Melting your Precious Heart

Chapter 6 - Greatest cook in history

Grandpa had spun so many tales about Felix's father that I nearly lost track of why I was there in the first place. His stories unfold like vibrant tapestries, rich with threads of history and humor. I could almost picture the past as he described it, vivid images of grand adventures and cherished memories.

"Grandpa, can I ask you a question?" I ventured, slightly hesitant but eager to delve deeper into the conversation.

"What is it, my princess?" he responded, his voice warm and inviting, encouraging me to voice any query that crossed my mind. "You can ask me anything."

Curiosity propelled me forward. "Grandpa, why did you scream earlier? It caught me by surprise, and I hurried into the room, fearing something bad might have happened to you." The memory of that moment rushed back, a flash of anxiety that quickly transformed into concern for my beloved grandfather.

He cast me a sheepish smile, an expression that blended embarrassment with sincerity. "I’m truly sorry for that, my princess," he said, for he knew he had startled me. "It was because of this." With that, Grandpa reached for a modest lunchbox resting beside him, a detail I hadn't even noticed until now.

As he opened the lunchbox, I peered inside to find a circular, yellowish item nestled within. My mind immediately raced back to Felix, the son of Grandpa's best friend, and the food he had wanted to share with me before I had declined. I remembered how my father had accepted the offering as a gesture of goodwill, honoring the kind intentions behind it, allowing it to find its way to Grandpa.

Grandpa’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he recounted how he had not hesitated to take a taste of what lay in the lunchbox, despite it not being tested by the kingdom's food taster. "It was Felix’s creation, and knowing how much your father enjoyed it in the past piqued my interest even more. The aroma wafting from it was simply irresistible," he explained with infectious enthusiasm. Freshly dined but enticed by the prospect of dessert, Grandpa carried the lunchbox to his room. Initially, he had planned to save it for breakfast, but curiosity had prevailed, leading to his impromptu snack just as I was about to knock on his door.

"It's so delectable that it made me raise my voice a little," he admitted, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. "It’s fortunate that you were the only one to hear my excitement. I felt as if I were witnessing a new Philip Borgon rise in the culinary world; at such a young age, he was already cementing his place in history."

I couldn't help but be curious about this intriguing food that could evoke such strong feelings. "Is it truly that remarkable to earn a spot in history?" I wondered aloud.

"Grandpa, may I have some of that food?" The question slipped out before I realized it, my cravings ignited by the vivid descriptions of flavor.

Obligingly, Grandpa handed me a generous portion of the pancake that Felix had brought. Now, here I sat in my room, staring at the seemingly unassuming disk. It looked deceptively plain for something that would be heralded in history, yet Grandpa had assured me it was called a pancake. The name had a pleasant ring to it, but I was eager to find out if it deserved such high praise through taste.

"Grandpa said to drizzle some honey on top of it for the perfect flavor," I murmured, as I gathered the sticky golden substance and carefully draped it over the pancake, watching it pool enticingly.

With anticipation mounting, I prepared to judge my first bite. As I sank my teeth into it, the pancake melted in my mouth, the sweetness combined with a delicate texture enveloping my senses in an exquisite embrace. Each flavor burst into life, a symphony of taste that danced upon my tongue.

"It is indeed worthy of being etched in our kingdom's history," was all I could say, utterly enthralled by the marvelous concoction. The words tumbled from my lips, a testament to how utterly delightful it was, a deliciousness that beckoned me to indulge further.

I struggled internally against the impulse to gobble it all up in one sitting, reminding myself that I should perhaps save some for the next day. Yet, as I gazed at my serving from Grandpa, I realized it just wasn’t enough to satisfy my newfound craving. I needed more — much more of this exquisite pancake that seemed to be a taste of magic itself.

The sun had already risen, casting a warm glow into the corners of my room, gently urging me from my dreams. Today, I found myself waking up a little earlier than usual. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tried to shake off the remnants of slumber, memories from the night before flooded my mind. I remember falling asleep, my thoughts swirling around a strong craving for pancakes. The fluffy, golden stacks of joy had lingered in my mind, tempting me and making it difficult to ease into a peaceful slumber. Each flicker of thought was accompanied by the captivating image of syrup cascading down the sides, a sweet treat I yearned for in the depths of my dreams.

