He chooses the mouldering leftovers from the refrigerator based on an algorithmic assessment of the likelihood of food poisoning. The squash soup is probably the safest bet, but the salsiccia marinara needs eating. That Italian sausage isn’t getting any younger. Heated fast and hot, it should be safe enough. He pulls the bowl from the fridge, gives it a sniff, shrugs to no one.
What the hell.
The sausage marinara goes into a saucepan atop the gas range. The ignitor snaps, and the flame bursts to life. While the marinara begins to bubble, he runs water into a pasta pot until it is half-full, bangs it onto the largest burner, and fires up the gas.
Meanwhile, small volcanoes erupt in the saucepan, glooping tomato lava. He scoops up the pan, stirs the mixture with a wooden spoon, and lowers the heat. Hopefully, any lurking Bacillus cereus have gone to their bacterial doom.
There may be some form of self-harm implicit in his actions, but, if so, the spectre looms in the background, neither acknowledged nor denied.
His life might resemble a wasteland, but he will not waste food. That is a line in the sand he cannot cross, no matter the peril. The voice of his mother echoes in his head.
Stanley Kucharz, you eat your vegetables. There are starving children who would be glad to have some nice broccoli.
Mrs Kucharz has gone to her heavenly kitchen, leaving Stanley to worry about hungry kids in far-flung corners of the globe. Those kids are counting on him. He won’t let them down. Not this time. He’s done letting people down.
Stanley Kucharz lives alone in a modest house equipped with an oversized kitchen. He has been alone now for seven months and, yes, three days. At 34, Stanley is old enough to accept solitude as a fact of his existence. His acceptance, however, does nothing to alleviate the gnawing loneliness.
A lonely man in a small house with a large kitchen. Why, then, the abundance of leftovers cramming every shelf of the refrigerator and freezer? The answer is quite simple. Stanley continues to cook for two. Sometimes four. Occasionally six.
He plans menus, makes shopping lists, buys only the best ingredients. Whole Saturday afternoons are devoted to reducing chicken stock, only to freeze the glistening liquid in old yogurt containers. Piquant curries and chili verde simmer on the gas range.
One entire kitchen cabinet is set aside to hold a myriad of plastic and glass containers, each with its matching lid. The bins, tubs, and jars are filled with culinary creations, carefully labelled, then crammed one atop the next into the overworked refrigerator.
After two months of solitude, Stanley’s output exceeds the capacity of his fridge. He goes to the local appliance store and purchases the biggest chest freezer he can afford. Several days later, two deliverymen install the freezer in Stanley’s kitchen. The massive appliance gives off a steady hum. Stanley takes comfort from this reassuring sound. And still, he cooks.
Stanley consumes the salsiccia marinara over calamarata pasta, soaking up the last of the sauce on a bit of baguette. He sits at the table, staring at the empty plate. Time passes without any telltale symptoms in his gut. He shrugs, pushes himself from his chair, and sets about the next cooking task.
Stanley’s solitary life may have continued along a haphazard trajectory of dodgy eating and manic cooking until he became a hermit, the culinary equivalent of a crazy cat lady. The catalyst that will be his salvation, or damnation, arrives in the form of an almost perfect casserole of ratatouille...the very dish he is about to prepare.
And so, he begins. He preheats the two ovens, each to a different temperature. Rinses eggplant and zucchini, then slices them into rounds. Arranges the slices on two roasting pans, slides them into the ovens, sets two timers. While the zucchini and eggplant roast, Stanley begins the ratatouille sauce: crushed tomatoes, shredded carrots, garlic, onion, olive oil. A simple dish, yet one that requires many careful steps.
An hour later, he assembles the casserole, layer by layer. The heavy dish goes into the oven. While the ratatouille bakes, Stanley cleans the kitchen and washes the dishes. Slowly, a tantalizing and wonderful aroma fills the kitchen. Stanley checks the timer, peers through the oven glass. Almost, but not quite yet. He wipes down the counters and sweeps the floor.
Ding.
Stanley slips his hands into matching oven mitts. He opens the heavy steel door and heat pours over his face. He reaches inside, lifts the casserole out, and places it on top of the range.
The ratatouille is baked to perfection. Alternating layers of purple eggplant, green zucchini, and red tomato form a concentric spiral. Pungent steam rises from the casserole, overpowering his senses.
In the next instant, everything goes wrong.
Without warning or reason, the sight and scent of the dish fills him with revulsion. His gut churns. Bile rises in his throat. He cannot stomach the sight of it, much less the horrible stench. Overwhelmed, he grabs the casserole from the range. He must destroy this abomination this instant. His wild eyes lock on the kitchen window. Closed, but there is no time. Throw it; throw it now! Smash the casserole right through the glass. Let it shatter in the vacant lot below, and good riddance.
