Rictor, Sharon, and Shatterstar, Monday afternoon

[xp_rictor]

Rictor tries and fails to make comfort food, so Sharon insists on helping. Shatterstar gets to taste test.


Rictor would never classify himself as a genius, or even a particularly good student. He has his strengths and skills, though, as could be seen by the little garden growing in his room. But here, in the kitchen on FaceTime with his mother, he never felt dumber.

"Because I couldn't find any of the right ones at the supermarket!" he wailed in rapid Spanish, holding up a bag of flour tortillas. "I was surprised they even had these."

"I can't believe that," his mother admonished him from thousands of kilometers away. There was no escape from parental disappointment in the 21st century. "I thought New York was full of Mexicans. And even if the store doesn't have corn tortillas, you can make them yourself. You must be able to find masa."

"You think they're going to have the materials for making tortillas but not the actual tortillas? Ma, you're crazy." He paused and sniffed the air. "Something smells weird."

His mother's eyeroll was audible. "Where are the pepitas?"

"The pepitas!" Currently burning and popping out of the skillet and falling all over the stovetop and floor.

A voice came from directly behind him, and roughly three feet below where it might have been expected to issue.

"Aromatics are burning, also."

It was a cat. Or was on a technicality, since the noun typically stopped attaching once the subject exceeded thirty pounds. This one was something closer to a mountain lion. A mountain lion that happened to be both purple and watching Rictor with interest.

The cat lifted her nose and sniffed.

"And the tomatoes."

Rictor dropped his phone on the counter, ignoring his mother's pleas for attention so he could simultaneously take the over-roasted pumpkin seeds off the heat and stir the garlic and onions in the other skillet to keep them from blackening and remove the tomatoes from the oven broiler, at first forgetting to don an oven mitt and nearly searing his fingers off in the process. Only after the pepitas were rescued, the aromatics tossed, and the tomatoes safely retrieved, did Rictor look over at the intruder.

He squawked again and almost tripped over the open oven door.

Cats didn't smile, but the way this one flicked its tail proved to be an effective alternative.

"Hello."

A talking cat. He'd thus far met witches, speedsters, supermen, people who could make things explode, a boy on fire. He had marveled at the variety of mutant gifts on display here, but he could never have been prepared for a talking cat. Especially one that offered culinary advice. When he regained his footing and picked up his phone, he told his mother he'd call her back and hung up over her protestations.

"Uh, hi, who are you?" he asked in English.

"Sharon. Or Catseye. And you are Rictor, the one who likes nature but has burned every vegetable." The cat sauntered over to the counter and stood on her hindlegs -- an alarming posture that brought her up to the height of the human and allowed her a better look at the stained print-out he'd been referring to.

"Papadzules," she read. Her accent was terrible. The fact it was having to contend with a largely nonhuman mouth did nothing to improve it.

A talking cat who could stand up like a person and read. Would wonders never cease? Regaining his composure, Rictor closed the oven door and picked up a pair of tongs to transfer the burned tomatoes from the sheet tray to a bowl. "It's a Mexican dish, mi madre makes it often. I thought I could try, too. How do you know my name?"

"I am always watching," Sharon replied mysteriously. She dropped back to all fours and leaned over to sniff at one of the burned pumpkin seeds currently decorating the tile. "Issue of time management. Aromatics burn quickly if unattended. Started pumpkin seeds too early, too, maybe. Distracted you from tomatoes. Your first attempt?"

He turned away from her so she wouldn't see his face redden. "Is it obvious? Usually when I make food for myself it's: slice the bread, fill with meat and spreads, consume. I thought papadzules would be an appropriate first recipe because it is not that difficult, but . . . well, you see I was wrong." He sighed, poking at the tomatoes to check if they had cooled enough to skin. "This is a sign that I should leave the cooking to others."

