My Sims Legacy Family

Taliferro tapped the toe of his fine leather shoe on the floor of the Sleeping Dragon Inn.

He had always considered himself a patient man. His status demanded it in the Capitol, but he also personally held himself to the highest standard. Once, he slaved for seven hours without pause to complete a catering commitment for a duke and duchess. After the event, the very influential couple lauded his ability to acquiesce their appetites, and rightfully so. To put it simply: Taliferro was a master at his craft. The best. He ruled Aldaria’s hierarchy of chefs. His skills were second to none.

So what was taking you so long to cook the meal you promised him?

He truthfully wasn’t even looking forward to it. Hadn’t even wanted it. He fully doubted it would be any good. However, if every man had a weakness, Taliferro’s would be his inability to decline a challenge. It wasn’t born of pride. He was beyond such things. He only wanted to reestablish facts he knew to be true. When someone made the ludicrous claim that Mistria could “create a dish that’ll make your tongue fall off”, he wasn’t one to turn tail and run. There was a reason he elected to present cooking challenges for his market stall, after all.

In fact, it was at his very stall that you’d behaved so audaciously. The young Miss Reina had turned in her attempt at this week’s cooking challenge, and after he declared it decent enough (and bland due to Mistria’s resources), you interrupted the exchange to refute him and said the town had an abundance of remarkable resources. Emboldened, he asked how you would prove it. You then made the claim about his tongue falling off.

In the heat of the moment, after he decided you would cook for him, you tried to insist on Reina being the one for the job, but he wouldn’t let you shirk the responsibility. There was no place for cowardice in the kitchen. And so, here you both were now. The inn was quiet and empty in the afternoon with everyone still at the market. Miss Reina allowed you use of the kitchen and anything you might need, so Taliferro waited at the bar with crossed ankles and perfect posture.

He already held some mildly indignant feelings about the whole interaction —including his belief in your abilities— but what he could not, absolutely never forgive, was your work method. In the near hour he had sat there, you treated this like a joke. While traveling to and from the endless counters and cabinets, you flounced around without a care. A tune was forever humming between your lips like a peppy bird. While he sat and steadily concluded this was a waste of time, you swayed back and forth as you sprinkled your spices and stirred your bowls and chopped your ingredients. Even the apron you selected matched your flowery behavior. Truly, you acted like this was some insignificant matter, even though it was a gravely important matter, and all the while: Taliferro was growing hungry.

Just before he had the gall to ask how much longer you would be, you surprised him. Spinning once in a grand flourish, you placed a porcelain bowl down. A silver spoon and embroidered napkin framed the sides. Grinning like you had found the fountain of eternal youth, you slid off your oven mitts and leaned on the counter to watch whatever may unfold.

Taliferro stared at the stew. It looked… ordinary. Chunks floated in a red broth (tomato-based, no doubt) and an average amount of seasoning speckled the steaming surface. He frowned. The spoon slipped into it and half-heartedly stirred around. When he leaned over to get a whiff, there was no scent to be detected. You continued to watch, and just as he found himself thinking about how he was disappointed once again, the spoon finally touched his lips.

The taste exploded on his tongue in a million bursts of spices. It coated his mouth, shot down his throat, and filled his stomach with a searing warmth. The stew was wildfire. Flavors he could not name swirled inside his head. Under a spell and sipping the spoon, he dipped it back in to chase more. Then, he paused. He looked up and saw you.

You were still staring with that unchanged expression.

Swallowing, Taliferro switched focus. He adjusted his scarf. He reapplied the professional composure that came like a second face. However, the intense heat still left an unfavorable flush.

“It—“ He tried to find the words. “It’s good.”

Instead of a boastful pride at proving him wrong, you took the compliment at ten-times it’s worth.

“Thank you! It’s a Mistrian specialty. We call it a ‘hot pot’.” As you spoke eagerly, you leaned in closer.

Taliferro’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “This cannot be a hot pot. The flavours are all wrong.”

You smiled like you knew something he didn’t. For once, the idea didn’t bother him, and he couldn’t fathom why. “That’s because it’s made with all-Mistrian ingredients. They come from deep within the mines.”

