says without emotion.
“The-uh, funner part?” Basil sheepishly says, “You know, actually, uh, cooking it,” he chuckles nervously.
“Uh-huh,” Sunny replies with an air of faux-suspicion. He reaches into a drawer and picks up a pair of chopsticks, which he then uses to carefully place each block of tofu into the pan. With each block Sunny puts onto the pan, the sound of sizzling oils grows louder.
As the tofu gradually begins to cook, Basil begins: “I used to make this all of the time with my mom. I had to learn how to teach all of my caretakers to make it because I liked it so much. I had to coax a lot of people into trying it,” he chuckles, “Like, did you know that tofu contains all of the amino acids your body needs? It has all the protein, minerals, vitamins, and so on that meat has, but without the grease. It gives you better skin, and better bones, and helps your brain, and,” Basil stops himself, “S-sorry for ranting, haha.”
Sunny listens with great interest, but he’s more interested in how Basil’s skittishness has melted away here. He missed this version of Basil, the one you could get to go on long rants about plants, or photography, or cooking (apparently). The one not paralyzed by some inscrutable combination of guilt, fear, and anxiety. Sunny basks in Basil’s smile as he rants, which is ironic since he’s supposed to be the sun and yet here he is, being set alight by Basil.
“Tofu sounds really nice. You sound really nice”
“-And tofu can be, I- what?” Basil’s flustered stammer is adorable. “It’s… nice to hear you too, Sunny. I missed hearing your voice.”
Now it was Sunny’s turn to be flustered, which was slightly more precarious a situation to be in, since he now had to split his attention between making sure he didn’t turn red and making sure the tofu didn’t turn black. “It’s nice being able to make something for once, especially with you.” Sunny says, praying that sentimentality will save him from embarrassment. Noticing the thin golden crust beginning to creep its way up the sides of the tofu on the pan, he shakes the pan a little to keep the contents of the pan from sticking.
Basil mirrors Sunny’s sudden tone shift, probably for the same reason. “Yeah… I like caring for things. Keeping care of my plants was the only thing that kept me sane during the last four years.” Upon realizing Sunny’s incredulous look (punctuated with his one eye), Basil adds, “Mostly sane.” The blonde chuckles, “We’re kind of like Mari and Hero right now, aren’t we?”
Sunny picks up each block of tofu and flips it with chopstick. The cooked sides are a beautiful golden brown. “Oh, definitely. I remember, they would always compete to see who could fluster each other more.”
“You always did have a good memory, Sunny.” Basil coyly throws in, “Or should I say sunshine?”
“Shut up!” Sunny says, though he dons a rare smile. At the back of his mind, Sunny is surprised that Basil would mention Mari and Hero by name. He’s surprised even more that it didn’t seem to even dent the jovial atmosphere. Maybe it’s because he’s too focused on the pan and Basil’s newfound smugness to emotionally overanalyze himself, but… the emotional peace he’s given by this activity seems like more than just the product of distraction.
The golden-brown crust of cooked tofu continues to swallow up the remaining white parts of the chunks, so Sunny sprays a small amount more soy sauce onto the pan, with the resulting hiss filling the room with the smell of soy. The texture is delightfully crispy and the color a rich brown, looking far more appetizing than the gelatinous, tasteless mess he’s previously associated with tofu.
“It looks about done,” Basil notes.
Sunny nods his head, and takes the pan off the active stovetop. Tilting them onto a blue plate which Basil had placed on the adjacent counter, steam rises delightfully as the fried chunks pile into a finished product. The brunette never thought he would be salivating at tofu, but here he was. “Wow…” Sunny remarked, “This does not look like tofu.”
“You wouldn’t think so, but it is,” Basil exclaims with a smile, “Good job, Sunny… this is very well done!”
“Thanks, but I think that’s more your contribution than mine,” Sunny states dryly.
Basil pouts, “It’s the other way around, this was something you made!”
The brunette sarcastically rolls his eyes. “Fine, something we made. But you were the head chef here.” Sunny looks down at the prepared dish. “Come on, let’s see if it tastes good,” Cupping the plate as if it was a newborn baby, he slowly carries the tofu--he supposes their tofu--into the living room with barely contained excitement. Sunny places it on the end table near the couch, with Basil following in tow.
Golden light filters through the window opposite to the kitchen, casting angular shadows across every surface. It appears their little culinary escapade has taken up enough time for the sun to now be setting.
They both huddle around the end table. After Basil practically slides on the floor trying to get two pairs of chopsticks to use as utensils, Sunny picks up one chunk, and slowly places it in his mouth and closes his eyes. Basil wordlessly does the same. The tofu is warm, though fortunately it’s cooled down enough to eat. Past the exterior crunchy, golden-brown crust, the food’s interior presents a softer consistency, though still firm. And of course, it tastes delicious -- soy sauce covering a meaty texture. None of this was something he expected tofu to do, but now that it has… he’s probably going to be making this dish in the future. Swallowing, he sees that Basil is similarly pleased.
Suddenly, looking at his (while appetizing, certainly not master-class) fried tofu, Sunny is overcome with a burst of pride. This was something he created. Not just that, something he created with Basil. It was nothing, in the grand scheme of things, something that would (hopefully) be devoured in short order. But in the short time it existed, it would be the result of Sunny, and it would bring joy to another human being.
The blonde looks at Sunny with warmth. “This was really fun, Sunny… and we even got the food to be good!”
Sunny nods his head.
Basil excitedly continues, “Think of the other things we could make… omelets, pasta, cookies-”
“Anything you want, Basil. Just as long as we can do it together,” punctuating his statement with a smile.
Basil chuckles. “I feel like we’ll be doing this again.”
After they had destroyed so much, made so many mistakes together for so long… creating something was a breath of fresh air. And more importantly, seeing Basil happy like this was a drug like no other.
“Yeah,” Sunny says, “I think we will be.”