"Or leave yourself more time until you have experience, maybe." The cat had now wandered over to the kitchen cabinet and pulled open one of the doors. She appeared to be searching for something. "Prep time is always lies. Easy to say ten minutes to chop, mix, and sautee is sufficient when you have been in kitchen for twenty years. How low is medium-low? What is carmelized, what is burnt? Mysterious. Many assumptions are made. Chop more garlic and onions, please."

Now he was taking orders from a cat. But if this absurdity resulted in comfort food, then he would follow. What did he know, anyway? Maybe in America, cats were the best chefs.

He cut off the root end of an onion, halved it, then slowly but deftly sliced it into thin crescents. "At least I know how to use a knife," he said dryly, setting aside the onion to smash a handful of garlic cloves and remove them from their wrapping. "My chiichi taught me that. Do you, um, cook for yourself?" Perhaps asking her directly if she preferred kibble would be rude.

"Not onion things. Allergic. But mother taught me basics." There was the thump of something heavy and wet falling into a trashcan, then the sound of running water. Sharon was standing by the kitchen sink on her hind legs, holding the pan under the faucet in what was a rather unsettlingly human hand. After covering the bottom with water she walked it back over to the stovetop and turned on the burner. Her long tail swung lazily as she walked, making constant microadjustments to her balance.

"Loosens burned bits so pan may be reused," she explained. She set something else on the counter, which turned out to be a pair of disposable plastic cooking gloves.

Rictor considered his plan of attack in light of his failure and Sharon's keen criticism. The tomatoes, though slightly burned, smelled salvageable, so he didn't have to repeat those. He transferred half the onions and garlic, along with a serrano chile he quickly chopped, to the tray used for the tomatoes and threw it back in the oven. He would wait until those were done before getting to the pepitas and remainder of the onion. He danced around Sharon to bring the knife and cutting board to the sink to wash them of stray bits of hot pepper.

"Are you new here, too?" he asked casually. "I arrived in July but I don't think I have seen you before. But you've seen me?"

Sharon had been watching the pan on the stovetop; once Rictor was done at the sink she removed it from the heat and dumped the remaining shreds of burnt onion that had simmered free down the drain. She let the garbage disposal run for a few moments while she gave the pan a quick scrub.

"Arrived earlier this month. International Cat Day. I gifted this place with my presence." It was impossible to tell if this was a joke. "First I watch, then I approach. You are not meant to see me until I choose to be seen. Nothing personal, just cautious." Sharon gave the pan a few quick swipes with a dry towel and returned to the stovetop. Her steps appeared to be getting steadier the longer she was on two legs, but she still snaked her tail around to brace against a cabinet. She turned the burner to medium and donned the thin plastic cooking gloves. She didn't bother fiddling with the fingers; she simply extended her claws to pierce through the tips.

"Onions, please," she said as she began to measure a tablespoon of oil. "I will show you how for second batch, or maybe next time."

He passed her the remaining sliced onion and watched her with fascination. "Should I maybe do that and you can tell me how? So you don't accidentally touch the onion and have an allergic reaction. I don't think people would be very happy if I hurt the cat-girl. Especially from a kitchen mistake."

Accepting the onions, Sharon lightly flicked her tail against his hand in a playful swat. "No fire for you. I saw your first attempt. Besides, only vomit if I eat them. Cooking is fine." The oil was starting to pop. Sharon dumped the onions in the pan and began to swirl them with a spatula. "Look, this is the first stage. Sweating. Moisture releasing. Should only be going transparent at this stage, not browning or burning. Heat is too high if they do. Suspect that was your error. Browning should begin only after they are translucent." She ran the spatula around the pan with brisk, authoritative scoops. "Your recipe calls for fried, not caramelized. Should take 5-10 minutes for desired effect. I must watch. Prepare the pumpkin seeds now, maybe?"

"Oh, I need to check what's under the grill." No longer suffering an attention deficit, Rictor remembered to put on an oven mitt before opening the oven and withdrawing that still-edibly charred aromatics for the salsa. He smiled brightly and dumped those into the bowl with the tomatoes. He'd blend those later. For now, the second skillet was set on the stove, and he eyeballed a couple tablespoons of olive oil before turning on the burner and dumping in a second bowlful of pepitas. "How are you with spicy things?"