Pondering your words (and how they proved you correct in a multitude of manners) Taliferro tasted the stew again. He did his best to restrain elation, but his blush restored itself at the slightest sip. Eating more allowed him to understand the meal better, so he put his analytical skills to the test. Above all else, it was extremely spicy. There was also a tang that surprised him. Several ingredients floated around and waited to be picked apart and dissected for flavor, but that wasn’t all. Underneath everything was a slight earthiness that grounded the stew and prevented it from being flame-incarnate. It was masterful. It was unlike the rich, extravagant dishes from home.

It was delicious.

“It’s good,” he said again. Anything less would be a disservice. Anything more would bruise his sense of self.

You flashed your teeth in a way that would be seen as unprofessional in a competition. “Just good?” you pressed, as if wanting something more. Perhaps it was praise? He was used to amateur chefs seeking such things from him; especially when it was unearned. With you however, he would make an exception.

“It is positively palatable.” He relented, eyebrow twitching, denying to himself the burn in his chest that was no doubt caused by the stew and not the way your eyes lit up like grains of sugar. “Where did you learn to cook?” A switch of topic might calm whatever strange condition was flashing through his heart. When he returned home, he would research remedies. Or inquire the family doctor.

You glided away with a shrug and began to clean up the mess you made. Taliferro distractedly ate more as you set knives into the sink with gentle hands. “I’m self-taught,” came the shocking truth. “I didn’t really cook much before I moved here, but the time I spent on the skill really helped me improve.”

With a frown, Taliferro felt that familiar sensation of indignation return. How could that be? How could you craft the most delicious stew to ever exist without professional training? It was offensive to everything he stood for.

Without a word, he drowned his feelings in the substance of more annoyingly perfect delicious stew. It quickly washed them away. He couldn’t stay mad when his tongue could taste this. You were right: it was practically falling off. If that happened to be an actual side effect, he couldn’t even complain.

“I harvest most ingredients myself, you know,” you spoke up while being elbow deep in suds. Partway through your sentence, Taliferro thought he smelled something new in the air.

“You collected these ingredients from the mines?” He was so absorbed with what was in front of him that the question of the stew’s ingredients had completely escaped him. Under normal circumstances, it was the first thing he interrogated. “isn’t it dangerous in there?” The notion was beyond him, and rather appalling. He was never one to collect ingredients where money could buy; especially if it meant keeping clean. That was what peasants were for.

A chuckle travelled in his direction. It was warm like freshly baked bread. “Very.” You tugged up a sleeve without looking behind you and flashed a scar he could see even from the distance. “Got this last year. Monsters that spit rocks are no joke.”

Instead of having you elaborate (and pondering other implications that came with your claims) he returned to his previous thought. “And what is in the hot pot?”

Shifting your weight, you casually counted off the ingredients. “Hot potatoes, some flame peppers, one ash mushroom, a handful of lava chestnuts… oh! And some earth shrooms.”

The way you spouted off rare materials like they were nothing astounded him. He had tried to cook with flame pepper once, and it ended up burning down his kitchen. The ash mushrooms he imported weren’t even edible, and the other three —despite sounding edible— didn’t tick off any compendiums he had memorized. To combine all that and create this was enough to leave him humbled and mildly attracted— if he could indeed be attracted to someone as unprofessional as yourself.

When the dishes were clean, you ignored his flustered state and went to give the oven attention. Recognizing how foolish he was, Taliferro finished his stew. If he drank the broth fast enough, it might wash away the blush staining his face. A hopeless desire. Like everything else today, he was spiraling out of control. Remnants of red liquid traced the bowl, so he distracted himself with the way it spun inside the turning porcelain in a simmering silt.

That smell he noticed earlier continued to strengthen; curling beneath his nose and whispering of something sweet. Just before his mind could spark in recognition, a second dish was placed on the counter. With a thin, golden crust, and enticing steam that promised rich softness, a golden cheesecake of the utmost quality presented itself to him.

“I thought you might like something more close to home,” you said quietly, privileged to see every shifting muscle of his face and every expression laid bare. It was as if you knew him personally, inside and out, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

Feeling something within him turning soft, Taliferro picked up his silver fork and knife to cut out a slice. He went slow to savor it all; how the knife sunk into the cake, how more steam puffed out of the incision, how the wedge shook from shaky hands. This was something to cherish. Delicately, he took a bite. A rich moisture coated his tongue, started melting there, and left a satisfying sweetness. His cheeks turned pink in delight. Unlike the unfamiliar hot pot, he knew this all too well.