Then a voice…
Stanley Kucharz, there are starving children who would be happy to have a lovely hot meal.
He stands paralyzed, frozen in the act of pitching the offending casserole. Frozen until heat penetrates the oven mitts, until the pain becomes unbearable. Muttering curses, Stanley clatters the scalding dish onto the range top. He flings his hands in the air. The mitts fly across the room. Blowing on his burned fingers, Stanley stares at the ratatouille. The casserole stares back.
And at that moment, in the stealthy way of epiphanies, an idea smacks into Stanley’s brain. He runs from the kitchen, yanks open a door, and descends a set of rickety stairs. The dim basement is a clutter of stacked boxes. After rooting through the debris of many years, he finds what he’s searching for. The old folding table clatters as he drags it up the stairs.
He throws the table out onto the front porch and retraces his steps to the basement. Folding chairs, they’re here somewhere. An armload of chairs ascends the stairs to be thrown down beside the table.
Stanley rampages through the small house, grabbing items in his haste: paper plates, a box of plastic forks, cardboard, tape, a marking pen. Everything goes on the growing heap. Then he’s out of the house, lugging the folding table to the vacant lot next door. He snaps open its legs, badly pinching a finger in the process. Ignoring the pain, he sets the table just off the sidewalk, and then runs to the front porch. Back and forth, back and forth he goes with all the items, until everything is ready.
He slaps the cardboard onto the table, scrawls two words across the surface, then tapes the ragged sign to the table’s edge. After one quick look, he dashes back to the kitchen.
Minutes later, Stanley emerges from the house carrying the foil-covered ratatouille.
The sidewalk is no longer empty; someone is standing before the table, peering at the sign. Stanley has seen this man before—not young, not old—wearing a scruffy overcoat and woollen hat despite the mild day. The sort of man who sometimes mutters to himself. And the sort of man who might be hungry.
Stanley pastes a nervous smile on his face and hurries forward. The man looks up, then points to the sign.
“It says ‘Free lunch’.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do I have to pray first?”
“Sorry?”
“At the mission, they make us pray before we get the soup and a slice of bread. It’s not very good.”
“No, there’s no need to pray. I mean, you can if you want to, I guess. My name’s Stanley.”
The man looks up and down the sidewalk, then chews his lip.
“Um…I’m Charlie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Charlie. If you’d like some lunch, have a seat and I’ll make you up a plate.”
Charlie tugs his coat collar, looks at the sky, then shrugs and folds open one of the chairs. Stanley lifts the foil from the casserole and sets it aside. Wielding a sharp knife, he cuts a neat square, then uses a spatula to work the portion loose. He places the ratatouille on a doubled paper plate, adds a plastic fork and napkin, and steps from behind the table.
“Here you go, Charlie. I hope you like it.”
Charlie balances the plate on his knees, grabs the fork, and stabs the ratatouille. He lifts a forkful to his nose, sniffs, then stuffs it into his mouth. Chews for a moment. Stops. Looks at the sky. Looks at Stanley. Chews again. Swallows. Smiles.
“It tastes like sunshine.”
Another forkful vanishes. Charlie chews and nods at the same time. Swallows. Looks up.
“This is the best free lunch I ever ate.”
Stanley smiles, not quite so nervous this time.
“I’m glad you like it.”
A rough voice from behind Stanley interrupts the moment.
“What’s all this, then?”
While Charlie ignores the interruption in favour of his free lunch, Stanley turns. An old man stands on the sidewalk, wearing a frown and a snap-brim cap pulled low over shaggy white eyebrows.
“Hello, Mr Patterson.”
Mr Patterson, who complains about garbage bins left out too long, or unscooped dog poop. Many years a widower.
“Hello, yourself. I asked you a question.”
Stanley glances back at Charlie, who is busily eating his sunshine, then faces his grouchy neighbour.
“Well, Mr Patterson, I cooked this big casserole and I’m not even hungry. Force of habit, I guess. I thought you might like some lunch.”
“Lunch for me?”
“Sure, why not? Lunch for anyone who’s hungry.”
The old man frowns even more.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch, just lunch if you’d like some.”
Mr Patterson dares a look at the casserole. Raises a gnarled finger to point.
“What is it?”
“Ratatouille. It’s French.”
“Hmph. Well, seeing as how I’m already out of the house.”
“Grab a chair and I’ll make you a plate.”