"They taste of regret and intestinal distress. Thoughtful, but dietary restrictions not your concern. Your recipe would cease to exist. I will take payment in eggs." Sharon watched the sizzling onions with a critical eye. "You have been here since July? And I see you have family. How did you come here?"

"Marie-Ange . . . have you met her yet? She had a prophecy about me that summoned her and her colleagues to my grandparents' home," he explained, stirring the frying pumpkin seeds. One popped up an inch but landed back in the skillet, not on the floor. "They recognized me as a mutant and told me about this school. So, my choice was to either come here and learn about my abilities, or go back to university. This seemed more fun."

"Have not met her yet, no. Prophecy? That sounds very grand." Sharon thought for a moment. "I found a flyer."

"They have flyers? I didn't think they advertised. It seems like this place is a . . . um. Mierda. ¿Un secreto a voces? I don't know the English term."

"'An open secret'," Sharon supplied. She gave the onions a final stir and turned off the burner. "But I did not mean for here. It was for the community center in District X. There is where I went. Claimed sanctuary, was directed here." She presented the pan for inspection, swishing the golden-brown pieces of onion under his nose. "This is what sauteed looks like. Onions yellowed, but some brown patches from the heat. Caramelization would be darker, more wilted, but sweeter. Or so I am told."

That smelled more like his mother's kitchen as he remembered it than his last attempt. The pepitas, too, now darker and coated in an oily sheen, filling his nose with their rich, nutty aroma. He turned off his burner, too, and transferred the seeds to another bowl. With these components done, he read through the recipe again to transfer the broiled tomatoes, garlic, onion, and serranos to a blender, along with a heap of cilantro and the juice of one lime.

"This, at least, I'm sure I can do without assistance."

Rictor could not, in fact, make a salsa without assistance, because he forgot to put the top on before turning it on high. His face was covered in tomato puree before he could turn it off.

Sharon, a man-sized purple cat still wearing plastic cooking gloves and clutching a pan of perfectly sauteed onions, just stared at him. A chunk of something soft and red dripped from Rictor's face and landed on the floor with a gloop.

"Just use Doordash, maybe?"

Rictor stood dumbfounded. How had he done that? How goddamn stupid was he? He was stuck between conflicting urges to run out the kitchen crying or smashing the blender on the ground and ordering the floor to swallow the offending device. But Sharon's jibe snapped him out of it. Steeling himself, he peeled off his red-stained t-shirt and used it as a towel to wipe off the mess from his face, the counter, and the floor, then threw it aside. He would deal with laundry and dressing himself later. This was too important.

"I refuse to lose to my own mistakes. I will not be defeated!" he proclaimed. "There's plenty left, I can still have salsa tatemada. Please find me a bowl so I can start on the salsa de pepitas."

Sharon watched Rictor's shirt sail dramatically across the room with amusement. "Tenacity," she said. "I respect that. Very well. I shall help." She added, cheerfully, "For comedy."

Rictor's shirt fell at Shatterstar's feet. He had been watching from the doorway for a minute or two, not sure how to approach someone he had to apologize to, let alone someone he had to apologize to and a giant talking cat. He was less surprised than he thought he would be to see Sharon for the first time. He had heard her a bit, here and there, but not seen her yet. He was sure she had heard and seen him. Sure the fact she was a giant cat was disconcerting, but that's exactly what she sounded like the few times he had heard her.

Plus. Rictor liked her, so she couldn't be that bad.

"I'll help for practicality."

If Sharon's appearance had been a surprise, Shatterstar's was enough to make Rictor's heart stop. His hands flew up of their own accord to cover his chest so he wouldn't be so exposed to this boy he was sure hated him. But he was here and offered to help his dumb ass, so maybe Rictor was wrong? He couldn't think of another time he'd been happier to not be right.

