It was around this point that Akira began cooking.
This was not unusual in itself. Akira was a competent cook when he wanted to be, although his culinary interests tended toward elaborate presentations and ingredients that could only be purchased from shops with names like The Apothecary's Table.
What was unusual was that he began developing a scallop recipe while we were in the middle of a spiritual emergency.
He appeared in the kitchen one afternoon carrying a notepad.
“I've had an inspiration.”
“Congratulations.”
“Two scallops.”
I looked up from my laptop.
“Two?”
“Exactly two.”
“Are we feeding someone?”
“No.”
“Then why two scallops?”
“Because the recipe requires two scallops.”
I waited.
He continued.
“Finely grated jalapeño zest.”
I blinked.
“Jalapeño zest?”
“Yes.”
“I thought jalapeños had skin.”
“They do.”
“Then what exactly are we zesting?”
Akira gave me a look that suggested I had just asked whether the moon was a celestial body.
“The outer layer.”
“Of the jalapeño.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
He made a note.
“And one-tenth of a puréed potato.”
I looked at him.
“One-tenth?”
“Correct.”
“What happens to the other nine-tenths?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“They aren't required.”
I stared at the notebook.
This was a man who had ordered nearly three hundred bunches of sage because Mercury was retrograde, yet he was unwilling to commit to an entire potato.
I asked whether the recipe had anything to do with his spiritual restoration.
He closed the notebook.
“The culinary process is separate.”
“Of course.”
“It must not be conflated with the restoration.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
He returned to the kitchen and began peeling a potato with the concentration of a surgeon performing an operation on a dignitary.
Twenty minutes later, he announced that the restoration might additionally require one millilitre of scallop tears.
I put down my laptop.
“Scallop tears.”
“Yes.”
“How do we obtain them?”
Akira looked at me.
“I haven't determined that yet.”
“Do scallops cry?”
“I would imagine so.”
“Do they have tear ducts?”
“I don't know, Daniel. I'm not a marine biologist.”
“Neither am I, but I'm beginning to think we should consult one before we start emotionally interrogating shellfish.”
Akira took the scallops out of the refrigerator.
I watched him prepare them with the utmost seriousness. He seasoned them, arranged the jalapeño zest with tweezers, and placed the puréed potato in a small white dish.
The result looked beautiful.
It also looked like something a restaurant would charge forty-seven dollars for while leaving you hungry enough to eat the menu.
Akira took one bite.
He closed his eyes.
“Extraordinary.”
“I'm glad.”
“The texture is correct.”
“Wonderful.”
“The spiritual implications remain unclear.”
I looked at the scallops.
I looked at the potato.
I looked at the spreadsheet, which was open on my laptop behind him.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard the faint sound of my bank account pleading for mercy.