It starts, for the most part, with tarte tatin. Apple, of course. Eric’s specialty.

First, you need apples. Akane. Golden Delicious. Gala. Pink Lady. But in this country, there’s only one variant available: Fuji. Sweet and not nearly as crisp, but gives way to your teeth with a satisfying, juicy crunch.

The boy shuffles into the brightly-lit kitchen at nearly midnight, sleepy-eyed and clutching a worn stuffed shark – bright blue terry cloth with a white underbelly and a red plush mouth filled with rows and rows of soft triangular teeth – to his chest. He pulls himself up onto the stool by the counter where Eric is prepping the lemon juice wash and lays his cheek on the cool marble surface.

“Daddy.” Andy says. He reaches for an apple slice from the half-filled bowl by Eric’s mandoline. Eric is careful to move the tool aside so it doesn’t snag on little fingers as he works the fruit over the sharp blades.

Get the puff pastry dough out of the freezer. Hit the hell out of it until it’s soft enough to handle. Roll that motherer. Set it aside.

“Hey, kiddo.” Eric glances at his yawning son. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” Andy says, popping up in his seat. “But I got hungry.”

He would be. He had slept through dinner and had given Eric three glorious, uninhibited hours of peace, which Eric had (rather unwillingly) used to go over accounts, and laundry, and the dust bunnies that were brought in during their last unpacking jag (the last one he’d done with a Dyson Minwoo had kindly lent to them for the time being, after Eric plugged in the one he had brought from California and shorted both the plug and vacuum cleaner in one go; apparently, voltage differences are now something he has to be concerned about, on top of everything else).

Melt butter, preferably in a cast-iron skillet. Preferably one your wife had bought for you as an anniversary present back when you were still dating. Suppress sad memories. Let the butter bubble and brown before taking it off the heat. Cool before adding lemon zest and vanilla bean. Mix well.

“I’ll have this tart ready in a few. Want to help?”

He’d already made one that morning to include in Andy’s packed lunch that day, and had just decided on doing another. The winds in Seoul have turned for autumn, and the chill it brings this time feels like it’s coming from deep, deep within his bones. It’s something that no amount of running or stretching or praying can soothe, but apple tarte tatin with its pieces of crisp, golden, edible sunshine keeps the darkness at bay somehow. Somewhere between the time it takes to make its way from his plate to when it shatters between his teeth, he can almost pretend Yumi is still there: smiling at him across the kitchen counter; sunning herself on the porch; six hours away in Los Angeles, but still reachable with a single phone call, text, Whatsapp message. ing delicious, babe, she’d always tell him. As usual.

Across from him now, Andy yawns again noisily, but nods in response to his invitation to help, always the eager assistant. He sets the stuffed shark aside by the paper towel holder and rolls up his pajama top sleeves. Enough stalling. Daddy mode on. Eric asks him to wash his hands and reminds him not to touch the mandoline.

Preheat oven to 350°F.

“School going okay?” Eric asks as he gathers with his hands the mound of sliced apples – thin, cold, wet, and pale, like tiny sheets of ice – and slips it into the brown butter and lemon mixture. School started only two days ago, and Eric has been secretly dying of anxiety since. First grade in a new school, let alone a new country, isn’t a walk in the park but Andy didn’t even bother holding his hand. To say that Eric is feeling more than a little unmoored is an understatement.

“Yep.” Andy nods, his lower lip pursed in concentration as he folds the apples in the brown butter with a rubber spatula with the grace of a tiny chef-in-training. His dexterity doesn’t surprise Eric. They’ve cooked together since the boy was old enough to be strapped to his back, dozing as Eric rolled dough, measured flour, and macerated fruit for orders from their Berkeley home. Andy’s first word was “galette”, spoken in a tantrum. At one he had already eaten at least sixteen different French cheeses. At two, Eric had already trained him how to hold a plastic knife.

“I know some of the stuff already. But Korean is kind of hard.”

This is his fault, and Eric silently curses himself for not thinking Andy would ever need to learn how to read or write Hangul. “We’ll have to get you some books and things over the weekend,” he says, adding the item to his long mental to-do list.

Wait. Breathe.

“Oh, and Daddy, I made a friend.”

Eric’s heart lifts at this, a tiny fluttering of pride that his son is at least surviving their shared catastrophe better than he is. “Oh?”

Get the dough. Slide the apple slices onto it. Arrange it if you have the time or energy. Leave the dough edges uncovered.

“Yeah. I gave him my tart. He wanted some, so I gave him some.” Andy has already begun arranging the apple slices in a scalloped pattern, layering rows on top of the other like scales. He makes quick work of it and so is a bit sloppy, but Eric doesn’t mind. “He said it’s super good.”

Eric is used to these compliments but it’s always special when another child that isn’t his says it. It’s the kind of validation that gives him a distinct sense of pride. “Tell them thank you from me.”

“It’s a ‘he’. His name is Junjin.”

Sprinkle apples with sugar. Bake until the crust is crispy and the apples soft and nicely browned.

The tart takes about 45 minutes to bake, and Andy spends it by telling his father about school and his newfound friend. Despite it being past midnight, Eric lets him talk as he tidies up. The air in the kitchen grows warm and heavy with the scent of vanilla and apples and caramelizing sugar, and it’s almost as though they’re back across the Pacific, in their small house with the dark wooden floors and the yard filled with blooming orange trees. The shadows in his head grow smaller.

“He’s good at running and games. He’s six, but nearly seven. He’s bigger than me, but is nice. He showed me where the cubby-holes are. He taught me a few Korean words.”

Paint with warm apricot jam before serving for added glaze and flavor.

“He lost his Mama too.”

Eric pauses at this, hand still poised over the top of the glistening, golden tart. Cold trickles like water down his spine and into the ridges of his bones. It takes all his effort to not let his hands shake, but he avoids it by balling them into fists.

Serve with crème fraiche if you want it a bit savory; ice cream if you want it sweet. Or plain if you can’t be bothered.

He cuts into the tart with a crunch! It’s rectangular due to the baking sheet and he’s able to get sixteen slices from it. He gives Andy four crisp, golden squares drizzled with homemade crème fraiche on a small plate. He doesn’t bother passing him a fork, but does press him into using a paper towel as a napkin. No matter the disaster they’re going through, he can never allow his son turning savage.

“…Daddy, are you listening?”

“Eat,” he says softly, but with a firm edge, and Andy, unperturbed by the shift in his father’s mood, quickly obeys. He’s still talking in between chewing.

“Daddy, I’ll bring some tomorrow for Junjin, okay? Okay, Daddy?”

Eric acquiesces and nods, although his mind is already an ocean away.


tbc