While Charlie scrapes the last sauce from his plate, Mr Patterson takes his first bite. A moment passes, and so does his frown. The old man stares at Stanley, almost smiles, then concentrates on his lunch.
As Stanley watches his two guests, a young woman crosses the street. She wears bright colours and baggy yoga pants. Rebecca—a good neighbour and sweet—but also someone who knew Stanley before. She’s a reminder of other times.
“Hi, Stanley. What’s going on?”
“Hello, Rebecca. Um…I made lunch, see, but I got a little carried away. Would you like some?”
She smiles but shakes her head.
“I’d love to, but I’m vegan, remember?”
Stanley’s face breaks into a grin.
“Then today’s your lucky day. It’s ratatouille—original French vegan.”
“Really? Wow, count me in.”
Stanley serves another plate. Slowly but surely, the ratatouille disappears.
The next morning, after a light breakfast, Stanley lays out the ingredients for chili colorado. By mid-morning, the kitchen is rich with the scent of braised beef and simmering chilies. While the pungent red sauce simmers, he sets to work on a batch of Spanish rice.
When Stanley opens the front door at eleven-thirty, he is surprised to see Charlie and Mr Patterson standing at the foot of the porch stairs. More surprising still, the two men are talking, with the hint of a smile on Mr Patterson’s face. Charlie makes no attempt to hide a big grin as he turns and waves at Stanley.
“Mr Patterson says we could set up the table and chairs, if that’s okay.”
Stanley needs only a moment to let the idea sink in.
“Sure, Charlie, that would be great.”
The younger man is already climbing the stairs. He stops on the last step and looks up at Stanley.
“I’ll carry stuff down, and Mr Patterson will be in charge of setting up, but he said I could tape up the sign. Is that okay?”
Stanley waves a hand at the pile.
“Everything is right there. However you want to do it is fine, Charlie. I’ll go see to the food.”
He steps back through the front door and walks to the kitchen. Working quickly, he transfers the chili colorado and rice into a pair of battered chafing dishes unearthed from the basement. He’s pleased with the result. The dishes look more professional, and the food will stay nice and warm.
Glad for the sturdy handles, Stanley trundles the first chafing dish out of the house and down the stairs. Mr Patterson is fussing with the table, wiggling it back and forth, then squatting to check the level. Charlie waits with the sign in one hand and a roll of tape in the other.
Stanley places the rice dish on the table. Mr Patterson shoots his cuff and checks his watch.
“Eleven fifty-five.”
“One more trip and lunch is ready.”
“Right. Better hurry. We’ll get the chairs set up.”
“I get to do the sign.”
Stanley smiles, shakes his head, and hurries back to the house.
Charlie and Mr Patterson are settled side-by-side over plates of chili and rice. A car parks at the curb. Soon enough, two young hipster guys are digging into their paper plates while Mr Patterson explains the free lunch idea.
Stanley has just gotten the new guests settled when Rebecca saunters across the street. She smiles, but shakes her head after stealing a glance at the men’s plates.
“Hi, Stanley. I guess I’m out of luck today.”
“Not true. I made a special pot of chili sauce just for you. No meat whatsoever. And the rice is vegan. If you wouldn’t mind watching the table, I’ll scoot in and get it.”
“Wow, that’s so thoughtful of you.”
Rebecca moves behind the table, and Stanley scurries back to the kitchen.
He’s only gone a few minutes, but when he returns with a saucepan in his hand, a squad car waits at the curb. Two police officers are standing in front of the table. Rebecca is chatting with the policemen, and everyone seems to be smiling, but Stanley feels a worm of worry squirming in his gut. He frowns and hurries down the sidewalk.
Rebecca has just lifted the lid from the chili colorado as Stanley steps behind the table. She waves her free hand at Stanley while addressing the pair of cops.
“Here’s Stanley Kucharz, our amazing cook. Stanley, this is Officer Jones and Officer Alvarez.”
Stanley swallows down the lump in his throat.
“Pleased to meet you both. Are you officers hungry?”
The younger cop, Jones, starts to speak, but his partner nudges him with an elbow. Alvarez is older, a bit of grey showing in his sideburns.
“It’s good to see the community putting together something like this. We’d be honoured to try a small taste if there’s enough to go around.”
While he’s speaking, his eyes never leave the chili colorado.
Stanley feels a giddy sense of relief.
“There’s plenty for everyone. Let me make you up a plate. You too, Rebecca. Vegan special.”
