Just Desserts

Beyond the gates of life, there is a border between living and the instant of death. Within that instant, an entire lifetime flashes by. Within this dizzying fog of being and non-being, the dull purple sands of time stretch out along the infinite lands like a blanket, stars spattered into the mixture. Alone in this desert of existence and non-existence was a single building, in the oddly peaceful yet picturesque form of an old Heian Period-style teahouse. It had simple white walls and circular windows, complete with blue tile roofs and a sliding door at its entrance.

From the fog, a small, shimmering blob stumbled outwards on stubby legs. It was mostly formless, appearing as a light neon thing that refused to be defined by a particular shape, other than a blob. The blob slowly ebbed in different neon colours, as though cycling through the entire colour spectrum. It peered with deep, black eyes that were dotted with shimmering stars at the teahouse in an odd sensation of perplexity. For some reason beyond its comprehension, it had to enter the teahouse, as though pulled by some inexorable thread, like its arrival at the teahouse was preordained as it continued to shamble towards it.

Inside the teahouse, a chubby chinstrap penguin sat on a cushion behind the counter. He wore a little chef’s hat and jacket that were of a pristine white, contrasting with his gentle grey-black and feathers. He sighed, returning the cigarette he had just retrieved into its packet and tucking it into a drawer as he cleared the counter surface and sharpened his knives. The door slid open as his expected customer walked in awkwardly and in silence. This was nothing new to the old penguin; he’s been around a long time, and this kind of bumbling little soul was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Hello, wandering soul. Come inside, make yourself comfortable. Welcome to my restaurant, Just Desserts. Despite the name, we will serve you anything you could possibly imagine,” he greeted as he cleared his throat. The penguin spoke with a gruff, aged voice, like that of an incredibly old smoker, so ancient that one wonders how their lungs hadn’t already turned to clumps of charcoal. The blob froze at the frame of the sliding door, clinging onto it as though they might be sucked back out the way they came.

“Cat got your tongue? Come inside; I won’t bite. I imagine it has been a long journey for you,” the penguin said in a softer tone. The blob still refused to move an inch as the minutes ticked by. The penguin sighed and opened the drawer beneath the counter, making the blob jolt in apprehension.

“Relax, I’m just going to have a cigarette, if that’s alright?” The penguin asked rhetorically as they retrieved a long oven lighter and waddled over to the front of the restaurant. He stood at roughly the same height as the neon blob, yet the way it cowered in his presence was as if an ant were looking at the foot of an elephant minutes before its demise.

The penguin awkwardly sidestepped out of the small opening that the blob provided, losing his balance briefly as he tried to recenter himself on the veranda outside. A tiny, soft giggle escaped the blob. The penguin snapped its head back towards it in disbelief for a moment, but the blob immediately froze again under his gaze. He climbed onto a deckchair that sat facing the giant wall of infinite starlit fog all around and placed the cigarette into his beak. A glance at the packet depicted a smug-looking wolf wearing a black leather jacket with its collar turned up leaning against a brick wall. It wore aviator shades with a cocky smile on its face, blowing the words ’Huff ’n Puff’ in smoke. The penguin clicked the long lighter, conjuring a small tongue of flame to emerge from the spout and took a deep breath of his cigarette. He leaned back in a state of true relaxation as he sighed deeply, releasing the plume of smoke into the air.

“I swear, that first puff of a cigarette is the nicest part, like the first sip of a can of soda, you know what I mean?” he asked, cocking his head to the neon blob to come closer. They remained where they were. The penguin took another deep breath from his cigarette.

“Do you want a soda?” he probed, trying to convince the blob to speak at all.

The penguin finished his cigarette and got back up, waddling through the door again. The blob awkwardly shuffled into the restaurant to stay out of his way.

“So you can enter. Well, that makes things easier. Grab a chair at the counter,” the penguin offered as he waddled to the other side of the counter and retrieved a chopping board.

“Where am I?” the neon blob finally asked.

“That’s not a simple question to answer,” the penguin replied as their customer remained by the doorway.

“I… died, didn’t I?” the blob said slowly, as if reassuring themselves that they had indeed died.