And just like the hot pot, it was the best he’d ever tasted. He didn’t get offended this time.

“How— How did you acquire such fine ingredients?” There was no hiding his surprise. He assumed they were the cause, since there was only one explanation for the utter deliciousness. He’d made golden cheesecake before, and it never tasted like this.

You —in all your post-baking mess— leaned onto the counter to answer his question. “I made them myself.”

He didn’t miss the manner of your smile when his eyes widened. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. You said so yourself that you collected most of your ingredients. This wasn’t any different.

“I grew the wheat and sugarcane and ground them with our mill. The eggs, milk, butter and cheese all came from my trusty chickens and cows. Beautiful animals they are; wouldn’t you agree?”

Taliferro regretted having to shake his head. “Too messy. I’d take my kitchen over a sty.” Just the thought of being in one had him shuddering.

Still inexplicably saccharine, you drew your fingers up to his buttoned lapel and sent a surge of panic through him. “I’d think twice before saying that,” you said as you picked off a piece of food and wiped it on a rag. “—if you can’t even keep yourself clean.”

Taliferro blushed again. You weren’t even trying to embarrass him, but it happened naturally anyways. It was even harder not to react when you took his fork from his hand to try the cheesecake for yourself.

“Mm,” you hummed. He watched helplessly as you stole another bite. The golden cake disappeared between your lips. “Just like last batch.”

He hated to think your cooking was always this consistent. It was unimaginable that you managed to create not one, but two dishes that surpassed anything he had made in his entire career. It was outlandish. It was insulting. It challenged everything he thought he knew about cooking, Mistria, and you.

And he wanted more. If he had to leave this town forever and never come back, he knew that nothing in the Capitol would be able to replace the food you made for him today.

Oblivious to his turmoil, you perked up (seeming to realize what you’d just done) and apologized for taking his fork.

“It was only supposed to be for you to eat,” you babbled on. “I didn’t mean to take some. Well, I guess I did… but I’m sorry I—“

Taliferro took the fork from your gesturing hand, and you stopped rambling. He gently wiped it on his napkin and went back to enjoying the cheesecake. Silence returned once again to the inn as he finished this wonderful gift. It was more peaceful this time. More pleasant. After dabbing his chin with the napkin, he rose to his feet to be on equal level with you. No longer were you an amateur beneath him. He learned that the hard way.

“Thank you for the meal.” He flared his fingers against his chest with a bow. Hesitantly wetting his lips, he added “it was some of the most delectable food I have ever had the pleasure of eating.”

Your modesty was unparalleled, even compared to his. “I’m glad to hear that.” You were calm and collected in a way he positively envied. Still, he found your slight smile infectious. Taliferro never complimented chefs to this degree, but it seemed you of all people were unaffected most by it; which was exactly why you deserved it.

Before given it a second thought over, he found himself asking you something he never thought he would say.

“Will you cook for me next week?”

Immediately, he flushed. It was a bold request for him to make. Even more bold with his status and your contrasting dynamic. He wondered what he would say if you denied the ridiculous question. No doubt he would have to lick his wounds and conceal them with carefully constructed conversation. Honey and sugar were his best weapons.

“I would love to.” You clasped your hands down in front of you. “But only on the condition that you provide Reina a chance to cook for you too.”

Taliferro couldn’t believe his luck, and he was an extremely lucky guy (outside of his immense skills, obviously). Poising his pointed fingers to his temple, he put on his third face of confident composure. “Of course! Now that I know just how remarkable Mistria’s resources are, I can’t pass by the opportunity to try new dishes.”

Eyes closed in mirth, you expressed how happy you were to hear that. He didn’t dare express how happy it made him to hear how happy it made you. One more secret to hold close to his chest.

“And maybe…” You seemed to be the hesitant one now. “Maybe we can even cook something together.”

Closing one eye with a smile, Taliferro made sure every word out of his mouth reassured any insecurity you might have. “Of course. I’ve always wanted a sous chef.”

Now, after all this time in the kitchen, it was finally time for you to become flustered at his hand. He relished in it, much in the way he relished seeing others’ eyes go alight at the first taste of his food. In his many years of cooking, it was a sight that never ceased to thrill him. It gave him meaning. It gave him purpose. And here, perhaps, he could find a new one to elevate his life to even greater heights.

You gave him another smile. It was like a recipe he wanted to study for days without end.