FMA Cookbook

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. The repair becomes part of the object’s history and enhances its beauty.

...

There is a plate in the china cabinet of Pinako’s kitchen that Alphonse likes best. It looks the same as the others with pale pink vines looping along the fluted rim. Yet, this particular piece is set apart from the rest. Once cracked in half, Alphonse’s favorite plate has a vein of gold that binds the fractured parts together.

He was there when it happened on Winry’s sixth birthday. Ms. Sarah assembled an unorthodox birthday dessert in honor of the occasion, an elegant presentation of fresh berries, whipped cream, and puffs of baked meringue. The final touch was a pinch of mint, and once combined, Winry gazed excitedly at her mother’s handiwork stacked atop the fine china. In her wonder, the child’s footing faltered.

All told, it was an everyday accident that had Pinako tutting softly under her breath as she picked up the pieces; however, precious little went to waste in the Rockbell household—a place where broken things (and sometimes people) came to be restored. With the conscience of a healer and the precision of a surgeon, Granny carefully glued the jagged edges together with golden lacquer. Raised lines stuck out along the break and dried, leaving the piece even more beautiful for the story it had to tell.

When Alphonse looks in the mirror now, his face also tells a story. Though, he thinks that it is not a tale the hospital staff wants to hear. They are thankful for the large red letters that read ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamped across his medical chart. They look away from the sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks that stare back at Alphonse from the mirror Sig is holding for him. Each time Alphonse sees himself, he half expects to confront a gunmetal helmet with half-moon holes glowing red and horizontal vents instead of gutting cheekbones. The reality is disorienting but not unwelcome.

Like the metallic bond holding together his favorite plate, Alphonse likes the way his golden eyes gleam with the satisfaction of seeing his and Edward’s bodies restored. All except for his brother’s leg, and perhaps Edward does not regret that loss. It was a price paid-in-full for the people the Elric brothers helped and the lesson they learned, albeit the hard way.

Alphonse’s fingers tremble as he grasps the razor. He glances up from the mirror to the burly bear of a man holding it. “Press the razor to your face and gently pull upward,” Sig kindly instructs. “Let it do the work for you.”

The young man nods and does as instructed, ready to savor the task of shaving for the first time with the most patient person as his teacher. Alphonse takes his first pull of the razor, and it glides across his upper lip with little resistance until, at the very end, his hand trembles again.

He feels a sharp sensation, and while examining his visage in the mirror, Alphonse notices a red mark above the corner of his mouth mingled with traces of shaving cream. Sig holds out a handkerchief.

“You should have seen my first attempt. You did well,” Sig says with a pleasant grin.

A warmth fills Alphonse’s hospital room, crammed with four people who function as a family, just as they did back in Dublith. Edward reclines on the bed next to his brother with his arms stretched lazily behind his trademark braid. Izumi watches the exchange between her husband and Alphonse with a small smile, barely keeping up the pretense of reading her recipe book. She keeps her vigil at Alphonse and Ed’s bedside despite her injuries.

There’s a staccato series of knocks on the door. Between the abrupt sound and the sudden appearance of an officer drenched in Amestrian blue, the spell of domesticity is broken. It is replaced by a colder reality: Ed and Alphonse Elric are being kept by the military. They remain unsure who is being protected from whom and to what end.

Their guard straightens up. A sheen of sweat collects on his brows and the collar of his woolen uniform. His voice is strained as he pulls up into a rigid salute to address Ed. The Fullmetal Alchemist cocks his brow incredulously at the formal display.

“Sorry to intrude, Major Elric,” the officer finally announces, “Mr. Alphonse Elric. You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Ed parrots; a sharp remark is already on the tip of his pitchy tongue. “If it’s that Colonel Bastard, again, you can tell him-”

“It’s not Colonel Mustang,” the officer interrupts. “It’s Genera- I mean Führer Grumman.”

The collective attention of the room turns as a shorter, older man emerges from behind the guard. He moves slowly and smiles through his thick, white mustache. The deep blue of his immaculate uniform contrasts the faded fabric of the lower-ranking officer ahead of him. Service ribbons in every color weigh down the left side of the gentleman’s long jacket.

“Acting Führer,” he corrects with adroit, disarming syntax. “But then, we’re all friends here. Who cares about a little thing like formalities?”

...

Alphonse scratches at his freshly shaven upper lip as the usual introductions are observed. It seems that Ed will be doing the talking, and with that in mind, Alphonse expects a brief visit. Nevertheless, Grumman paves the way for pleasantries as well as business. Not five minutes into the discussion, Alphonse realizes that the new acting Führer speaks with authority.

It would be wise, Alphonse decides, to listen carefully.

When Führer Grumman asks Izumi and Sig to step out for an afternoon cup of tea, the request is not a suggestion. The strong-willed teacher rises with the help of her husband, and the couple leaves begrudgingly. Alphonse grins sympathetically at them as they exit. It bolsters his confidence when Izumi returns his smile with an assertive nod.