As I pushed open my door and stepped into the hallway, an unexpected surge of nostalgia washed over me like a comforting wave. This morning ritual had always been a cherished part of my day, a soothing canvas painted with the familiar strokes of routine. Yet, for the past three months, during my intensive training far away from home, I had been deprived of this simple pleasure. To think that today marked my first visit back to the palace kitchen after what felt like an eternity was invigorating.

I took several eager steps down the hallway, counting the distance to the kitchen—just three blocks away, and the anticipation built steadily within me. Suddenly, an enticing aroma began to envelop me, wrapping around me like a warm embrace. The scent was incredibly rich and delicious, more than enough to make me quicken my pace. My heart raced with excitement, and by the time I reached the kitchen door, I could hardly contain my eagerness. With a dramatic flourish, I swung the door open, only to be completely taken aback by the sight before me.

There he was, standing confidently at the counter, cooking all by himself, completely at ease in what should have been my territory. The shock ignited a burst of indignation within me. “What are you doing here!? Who gave you permission to use our kitchen!?” I found myself shouting, my voice reverberating against the glossy tiled walls. The authority in my tone surprised even me—it felt foreign, yet empowering.

“Oh, Princess! Good morning! Are you hungry?” he replied, unfazed by my outburst, sporting that infuriatingly casual smile of his. His nonchalance only fueled my frustration.

“A little bit, but wait, that’s not the point! What are you doing here!?” I retorted, my mind ablaze with confusion and annoyance. His presence was wholly unexpected, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

“Don’t focus on the small details, Princess. Come sit here; I’ve prepared something for you. Just have a taste,” he insisted, gently guiding me to a seat at the counter despite my protests.

“But—,” I started, trying to assert my presence and my rightful claim over the kitchen.

“Don’t worry; it’s not poisoned,” he chuckled lightly, encouraging me to try what he had done. Despite my reservations bubbling within me, the warm and delightful image of pancakes filled my mind once more—the heavenly taste I craved from the day before replaying like a sweet melody. My grandfather’s voice echoed reassuringly in my ears: trust him. Eventually, I found myself too hungry to resist the tantalizing promise of whatever he had whipped up.

With a hint of hesitation, I took my first bite. Surprise etched across my face, “It’s good! No, it’s so good! What do you call this?” The flavors exploded on my tongue, intertwining in a joyous medley that sent my taste buds dancing. One bite seamlessly turned into another, and before I could even comprehend what was happening, I had polished off the entire bowl in mere moments, my hunger insatiable.

“It’s called fried rice, Princess. And about your earlier question, His Majesty wanted to have more pancakes, so that’s why I’m here. However, the ingredients weren’t enough, so the other people who were with me went to get some more,” he explained matter-of-factly, that charming grin still plastered across his face.

So, he was preparing pancakes again! The thought made my heart swell with joy. I relish the memory of how much I adored those pancakes. But if he was there to make pancakes, why was he busy cooking this fragrant and colorful fried rice instead of tending to the towering stacks of syrupy goodness?

“You will make pancakes, right? Then why did you cook something else without permission?” I demanded, trying hard to see past his charming façade, my curiosity piqued by this sudden culinary twist.

“I’m sorry for cooking without permission,” he admitted with a slightly sheepish tone, clearly unfazed by my anger. “But when I saw the leftover rice earlier, I asked the chef and found out that it was going to be thrown away. So, I thought, why not cook it instead? I was hungry too,” he explained with an innocent shrug, punctuated by a soft chuckle. “Oh, and the vegetables I added were just leftovers from that basket over there. I didn’t bring out any new ingredients,” he clarified, sincerity radiating from him.

Is this guy for real? He had defied kitchen protocols and transformed seemingly useless leftovers into this beautifully flavorful dish! It struck me then—my grandfather had been right. His talent was astonishing, and I couldn’t help but think that if he continued to work magic in the kitchen like this, he would someday be known as the greatest cook in our kingdom’s history. With each delicious bite of fried rice, I felt a growing admiration for his skill, a quiet acknowledgment that perhaps this was just the beginning of something spectacular.