“There is doubt?” The penguin queried back as he began crushing herbs in a mortar and pestle. “Given the nature of your particular death, I wonder if there is any room for doubt,”

“So I am dead,” they said to themselves slowly. “I’m… dead. I died,” they repeated to themselves quietly as their voice began to quiver. They swallowed, refusing to allow the sobs that so clearly wanted to break through their small voice.

“Indeed,” was all the penguin said with his back to the blob.

“How do you know how I died?” they asked after a while, walking half of the distance towards the counter.

“Take a seat,” the penguin gestured as an offering.

“Where am I?” they asked again as they sat cross-legged on a cushion just in front of the countertop.

“Are you familiar with the concept of Tír na nóg?” the Penguin finally asked.

“I have no idea what that is. Is that where I am?” they asked.

“No,” the penguin replied flatly, much to the blob’s chagrin. “In Celtic mythology, it is referred to as the land of infinite youth. That is but a human perception of what this place truly is; we are at the border between life and death, where time is merely a concept; an entire lifetime passes in but the blink of an eye, and yet it equally takes all of time to pass. My restaurant acts as an intermediary point between the two; a comfortable environment for your last meal, of sorts. Does that answer your question?” the penguin explained.

“My last meal? I hadn’t even thought of that before…” the blob trailed off, lost in thought.

“Where is the menu?” they asked, cutting through the silence.

“Menu?” the penguin asked.

“Yes, the thing that tells you what dishes the restaurant serves?”

“...I don’t follow, could you explain it a different way?”

“It’s a piece of paper that tells you what kind of food the restaurant makes, along with the prices? How am I supposed to pay you for the food, or how much things cost?

“Cost? Why would anything I prepare for you cost anything? You have already paid,” the penguin replied flatly. The blob sighed, becoming visibly frustrated.

“Is everything you say purposefully vague? It’s annoying,”

“Only when I think it’s funny,” the penguin responded in an equally flat tone. The blob did not reply, instead shooting the penguin a glare.

“Can I have that soda now?” they asked, and were immediately greeted with a can of grape soda.

“Whoa, how did you know I wanted this? It’s the same brand and everything,” they said, observing it from every angle and holding it up to the light as if it were a precious gem.

“Satisfied?” the penguin asked.

“What do you want from me, then?” they asked after taking a long gulp from the can.

“Nothing more than engaging with me in conversation, so that I might prepare you a fitting dish as your last meal. All I want from you is to talk to me, if that’s alright.” The blob sat in silence for a moment before shrugging.

“Can I have more grape soda?” they asked, as another can appeared next to them.

The penguin took out another cigarette and lit it, this time indoors, completely oblivious to the disgust of his patron.

“Tell me about yourself. What should I call you?” he asked his guest.

“Saol,” they replied. “What should I call you?”

“Tawaituā is the name I have been given,” Tawaituā replied as he grabbed some stone-ground whole-wheat flour and a large slab of pig’s loin, cutting it into thin strips.

“What are you making?” Saol asked, cocking her head to one side.

“Time will reveal all. Now, tell me about yourself, Saol,” Tawaituā responded as he tapped his cigarette into a glass ashtray on the counter.

She watched as Tawaituā took out some sausages, placing them next to the bacon rashers that he’d taken out earlier. Tawaituā cracked an egg into a bowl, alongside some buttermilk as he began to swiftly whisk the concoction he was preparing. Taking a second metal bowl and placing it on the counter, he sifted some flour, salt, sugar and baking soda together, creating a snowy mixture of varying shades of white, like shadows reflecting over a tundra landscape. Saol was entranced as Tawaituā moved with shocking dexterity and aplomb; truly a master in their element as he elegantly danced around the small space that made up his workstation as he threw the bacon and sausages into a frying pan, causing the fats in the meat to hiss and sizzle as the dizzying scent of cooking meandered through the airspace.

