Page 67 of When Lemons Give You Life

He hesitates. “More vanilla?”

I nod. “Good instinct.”

He adds a few drops. We blitz again.

He bites his lip. “I don’t suppose some nutmeg would be good . . . ? Nah, it’s probably a bad idea.”

“Do it.”

He finds the jar, inhales deeply. “This reminds me of Gran. She let me help make biscuits when I was little.” He sprinkles it in.

We taste, his eyes glued to my reaction.

“Nishan, we’ll put some nutmeg on the rest!” I command.

“You sure about that?” Scotty asks. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Haven’t had any training.”

“Some of the best chefs haven’t. It’s about instinct. Palate.” We wash some fresh raspberries and turn half into a reduction, which I plan to pipe on. “I don’t suppose we have piping bags or icing syringes?”

“What the hell are they?” Nishan asks, answering my question.

I send Scotty out to nick a couple of packaged syringes from the nurses’ cart.

My sous-chefs begin to dish up. Scotty drops each crepe in the centre of the plate like a crumpled serviette. Nishan follows, dumping a mound of brown-sugar mascarpone on top before chucking on raspberries and orange segments without even looking. Syrup is poured with a heavy hand, flooding the plate.

“Stop,” I say. Harsher than I meant.

They pause, glancing at each other.

I step in, wipe the countertop, and reach for a fresh plate. “Let me show you.”

I lay down a crepe and fold it in thirds, pressing the edges just enough to hold shape. I brush over a light coat of syrup—no drips, purely shine. The mascarpone is shaped smooth with two spoons into a quenelle, then I pull the sanitized tweezers from my apron pocket—a pair Gladys lent me. Five raspberries go on, spaced evenly. A segment of orange rests on the mascarpone finished with a dusting of nutmeg and an intentional crescent of raspberry reduction from the syringe. I wipe the edge of the plate clean.

Nishan stares. “That’s a bloody work of art, mate. But why go to that much trouble?”

“Because we eat with our eyes first.”

“What about the residents with dementia? Don’t they lose the ability to differentiate between food?”

My hands clench into fists, a sickening shadow edging in. “That can happen. But never assume it. In any case, food still matters—the smell, the taste, the texture. It has the ability to reach something deeper. We serve them the best, no matter what. You wouldn’t hand someone a threadbare blanket just because they might not notice the difference.”

The two men nod and plate the rest in the same way.

I move to the modified diet tray. The puréed version is a single mound. But I don’t dump it; I use a ring mold to give it height and structure, smoothing the edges with the back of a spoon. I put a quenelle of mascarpone beside it then a swirl of puréed orange and three dots of raspberry reduction to echo the original dish.

It’s still puréed, but it looks deliberate. Clean. Dignified. Because care doesn’t depend on texture.

After I’ve approved each plate, the food goes out.

Scotty taps me on the shoulder, “Martin . . . um . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For letting me try stuff. With the nutmeg and all. Not many people give me a shot.”

“At work?”

“Anywhere.” He pauses. “And that thing you said—about being worthy . . . I liked that.”