As I watched Hyukjae cook, memories swirled of when my mother and I used to cook.

I remember being 8 or 9 as I would help my mother prepare dinner. We'd try different cuisines at least once a week. French, Italian, Japanese, Filipino. Always something different. Somedays I'd sit on a chair that had been moved closer to the counter and just watch while she humed and did her magic. Sometimes the food was amazing, like when we made sushi rolls for the first time. We laid out the seaweed and pressed the rice into the seaweed with our fingers. I distinctly remember it being sticky and laughing at the mess we made. The rolls weren't perfect, but the flavor from our hardwork was there. 

Then there were other times where the food was too salty, or tasteless. Such was the time we tried curry soup with shrimp. Seafood was a staple in our home as we lived by the ocean. Recipes involving seafood was even better. I watched my mother devain the shrimp, cleaning each one so delicately and then she began the process of cooking down the curry before adding the ingredients. The result? A salty soup. We had giggled then, laughing as the unexpected bitterness hit our palettes. But we ate it nonetheless with a side of bread and an extra helping of mango pudding at the end. 

My mother and I had so many memories together until-

"And the pistachio crumble is folded into the batter so you can taste it throughout each bite of cake. I'm debating if I should make a whipped cream topping or mix in some finely crushed pistachios. Are you listening?"

I nodded. I must've zoned out for the rest of the conversation, recalling times spent with my mother. 

"So I've assembled all the pieces. What do you think? Mixed whipped cream or plain?" He asked, placing his palms firmly on the metal table before him. I gazed at the veins rippling in his forearms and my lips. 

"Well?" He asked again, effectively ending my racy thoughts. 

"Um, mixed whip cream. It makes for better presentation." 

"Ah." He chimed. "For the photography." He snapped his fingers and went back to work. I checked my watch again, noticing how late it was. We had both spent several hours in the restaurant and it was almost 1 am. I sighed, opting to sit back on the stool. I was exhausted, recipes were hard work. I soon began mentally listing the comparisons between photography and cooking. Both required certain levels of expertise and precision. Lighting, color, detailing...so many skills were needed. Anyone could take a photo, the same as anyone could cook. But what allowed us both to stand out was the years of studying and practice. We both devoted ourselves to our careers and it showed. The proof was in massive amounts Hyukjae had obtained as a chef before the age of 30. That alone, spoke for itself. I personally hadn't won any awards, but rather certificates and rewards. Nothing fancy but I was still proud.

I stretched my arms and yawned. 

"Tired already? We've barely started." He announced jokingly. Or at least I prayed it was a joke. I was ready to hit the hay stack running.

"You're joking right?" I asked. It had to be. We had two months, that was more than enough time to do a recipe each day. Hell, he could have 5 recipes and I'd space it out to cover the 8 weeks. 

He stared at me blankly then continued to assemble the ingredients. "Why would I be joking?" He mumbled. 

"Its almost 1 am, Mr-"

"-Hyukjae. Just call me Hyukjae." He interjected.

I cleared my throat. "Hyukjae. It's almost 1 am, you've been at it for hours. All I need is a few more photos of the completed dessert and-"

"TA-DA!" He yelled and my heart almost flew out of my chest with fright. 

"A goat cheese mousse with a raspberry filling and a pistachio sponge cake with a pistachio crumble." 

I took a single photo in complete awe of the dessert. It was formed into a dome shape. Bits of vanilla beans sparkled within the goat cheese mousse, the color contrast was unbelievable. I snapped photos eagerly.

"That's not even the best part." He smiled and dug his spoon into the dessert. Bright raspberry filling oozed from the center and flowed over the mint green pistachio cake like the fountain of youth. It was absolute paradise. He pointed the spoon at me and eagerly, I opened my mouth to receive his gift. The flavors danced on my palette, the tart of the goat cheese compared with the sweet raspberry filling and the subtle aroma of pistachio. I was in heaven. I moaned happily, savoring the flavors. 

"It's amazing. I-I don't even have words." I managed to say as I took another spoonful, happily stuffing my mouth. A few more photos were taken in between bites and moans of happiness. 

He wiped his hands on his apron and smiled, gums peeking out. "What can I say? I am a man of fine dining." 

I wiped my mouth with a small napkin I kept in my pocket. "I didn't know you knew how to bake. Understandably, cooking contains some form of baking at one point or another. But the measurements, the precision. You created a dessert when your entire menu lacks one."

"It's not exactly my passion, but I originally came from a family of bakers. My grandfather opened a bakery back in the 40s in a small town. Sometime in the 70s my dad took over and soon enough, he wanted me to join the lineage, but I wasn't interested. Baking is an art, but it requires accuracy. Yeast is unpredictable. Too hot, it dies. Too cold, it doesn't rise. There's an exact temperature, an exact amount of water and sugar and flour. It loses it's creativity when you're given such rigid terms." He removed his apron and tossed it on the table besides the half-eaten dessert. I hadn't realized I was dozing off when he removed the camera from my neck, scaring me again.

"I just want to see the photos." He flicked through the images I had taken, which were met with approving looks and nods. "These are pretty good. I didn't realize how important the background was to a single image."

I yawned again, my body becoming heavy. Last thing I remembered, I started snoring.