He retrieved two sausages of black and white pudding and began cutting small cylinders from both, placing them on a grill. The small tongues of fire began to gently lick the discs as they began cooking. Tawaituā took some coffee beans and ground them, its pungent aroma mingling in a lackadaisical fashion with the scents filling the teahouse. He poured a cup for Saol, offering sugar, honey and an assortment of milks and cream to go with it. She languidly stirred her coffee, which went from a deep, muddy brown to a softer, sweeter caramel colour as she combined creamer and four scoops of sugar.

“So you enjoy your coffee sweet?” Tawaituā asked, taking a sip from his own mug of black coffee as he lit another cigarette.

“My mother always loved sugary coffee. I remember she’d put five cubes in before she’d even touch it,” Saol said, smiling into her mug as she strode through the forest of her childhood memories.

“Where did you grow up?” the chef asked, cutting some cold butter into the flour mixture and plopping some peeled potatoes into a pot of boiling water.

“Near Galway, in a place called Athenry. I spent a lot of time as a child running through the fields and driving the local nuns that ran my school crazy,” Saol replied, laughing as she recalled her childhood mishaps.

“You grew up in Ireland? Your accent is not particularly strong,” Tawaituā observed as he poured the buttermilk mix into the flour and began to sift it with his flippers.

“I did, but my father was American, so I had a bit of a funny accent. I got bullied a lot as a child over it, until one day a girl about three years older than me pushed me too far, so I grabbed her by the hair and broke her nose,” Saol said, sounding almost prideful. Tawaituā’s eyes widened in shock.

“You must have been quite the live wire as a child,” he chuckled as he pounded the dough until it became a large congealed mass. He took a knife and scoured the top, placing it in a baking sheet and placing it into the oven as he shifted the bacon and sausages in the pan.

“I was. I think I became a bit much for my mother to handle once my dad died; after that, I was getting into fights with pretty much everyone, including the nuns,” Saol replied, a sad smile on her face as she stared at her reflection in the swirling coffee of her mug.

“You fought nuns?” Tawaituā asked incredulously. Saol laughed and nodded,

“Of course, did you think they’d let me get away with acting like a tinker? One time, they hit me over the back of my hands with the spine of a bible, but in fairness I did bite the headmistress,” Saol laughed as Tawaituā chuckled. “It’s strange, all those moments feel so long ago, but now they’re all on the tip of my tongue, as if I can’t help but get them all out,” she said in a somewhat forlorn tone.

“Memories have a tendency to bubble to the surface when one reaches the final leg of a long journey; perhaps it is not my place to say this, but the journey is what gives a destination any significance,” Tawaituā responded as he took some chestnut mushrooms and began chopping them, tipping them into the frying pan as it sizzled with their arrival to the fray.

“Where am I going?” Saol asked.

“I wouldn’t know. I only know that I am here, and presently, so are you,” was all Tawaituā said in response as he refilled her coffee cup and offered her a cigarette, which she took and began smoking as he joined her.

They sat in silence for a little while as the food continued to cook, the small teahouse slowly filling with the complimentary scents of baking bread and frying meats. Tawaituā broke a few eggs into the pan as they crackled on the fats, their translucent innards quickly turning white. The meal was almost finished preparing.

“How old were you?” Tawaituā finally asked.

“Twenty. I was at university when I died,” Saol said matter-of-factly. Tawaituā was unfazed by this; to an entity such as he, there was little difference between a year and a thousand years. “I was isolated; as a child, I always wanted to become a marine biologist. Sea turtles were my favourite thing, so I wanted to become a conservationist focusing around them and their ecosystems,” Saol continued.

“It sounds like you had altruistic aspirations. Did something go wrong?” Tawaituā asked as he retrieved the now finished soda bread loaf from the oven, leaving it to cool on the countertop.

“Not necessarily. I’m hardly a unique case; just another one of the dissatisfied young people who saw no way out,” Saol responded.

“What do you mean?” Tawaituā asked.

