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‘Give it a go,’ he encouraged.
It took a long time but eventually she produced a list, saying each item out loud as she wrote. He assisted with spelling.
‘Okay. I love your ideas. But I’ll need help because that’s a lot of cooking. What should we make for tomorrow?’
Sybella’s tongue poked out as she thought but then she shrugged.
‘What’s your favourite meal?’
‘I love lasagne. It was mummy’s favourite.’
‘Did mummy make it for you?’ he said and lifted a strand of hair out of her eyes.
‘No!’ she said and giggled. ‘Mummy bought it and we heated it up in the microwave.’
‘That sounds like your mummy.’ He smiled but his heart was breaking inside. ‘I miss her.’ Did kids talk about their dead parents? He had no idea.
‘Me too,’ and her head bowed.
‘Will you help me make mummy’s favourite meal tonight?’
‘Yes! Can you teach me how to make it?’ she bounced up and down in her chair.
‘Yes, and we’ll make extra and that will be for school tomorrow.’ Caleb took the sheet of paper and they worked out the menu for the remainder of the week.
‘My friends are gonna love this,’ she grinned.
They prepared their ingredients for the lasagne. Caleb pulled over a chair and placed it at the bench for Sybella. His stomach churned and the gas ignition was like a light, setting fire to his agitation. God damnit! The room spun and he held his fist tight, resisting pounding it on the counter. No, he wasn’t anxious about cooking, was he? No, he needed a drink, that’s all. Cooking and drinking went together but that was normal, right? He’d been drinking the night of the disaster, but that wasn’t him, that was the prawns. A niggling voice badgered him - could Caleb Stirling cook without having a bottle of his favourite drop in him? Of course, he could. He wasn’t in that kitchen now. There was no pressure here. Maybe he could have one glass? But he couldn’t, not in front of the kid. Even he knew that wasn’t right. He’d have to soldier on, cope with the sweat gathering on his brow and his shaking hands. It’d all be fine.
‘I love cooking,’ Sybella said as the large dishes slid into the oven. ‘I want to be a good cook like you.’
He ruffled her hair, radiating a sense of entitlement. He knew he could do it. ‘I should have been here to teach your mum how to cook. I remember she used to make a pretty mean chocolate brownie.’
‘Yeah, yum, she did. But, Uncle Caleb,’ her head turned down and her face sullen, ‘it was from a box.’
‘No!’ He feigned shock and horror, lightness returning. ‘I’ll show you how to make brownies with gooey caramel and extra chunky choc bits,’ he promised. Happy, she nodded.
‘You know the worst part about cooking?’ he asked. Sybella shook her head. ‘Cleaning up! But it’s always best to get straight onto it. A good chef never leaves a messy kitchen.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed.
‘I also have to plan some food for the French festival. Can you help me?’
‘Oh, yes! Is that the festival with rides and music and animals?’
‘I’m not sure. That sounds like a fair. This is to celebrate the French National Day and I’m to prepare French food.’
Sybella took a moment to ponder that information, but the oven timer chimed, and they extracted the bubbling dishes from the oven.
‘Uncle Caleb can I take some photos?’
‘Of course, do you know how to use my phone?’
With his back turned, Caleb continued washing up.
With a cheeky grin filling her cheeks, Sybella flicked her fingers across the screen of the phone until she found his Instagram page.
‘What do you think?’ Her breath came out as vapor.