"Uh, sure, thank you," he said when his brain finally caught up to speed. "Oh, Sharon, this is Shatterstar. He is also a new student here, like us."

"I have seen. The boy who likes swords, and intricate braids." Sharon noticed Rictor seemed discomfited by the newcomer's appearance. She didn't know why, and she didn't bother to ask. It seemed like a Them problem.

"Do you cook?" she asked Shatterstar. Hands still occupied with the pan of aromatics, Sharon instead snaked her tail around to point at Rictor. "This one extremely does not."

He nodded to the cat girl- Sharon. It was nice to have a name to match the vague creaking sounds. He pointedly looked up from Rictor's chest and at some point slightly above his head, just slightly red at Rictor's embarrassment.

"You've got me," he said to Sharon. She was correct enough that he did have two French braids into a third braid going- August was too sticky for his hair down in any capacity. "I can cook a little," Shatterstar said. "Nothing fancy. What are you making?"

"Papadzules, which are soft-boiled eggs in tortillas, covered with a pepitas sauce," Rictor explained as he emptied the contents of the blender into a bowl Sharon passed to him, and then dumped the pepitas and remainder of the onions and garlics into the blender. "It's like an enchilada but from my part of México. I was saying to Sharon my mother makes this often, so I wanted to try. I'm tired of peanut butter sandwiches, sabes?"

Sharon nodded. "I can relate. Felt much the same about eating from dumpsters. Are soft-boiled eggs ready?"

"Yeah, I did those first. They're in that bowl of ice water. Shatterstar, can you please crack them and slice them into four pieces?" Rictor sniffed a bunch of leafy herbs and sighed. The recipe called for epazote, but if he couldn't find corn tortillas, then no way would he find the pungent herb that characterized this dish as much as the pepitas. A combination of oregano and mint would have to do. He dropped those into the blender, too.

Shatterstar obeyed, finding an empty spot if the counter to crack the eggs open and a knife. Thankfully the mansion counters were mostly butcher block, so he didn't need to find a cutting board. He tried to think if he's ever heard of, let alone had, papadzules.

"I've never heard of those," he said, careful of how he was speaking to Rictor. "Have you, Sharon?"

Sharon, whose claws did not lend themselves to peeling eggs, had occupied herself wiping up the biggest globules of the ill-fated salsa. Her ear swiveled to take in the question. Shatterstar seemed to be either trying to include her in the conversation, which was considerate, or he was trying to use her as a buffer between himself and Rictor, which was amusing. And, again, a Them problem.

"Papadzules?" she said, her pronunciation no better with multiple examples. "Until now, no. Mexican food is not for me. Curious, though. Pepitas, we know them as pumpkin seeds. Never thought of them in a sauce. Is this common in Mexico?"

Rictor remembered to put the top on the blender this time before turning it on to liquefy the second salsa. "There are some soups and salsas that use ground pepitas," he shouted over the roar of the blender. "I think it's mostly a southern ingredient? At university in Defe, I didn't see it used much."

Satisfied with the creamy texture of this salsa, Rictor carefully poured it into one of the skillets and turned the burner to low. "OK, the recipe says, uh, fuego lento. Uh." He quickly translated the term with his phone. "Simmer. Then dip the tortillas in it, fill with the eggs, then pour more of both salsas on it and some more pepitas and buen provecho. That doesn't seem so difficult." He turned to Sharon. "What's 'simmer'?"

Sharon shuffled over to inspect the pan like a long-suffering home economics teacher slightly too involved in cosplay. "Turn up heat a little more," she suggested. "Medium-low. You want gentle bubbles. For this recipe, reduce. You are done when it is thick enough that when you drag a spatula through it, it leaves a line that does not close up again. Do not let it reduce so much it burns. I will watch."

Done cutting the eggs, Shatterstar went to find a compost or trash bin to put the shells in and to wash the small knife. He looked to Rictor and tried to remember Ms. Abbott's advice of actively listening. But it seemed like the conversation was falling on his shoulders. "So. Um." Great start. "Any special occasion or just because? For the food."