“At some point, the desperation to change the world became too much for me to deal with; the more I learned about where we were moving, and how fast, I became so hopeless. It drowned me; seeing how empty my whole life felt like it had become. I couldn’t help but think to myself, “humans made it this far, only to do this to ourselves?” It was as if my whole life had been cheated and stolen from my hands before I even knew it, like it was a fixed outcome from the beginning. It’s not a unique view of the world, not by a long shot, but I always used to go back to that famous saying, you know the one? “Glass half empty, glass half full?” she said, as Tawaituā stood in silence. “Ultimately I came to the conclusion that the glass is definitely half full, but of poison,” Saol extended a hand for a cigarette, to which Tawaituā obliged, putting one into her palm. The penguin sighed, lighting his own cigarette as the potatoes continued to boil.

“I have been here for a very, very long time. Even I do not know how long that is; equally, I do not bother to remember those who come through my doors. I am a chef, and there is no shortage of hungry mouths to feed. I take comfort in the simplicity of my existence, for there are so many things that are possible while you are alive, but so few that are necessary. It seems that, for many who enter through my doors, the latter rarely overlaps with the former,” Tawaituā spoke through the thin haze of smoke that obscured his button-like eyes.

“Then how do you distinguish ‘time passing’ from ‘wasting time?’” Saol asked, confusedly.

“That is not for me to say,” Tawaituā replied, cryptically. Saol sighed, rubbing her temples.

“Does everything you say sound like it came from a fortune cookie? Can I ask something else, then? Is there a god?” Saol asked, holding out her coffee cup for another.

“What would change if I told you the answer? If it’s a god you are afraid of, perhaps arriving here in the fashion that you did was not the way to meet them,” Tawaituā said flatly.

“That’s a non-answer. I’m seriously asking, is there a god?” Saol doubled down.

“Regardless of how I answer, you do not really want the answer, or care what it is; everyone, no matter who they are, eventually asks me this question. So, allow me to return the favour, why do you care if there is a god or not, especially given the circumstances of our meeting? Is this not enough for you?” the penguin asked, looking directly into her eyes.

“I want to know, because I want to know who is laughing at us,”

They continued for a time in total silence as Tawaituā removed everything from the heat and mashed the potatoes, flattening them into farls. He threw the small, square potato pancakes onto the pan, frying them in the oils of the bacon, sausage and eggs as he began to assemble the plate for Saol. He arranged everything and sprinkled some salt on top of everything, holding it over the counter for her.

“Enjoy your meal,” he said in the same emotionless tone with which he always spoke. Tawaituā took the loaf of soda bread from the oven and placed it next to the potato farls as he left it to cool for a minute.

“What made you think I wanted breakfast as my last meal?” Saol asked, cocking her head to the side. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely not complaining; it smells amazing, exactly like… my mother’s,” she trailed off as tears silently rolled down her formless face. “I… I never even said goodbye, did I?” she muttered, hunching over the plate in front of her as she wept quietly. Tawaituā said nothing, letting the small soul weep for the life they left behind.

“No matter how one greets Death, who comes for us all, we greet them alone. It is not a question of who is around you at the time of your death, or even what form it is that your death takes, for no matter who it is, we all die alone. What matters is how you greet Death; it is better to smile, as they are little more than an old friend. I can understand your tears, Saol; there were many people that you had to leave behind as you embark on your next journey, but there is no such thing as “wasted time,” as you said earlier. There is merely the warm blanket of time that stretches out over all things. I am just fortunate to have been able to meet you on this journey of yours at the time that I did,” Tawaituā spoke in a soft voice. Saol did not reply, instead beginning to pick at the meal that Tawaituā had prepared for her. As soon as the first bite entered her mouth, the taste hit her like a ton of elephants falling from a skyscraper. A faint, delicate laugh escaped her lips; a flower blooming after a long winter. Saol laughed, so freely, so beautifully as the etchings of her life danced through the air around her, the moving pictures of memories painted across the canvas of her short lifetime. The taste of the food, the crust of the bread, the lightly fried surfaces of the potato farls; truly, the art of Tawaituā’s cooking had touched Saol to the core of her very being. Saol laughed as the tears carved shallow rivers down the sides of her face. For a moment, she was herself; wild tendrils of black hair and icy blue eyes atop her porcelain complexion.

“Do you laugh often?” Tawaituā asked.

“Only when it hurts,”

They sat in silence as Saol finished her meal.