In Which We Meet The Family

In Which We Meet The Family
Toast
Marriage Woes

“Mariko, get down here!” Mom’s voice calls again. I splash my face with water again, and call back-
“Coming, Mom!” The splashing was probably a mistake, I reflect, as I see stray water droplets have hit my white shirt collar and left grey marks on it. But the sun’s out, so it should at least dry off quickly.

I move downstairs, almost tripping on some toy my baby brother left out. I call him that even though he’s almost thirteen, and will continue to until the day he- until the day I die.

I look down and let out a wince; it’s one of his favourites, some tokusatsu hero clad in black spandex with a huge logo on the chest. It’s not damaged, that’s a relief.
“Satou! Clean up your toys, geeze!” I yell out, picking the toy up and placing it neatly on the windowsill. I take a few moments to pose him looking stern and cool, glaring into his bedroom door, a smile plays on my lips.

“Mariko, now!” Mom’s voice breaks me from my reverie, and I charge down the stairs with a heavy thump-thump-thump.

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“What took you so long? Were you on your phone again?” Mom says shortly, standing with her hands on her hips, and yes—argh—the classic reverse-grip ladle and apron stance of a mother who’s going to try and do everything and then complain that somehow it’s my fault.

“We’re out of soap.” I reply, looking at the table and grabbing a slice of toast, sitting down to add some butter. It’s not a real answer, but it’s enough to deflect. She lets out a short tut and continues doing mom-things at the counter. I’ve never figured out what the point of any of it is, and it’s a little too late to learn now. Cleaning techniques change every generation, I can’t keep up with it!

“Bother. Again?” Mom sighs, ringing out a dishcloth. Honestly, I’m surprised at her being so traditional today. She’s not exactly great at cooking, but she can handle the numbers and keeps the books for the bakery going. I’m sure without her we’d be homeless and deep in debt with the wrong sort of people. I idly straighten out a wrinkle in my school skirt.

“Just that?” She asks, looking at the toast in my hand. I pause mid-bite, before allowing my teeth to crunch the rest of the way, letting the appealing crack-snap of the crispy bread be my answer. Mom clicks her tongue again, and resumes her work.

“When you’re done, tell Dad that he needs to get started on that wedding cake. We don’t have all day, time’s ticking away.” She says over her shoulder. I finish the toast and give the spot of butter on my thumb a quick lick before getting up. It’s a short walk down the corridor to the bakery’s oven-and-design room. It may seem weird to have both a house kitchen and a professional oven, but somehow it made sense when grandpa designed the place. There’s probably some secret reason I’m not privy to.

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Dad’s one of those artist types, his head’s up in the air. There’s a saying in Japan ‘Hana yori dango’, or dumplings over flowers. It means someone more concerned with practicality over beauty. In Dad’s case, it’s always been ‘Dango yori hana’.

Were he born with a paintbrush in hand, he would have masterpieces in every gallery. A chisel and his work would adorn city streets the world over. But it was a baker’s apron, and so he set about making flowers from dumplings.

“What do you think?” He pushes his glasses up his nose, and I stare at the cake. It’s western-style, a “jam sponge”. I suggested it and he just took the idea and ran with it, an intricate blossoming flower pattern with strawberry jam and rich cream between each petal.

“Looks great, Dad.” I give an approving nod. I grab my red-rimmed glasses from my jacket and put them on to get a clearer view.

“Is this for that wedding?” I add, peering at it. Dad grabs a fistful of powdered sugar and claps his hands over it to scatter the fine white topping across, shaking his head.
“The wedding? No, this is for… the wedding…” His eyes widen, and I back away, out the front door as I hear the sudden emergency clamouring for pots, pans, and ingredients. Yup, he forgot. Mom’s so gonna kill him.