Stanley watches his guests eat. The two hipsters finish their lunch, offer their compliments, and drive away. Officer Jones is the next. He says something to Alvarez, then walks to the squad car. Alvarez scrapes his plate, licks the plastic fork clean, tosses the rubbish into a garbage bag, and strolls to the table.
“Thank you, Mr Kucharz. I don’t know where you learned to cook Mexican, but that was as good as my abuela used to make, and that’s saying something.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“More than enjoyed. I tasted ancho chilies for sure, and maybe árbol as well. But there was something else. Not asking you to divulge your secrets, but it’s driving me nuts.”
“Ah, you must be tasting the guajillos.”
Alvarez breaks into a smile.
“That’s it. I should have remembered. My abuela used those in her mole.”
The cop leans in a bit and lowers his voice.
“I don’t want to sound like a hard ass, but do you have a food handlers’ card? It’s not a cop thing, but if the health department noses around, they might ask you.”
The worm of worry is back, tickling Stanley’s gut.
“Uh…no, I don’t. Sorry.”
Alvarez waves his hand.
“It’s no big deal. You can get a card online these days. Piece of cake. But it would be a good idea.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’ll do it today for sure.”
Alvarez gestures toward the squad car.
“Duty calls, but thanks again. You made my day.”
Stanley watches the cop walk away. His eyes follow the car as it leaves. Then a voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
“Stanley?”
Rebecca smiles across the table. Beside her stands a man Stanley does not recognize. The newcomer is tall and slender. He is also handsome. Stanley feels a twinge in his chest. He realizes he’s staring as the man smiles at him. He quickly turns back to Rebecca.
“Sorry, lost in my head. The cops threw me.”
“The young one was a bit of a pill, but Alvarez was nice. This is my friend Greg. He’s a serious foodie. I called him and told him to get his butt over here.”
The man smiles and extends his hand over the table.
“Greg Saunders. Pleased to meet you, Stanley.”
Out of habit, Stanley wipes his hand on his apron. Greg’s hand feels smooth and cool against his, a firm grip without being macho. The twinge in Stanley’s chest doubles. He forces himself to release Greg’s hand.
“May I offer you a plate?”
“Yes, please. This smells great.”
Stanley makes up a plate of chili and rice. Greg takes it, thanks him, and walks over to sit beside Charlie and Mr Patterson. Stanley watches as Greg begins to eat. Rebecca has not moved. He turns to her, and words leap from his mouth before he can stop them.
“New boyfriend, Rebecca?”
Rebecca cocks her head and grins.
“Greg’s not my boyfriend, Stanley. But you can ask him about that yourself.”
Stanley feels a blush starting at his throat and climbing upward. Rebecca laughs at his obvious discomfort, then reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.
“Try not to think too much, okay? You’re a good person and a great cook. Look at what you’re doing here.”
She gestures toward the chairs. Stanley’s eyes follow her hand. He sees Greg raising a fork while listening to Charlie, whose hands swirl in the air; Mr. Patterson nodding and smiling.
He turns away, meets Rebecca’s eyes. Her face is serious now, and so are her words.
“You know, I can’t remember the last time I saw Mr Patterson smile. And poor Charlie, he’s a bit lost, but you’ve given him something to belong to. They’re happy. You made that happen. Maybe it’s time you gave yourself permission to be happy, too.”
Without waiting for a reply, Rebecca walks toward the seated group. Stanley remains behind the table, lost in thought as he ponders her words.
The sound of laughter breaks his reverie. Greg is standing now, a stained paper plate dangling from his hand. He says something to Rebecca, who makes a face and waves him off. Greg shrugs, drops his plate in the rubbish bag, and walks toward Stanley. He’s smiling, holding up his plastic fork.
“Stanley, my compliments. That was amazing. The plate was a goner, but I saved my fork. Any chance of seconds?”
Stanley hears words coming out of his mouth before his brain can intervene. For the briefest moment—a single heartbeat—it’s as if he’s standing outside himself while someone else speaks with his voice. An instant later, he snaps back.
“For you, absolutely.”
Greg smiles, and the day becomes brighter. Stanley lays out a new paper plate, reaches for a ladle, and lifts the lid from the chafing dish. Before he can dip the ladle into the chili, Greg speaks.
“Why don’t you make a plate for yourself while you’re at it. You deserve it, and I hate to eat alone.”
Time stops, rendering the table-top into a still-life painting. His hand holding the ladle; the tarnished silver chafing dish; the chili a deep, rich red. And with the visual sensation, something physical—the siren call of an honest hunger—and, behind it, the almost forgotten desire for something more.
Ding.
Time resumes its unremitting course. Stanley looks at Greg, smiles, then lays out a second paper plate.