<\/p>\n
For as long as she could remember, Phyllis had sat at the front of the classroom. Whenever the teacher posed a question, her hand reached highest. Phyllis could remember the name of every teacher she\u2019d ever had. There was squat Mrs. Davies in grade three, who used to ask her to reach supplies off the top shelf, flushed cheeks betraying her embarrassment. There were Mr. Mar and Mrs. Worthington. And there was Phyllis up front. Slender hands folded in her lap, lips pursed as if her life depended on being known. And known she was: Phyllis Blake would have been head girl, if head girls had been appointed in Baby Creek Ontario. She was a diamond in the rough\u2014or so she believed\u2014a russet-headed queen who peppered her essays with \u201cheretofores\u201d and \u201cholistic\u201d and had the same blue-eyed boyfriend all four years of high school. It began in grade eight, at elementary graduation, she\u2019d explain when met with the inevitable awwws elicited by her youthful success in love. At senior prom, Henry gave Phyllis a big glass jar full of notes he\u2019d written to her.<\/p>\n
\u201cFor when you\u2019re away at school,\u201d he said. \u201cFor when you miss me.\u201d Henry was taking a gap year to work at his father\u2019s office furniture company.<\/p>\n
And here was Phyllis, left leg crossed over right, seated front row at her very first university lecture. Foodways in history. \u201cWhat the fuck is a foodway, anyways?\u201d Henry didn\u2019t try to conceal his bewilderment at Phyllis\u2019s colour-blocked timetable. He was so negative these days. When Phyllis asked to FaceTime him after her residence orientation, he said his back was too sore from hauling tables all day. As if talking to her would engage his back in any way. She painted her fingernails red instead. She was the one in the big city, the one who got away. And if she did <\/em>meet a Saudi prince or a far-flung aristocrat, Henry would build her dream house with his bare hands and wait a decade to win her back. He was her hometown boy. Henry. And she was Rachel McAdams, arm-in-arm with college chums in a cable knit sweater.<\/p>\n \u201cWelcome, everyone, to History 111: Foodways in History. My name is Professor Klein. For many of you, this will be your first lecture at university, and I hope I can do the experience justice. I\u2019ll do him <\/em>justice,\u201d quipped the girl next to Phyllis with a giggle, elbowing her in her side. Phyllis blushed, taken aback by such a random show of solidarity. The girl was right: the professor was cute. He had a look so urban that the word groomed<\/em> came to mind. Her father would have called him metrosexual.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy food, you ask? Food is alive and omnipresent. Food sustains us. Food moves us. Food is as natural as breathing, or sleeping, or death, or even sex.\u201d<\/p>\n Phyllis perked up a little at her professor\u2019s list, aroused not by the mention of sex, but by the fact that she was now deemed old enough to consider it natural<\/em>. She was an adult \u2013 her professor’s equal \u2013 if not intellectually, then physically. Phyllis leaned into her seat more casually, eager to exude comfort and ease with her place in the theatre.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd like all of these things, food comes with a set of cultural norms, practices, and stories. It always has. Take spices, for example. Cardamom, nutmeg, pepper. Enjoyed by mediaeval kings, fraught with conflict and the wars of empire. I want each and every one of you to come to my office hour on Wednesday and introduce yourself. Tell me what your favourite food is, and together we\u2019ll find a way to incorporate it into your final research essay. Every foodway has a history.\u201d<\/p>\n Phyllis didn\u2019t absorb much from the rest of the lecture because she was lost in a daydream about the prospect of attending office hour. She knew her professor must make six figures, and the fact that an hour of his time would be devoted to talking about food \u2013 something as natural as sex <\/em>\u2013 with her, Phyllis, gave her a thrill usually reserved for Henry. She remembered the last time she felt it, at Mason Howard\u2019s barn party. Henry had pushed her up against a hay bale and groped her breast so aggressively that she\u2019d yelped. Henry stopped and kissed her forehead \u2013 such a Ryan Gosling move \u2013 but Phyllis wanted him to continue. She liked the idea of being the ravaged maiden, the farmer\u2019s daughter left adrift in the barn. That was the thing about Henry: he always seemed to end the scene at its crucial point.<\/p>\n As her professor explained the concept of nuance\u2014a slight shade or degree of difference\u2014and how he hoped to find it in their essays, Phyllis realised that this slight variation was exactly what her relationship with Henry lacked. He insisted on appearing good at surface level, no matter what, despite the fact that anyone with an understanding of nuance <\/em>would know that the goodness underneath<\/em> is all that matters, that obviously he would never hurt her; he was her hometown boy. Nuance was simple, but Henry had clearly never heard of it. Phyllis needed a break.<\/p>\n That was how it began, when a seed was planted, so to speak. The seed broke ground that weekend\u2014Phyllis\u2019s very first weekend in the city\u2014when her roommate, Kris, suggested that the two go shopping for fruit in Kensington Market. Something to keep in the minifridge for those late-night study sessions. It was the smell of the seafood that met Phyllis first, wafting from an old brick building painted bright blue. She was in a coastal city, flirting with a lobster fisherman. The scent was thick as ocean, and despite Kris\u2019s open disgust, Phyllis wanted to drown in it. The market was bustling, and the girls were overwhelmed but entranced with the breadth of culture around them. Food was alive and omnipresent.