Grumman does not hesitate to fill the seat their teacher vacated. Gravity bears down on Alphonse’s frail shoulders, but he sits as tall as he can.

“The way I hear it, you boys saved the day,” the Führer proclaims, flashing a set of pearly whites. “I’d say my government owes you both a debt of gratitude.”

With all the rough-edged diplomacy he can muster, Ed responds. “Yeah, well, we didn’t do it for the government, old man. And I’m done being a dog of the military. Whatever plans you’ve got in mind, count us out.”

The Führer’s reaction is nearly nonexistent. Instead, he leans against the hardback of the chair and immediately winces.

“Dreadfully uncomfortable,” he announces, shifting forward. Grumman waves a hand to draw the guard in closer. “Be a helpful lad. See that Mrs. Curtis is given more comfortable seating.”

The young officer scurries off, closing the door behind him, and the older gentleman turns his attention toward Alphonse.

“Oh, I understand perfectly. The military will ask nothing further of you if that’s what you want,” he replies. “But the situation we find ourselves in is unusual—a conspiracy in the upper echelons of the government, a nation-wide episode of unconsciousness, the condition of Alphonse’s body, and the inexplicable connection it all has to alchemy. These are the sort of concerns that fuel the rumor mill.”

The older gentleman pauses, idly twisting the ends of his mustache between his fingers as he divulges the political landscape of Amestris.

“I want all my alchemists, current and former, to lay low for the time being while we reassess the State Alchemy program. I am here to ask what you want in return for your service and your discretion.”

Behind the reflective surface of his horn-rimmed glasses, Grumman’s eyes shift to the foot of Alphonse’s bed where Izumi’s cookbook sits open.

“Your just deserts, as it were,” he adds with a smirk.

Alphonse doesn’t have to ponder what their plans are.

“All we want is to go home, sir, to Resembool,” Alphonse answers. He smiles to lighten the mood; loose skin pulls around the corners of his grin. “And I’d also like to see a few friends. Maybe try some of the foods from my list before we leave Central. When I can eat solids again, that is.”

“Your list?” the Führer asks.

“It was in a book he used to keep,” Ed explains. His tone softens, as it always does when he speaks of his brother. “It listed foods he wanted to try when he was inside... Anyway, I think we lost it.”

“I see.”

Grumman’s response is curt. With a final flourish, the old man straightens his cap and rises from the chair. It seems that he’s heard all he needs to hear.

“I’m going to keep an eye on you boys,” he concludes. “Just the one, mind you, for whatever that’s worth. It’s a fine idea for you both to return to Resembool. Recuperate and rest, and when you figure out what you’d like to do with your time, give me a call.”

The old man produces an ivory card from the pocket of his uniform; a phone number is scribbled on the front. The card itself is an innocuous thing, but the peace offering reeks of political maneuvering. Ed frowns as Führer Grumman places the card on the small table between the brothers’ beds. Alphonse is torn, equal parts intrigued and wary of the strings attached to this phone number.

“The good people here tell me that Alphonse will be ready to travel in four months,” Grumman continues. “In the meantime, I’ll see that you are allowed visitors and suitable food that Alphonse would like to become reacquainted with.”

Alphonse focuses on the task at hand. He thinks of the timeline and of the way Edward approached his recovery from the automail installation. A determined glint ignites in his golden eyes, almost glossy with the lacquer of conviction. Alphonse is weak, but his spirit remains tireless.

“I’ll do it in two,” he says.

Edward, only too happy to put the politics of Central City behind them, nods in agreement.

...

A month’s time sees Alphonse with his hair clipped short; his once sunken cheeks have regained some fullness. Edward, Sig, and Izumi have long since been discharged, but they take turns keeping Alphonse company from the spare couch of his hospital room. Just like Führer Grumman promised, it’s more comfortable than the standard chairs, but that doesn’t mean Alphonse is content to linger.

Now more than ever, he’s determined to go home, walking unassisted down Resembool’s roads. However, for the moment, it’s all Alphonse can do to steady his awkward gait by digging his toes into mats and bracing his arms against the parallel bars. He thinks something as simple as walking should come easily; his legs have other ideas. Another fall brings his physical therapy to an end for the day, and Alphonse returns to his hospital room.

He takes the bumps and bruises in stride. He makes it a point to smile at the staff even when their treatments bring him pain alongside progress. From the confines of a wheelchair, Alphonse greets his guard—a man called Doug who likes comic books and whistles to fill the silence. Doug never pries and is quick to look the other way when Ed overstays his official welcome.

“Ready for more visitors?” Doug asks.

Alphonse’s face lights up with anticipation, and he cranes his neck to peer around the doorframe. Tawny brown hair and emerald eyes fill his field of vision as the small body of a precocious child lunges toward him. She nearly jumps into his lap before her mother pulls her back while balancing a covered plate with one arm.

“Elicia! Ms. Gracia!” Alphonse greets. Recognition washes over both visitors' faces at the sound of Alphonse’s voice.