Rictor leaned against the counter. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he alternated between crossing his arms over his chest or stuffing his hands into his pockets. He really should have gotten a new shirt. His gaze shifted between the gently bubbling sauce and his friend? Person he knew? Why was he overthinking this?

Just be a man about it, not a baby, a voice in his head ordered him. So he stopped fidgeting and focused on Shatterstar. "I wanted food from home, not someone's leftover lasagna again," he answered. "There is no special occasion. This just was more difficult than my mother said it would be." He smiled wryly. "Maybe I should have just made something obnoxiously easy like a quesadilla, but I didn't see queso Oaxaca at the store, and American-type cheeses are awful."

Shatterstar purposefully didn't look at Rictor's chest- not because he didn't want to, it was a nice chest after all, but because he wanted to show he was listening to him. Also he was concerned he may get distracted about Rictor's chest.

"I wouldn't know. I like all cheeses," he said and then mentally kicked himself for sounding like the most idiot white person in the world. I like all cheeses, Benjamin teased from the back of his head. What was that?

Normally Shatterstar was much more self confident than this, but he wanted Rictor to like him so desperately.

Lame as the quip may have been, it did elicit a chuckle out of Rictor. "I don't think I'm a snob," he said defensively, though he was smiling. "I just . . . I guess I know what I like and what I don't like. Is it ready yet?" he asked, turning to Sharon. "Now I'm getting really hungry from the talk of cheese."

There was the hollow sound of a spatula being dragged across the surface of a non-stick pain. "Nearly ready for tortillas," came the reply as Sharon thought: 'I like all cheeses'?

"Bueno, this part is easy." Rictor took out a tortilla from the bag, trying to hide a grimace at his grocery store misfortune. "Just dip, fill, and roll. Mira." Once Sharon gave the green light, he pressed a tortilla into the sauce in the pan, flipped it to cover the other side, and then put it on a plate. Three quarters of an egg in, then he deftly rolled it up and returned it to the plate seam-side down.He repeated with another two tortillas, spooned some more sauce plus the salsa tatemada on top, then garnished the trio with a couple more slices of egg and pepitas. He handed the plate to Shatterstar and started on his own. "Buen provecho."

He couldn't help but watch Rictor's hand as he handled the tortilla and food. It looked good. The food, Shatterstar meant. He took the plate with a nod, being careful not to let their hands touch.

He was overthinking this.

"Burn provecho," he repeated, butchering the "r" sound. He held out the plate to offer one to Sharon.

The cat shook her head. The motion, combined with the very human way she began to remove the kitchen gloves, nudged the scene close to the edge of the uncanny valley. "Thank you, but decline. My assistance was instructional only. Fortunately we have surplus of eggs." Sharon tossed the gloves aside and prized open the refrigerator, emerging a second later with a carton. As the boys watched she flicked open the lid, extracted a raw egg, and tossed it directly into her jaws.

Crunch.

The forkful of papadzul didn't make it to Rictor's mouth, flopping down onto his plate. "Uh, Sharon, there are more cooked eggs in the bowl . . ."

"But what if you need them for third attempt?" Sharon asked. She dropped to her haunches on the kitchen rug with every sign of enjoyment and removed another egg.

Crunch.

Oh that was nasty. It was also fascinating. Shatterstar couldn't pull his eyes off of her even as he ate his papadzul. "Are you eating the shells...?"

"Nutritious. Magnesium, strontium, selenium, fluoride. All minerals are mine now." She hunched over the eggs protectively, tail twitching. "How are papadzules?" she asked, primly wiping a string of yolk from her chin.

Glancing between the stupefied Shatterstar and the satisfied Sharon, Rictor couldn't help but snort laughter. How did something so mundane like making a meal turn into such a farce? His mother would never believe his journey to make an acceptable (though surely not up to get standards) meal.

"It's fine," he answered between guffaws. "Next time will be better. Hopefully I won't lose more clothes."