“So that’s what you look like,” Elicia observes. She giggles madly, rocking back and forth from heel to toe.

Alphonse is quick to change the subject; he also refuses to think about the way Elicia’s gregarious nature reminds him of a certain someone.

The visit is pleasant and predictable. Gracia frets about his weight and serves him a double portion of adorable pudding domes that mother and daughter whipped up for the visit. The vanilla concoctions are cleverly molded into cat-shaped faces, painted with slanting eyes and curving mouths. Soft and creamy with a hint of coffee, they are as sweet as Elicia.

Between the confection and the company, Alphone passes an hour or more catching up on life and letting the child bounce between the walls of his hospital room. When mother and daughter depart (with promises to return with quiche), the silence feels harder to swallow. Alphonse cannot help but think of Winry and Pinako, of apple pie and strong coffee mixed with the smell of automail oil.

He wants, more than anything, to go home.

...

The doctors are surprised when Alphonse meets his deadline; Ed, ever faithful, is not. Alphonse leaves Central City General with his head held high and only stops to rest when the hospital is out of sight. His senses are overwhelmed by the feeling of a starched collar against the back of his neck, the pull of a new vest across his chest, and the weight of Grumman’s card in his pocket.

Alphonse follows Ed’s lead through neat cobblestone roads that feel familiar and yet entirely different, steeped in a tactile reality that he can touch, feel, and taste. Thick exhaust from passing cars sticks to the back of his throat on their way to the train station. Yet, the stench is suddenly replaced by delicious aromas wafting from a nearby café.

His rumbling stomach is drawn to a wide store window where rounds of raspberry mousse cake sit proudly on display. Chilled pink and green tinted layers sit beneath a tempting red glaze that appears sticky, smooth, and oh-so delectable. Alphonse imagines that the confection tastes tart and tangy with notes of brandy and pistachios. He wants to charge into the cafe and order every morsel that’s for sale, but his brother has other ideas.

“Better get going,” Ed says, throwing an arm around Alphonse’s shoulders to steer him away from temptation. “We’ve got a train to catch. You’ve been waiting a long time for what Winry’s whipping up.”

Reluctantly, Alphonse tears himself away from the sight but not before committing the name of the confection and the café to memory. He leaves Central swearing that, when the time is right, he’ll be back.

...

Their return isn’t quite as Alphonse imagined. There’s no hero’s welcome; only a few nods of recognition are offered as they make their way down Resembool’s country roads. But as soon as Alphonse sees the Rockbell residence, a place that marks their journey’s end, accolades don’t matter.

Edward offers to carry him, and Alphonse refuses, bracing himself against his walking stick instead. With gratitude, he thinks of the people that have propelled the brothers along their quest—especially the travelers from Xing. He hopes that they, too, made it home.

And in the blink of an eye, their dream is realized. Den pounces upon Alphonse, recognizing him despite the amount of time that has passed. Winry isn’t far behind. She tackles the brothers to the ground and wraps her arms around them. The trio is a mess of blonde hair and tears of joy.

“Dummies, welcome home!” she exclaims, and for now, Alphonse is inclined to believe this is where he belongs. In this home and amongst these people, he intends to reconcile the pieces of himself while his appetite for the sweet things in life returns.

Winry serves him her famed apple pie on the pink porcelain plate, its halves still bound together by golden lacquer. It’s wonderful and not just because of the flaky crust that crumbles under his fork or the cinnamon sweetness of the soft apples. It’s wonderful because, for the first time in a long time, Alphonse is precisely where he wants to be.

...

Many apple pies are shared around Pinako’s dinner table. There are also birthday cakes for Alphonse (two to be exact) and pans of bread pudding served with blueberries and vanilla sauce. He eats and laughs and grows stronger by the day.

When Alphonse looks in the mirror now, he still likes what he sees, and the girls in town tend to agree. His favorite white-collar shirts hint at the toned torso hiding beneath, and his square jaw exudes newfound confidence. Yet, his ambition to make their world a better place remains the same—too loud for a quiet country backdrop.

Alphonse realizes that the path he is meant to walk extends much farther. His studies, inspired by the prospect of adventure and letters from a feisty alkahestress, resonate with the Dragon’s Pulse. Finally, Alphonse is compelled to dial the number scribbled on the back of the old ivory card and is delighted when he’s connected to the nation’s most powerful man straightaway.

“Had your fill of Resembool yet, son?” Führer Grumman asks. “Are you ready to add to that list of yours?”

“Funny you should bring up my list,” Alphonse retorts, more than willing to play Grumman’s game of allusion. “There’s this Xingese dessert that Princess Mei Chang goes on about in her letters, a red bean soup. It would be a shame if I never tried it, don’t you think?”

Grumman chuckles. “Suppose you could use some diplomatic credentials for the trip. Try not to cause an international incident until Mustang takes over.”

The golden glint in Alphonse’s eyes makes no guarantees. His well-mannered innocence is tempered by past mistakes and fused with a gunmetal resolve.