<\/p>\n After the girls purchased bubble tea and paper bags filled with peaches, Phyllis caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye that shocked her. Professor Klein, towing a little backpack on wheels, reusable grocery bags poking out the top. It looked like something her grandmother might use. It was so unsexy, so viscerally utilitarian, that there was something sensual about it. He was so real<\/em>. Wednesday came, and Phyllis found herself drawing the scratchy blue curtains in her dorm room to get ready for office hour. There had been no doubt in her mind that she would change clothing after her morning class that day, that the leggings and class hoodie she was wearing weren\u2019t quite right for the next scene. She scanned the clothes in her closet, governed by no particular style or colour scheme, and chose an orange top with a keyhole just above the chest area. She tied a silver scarf around her scalp like a headband and pulled a few pieces out at the front. Romantic, but effortless. North American college campus meets provincial village. Phyllis rummaged in her makeup bag for the eyeliner she had bought this morning and carefully unfastened its cardboard wrapping. White eyeliner makes your eyes look bigger, Kris had said. She peeled back her waterline and began to draw a thin line, barely there, how Kris explained it. Satisfied, she smeared a lump of Vaseline on her lips and headed across campus.<\/p>\n Professor Klein\u2019s office was smaller and brighter than Phyllis expected it to be. His only framed photo was of a drooling basset hound, which struck Phyllis as an interesting choice of dog. She had considered him more of an Irish setter sort of guy.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know what my favourite food is yet. How do I know what I like best if I haven\u2019t tried everything?\u201d<\/p>\n Professor Klein looked perplexed as Phyllis sat on the wooden chair in front of him, smiling shyly, hands folded in her lap.<\/p>\n \u201cFood studies is a discipline invested in choice, Phyllis. You will never try every food in this world, and that\u2019s the point. All it takes is a walk through Kensington Market to see how vast and colourful our foodscape is.\u201d<\/p>\n Did he see me there?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s about deciding which foods are worth our inquiry. Which academic doors are worth opening. Thanks for coming to my office hour, by the way. You\u2019d be surprised how few students show up. None, actually, despite my encouragement. I\u2019m competing with Intro to Mediaeval Torture.\u201d<\/p>\n Phyllis was only half listening, as part of her attention was devoted to making sure her legs were crossed in a natural-looking manner. There were also her hands to worry about, which turned a blue-ish red when she felt nervous.<\/p>\n \u201cAnyways, Phyllis, it\u2019s okay not to have an idea for your final paper yet. This is the first week of what I hope will prove to be an exciting and stimulating academic journey together.\u201d<\/p>\n Stimulating? Together?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cYou are welcome to come to office hour whenever you\u2019d like, and we can discuss whatever topics pique your interest as our course unfolds.\u201d<\/p>\n Our<\/em> course.<\/em><\/p>\n Phyllis attended every office hour but two that semester. She grew to enjoy learning about the history of food and developed an enthusiasm for a potential paper on apple pie. Or at least talking about it. One Wednesday, Phyllis made Professor Klein laugh. Something about her nan\u2019s apple pie recipe using too much cinnamon. The next week, their conversation drifted toward the personal.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere are you from, Phyllis? I realise I\u2019ve never asked.\u201d Phyllis both beamed and cringed whenever Professor Klein lapsed into French.<\/p>\n \u201cThat was the last town in the province to repeal prohibition. And now they\u2019ve got the highest rates of alcohol consumption per capita. I use it as a case study in my seminar course on twentieth-century imbibement.\u201d<\/p>\n Phyllis\u2019 cheeks reddened as she told her professor that she\u2019d never heard that statistic before, and to please, go on, that does sound interesting. She barely stopped to reflect on whether she was lying but had a vague recollection of seeing a local museum exhibition on the subject a few years back.<\/p>\n It didn\u2019t matter. Phyllis could listen to Professor Klein talk about anything, for as long as he was willing. Office hour was hers, and she revelled in its intimacy. It was thrilling to look her professor in the eye a moment longer than necessary. To stare at his mouth while he spoke to see if he\u2019d turn away. To form a triangle: eyes, lips, eyes again. There was safety in the space of their Wednesday meetings because the roles they played were half scripted. There was a peculiar freedom in the possibility of improvisation. Of imagining the scenarios this new world allowed. They might lock eyes across the room at a faculty event. Her, the freshman server. Him, the celebrated academic. The warmth of a wink that would mean recognition. The awe of his colleagues at his brilliant young proteg\u00e9e. The closeness of a whisper. Maybe, in the summer, when I\u2019m no longer marking your essays.<\/p>\n On Thursdays, Phyllis and Kris would lie on Kris\u2019s bed and talk about the weeks they\u2019d had.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s definitely into you, Phyllis. For one, you wore that tiny skirt this week. And you give him attention. All any guy wants is attention from a younger girl. But you\u2019re his student. He\u2019s like thirty. It\u2019s not like anything\u2019s going to happen. It would be way too risky.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t know that for sure, Kris.\u201d<\/p>\n The dining hall, too, was the site of frequent girlish incursions into the depth and status of Phyllis\u2019s meetings with Professor Klein. Gossip bounced off plastic plates piled high with contradictory assortments of cheese pizza, weak curry, and vegetable gyoza. While Kris asserted that Phyllis\u2019s situation would remain static, a girl named Annika told a story about her older sister\u2019s friend, whose appetite for her professors could only be curbed by not one, not two, but three erudite men. Phyllis laughed with her friends while feeling uninterested in the food on her plate. There were too many foodways to keep track of. The thought of their meeting inside her stomach made her feel nauseous and full. She craved a feeling instead of a substance. Like the satisfaction of an enjoyable office hour, or the bright green flash of Henry\u2019s messages on her phone screen as she swiped them away to make him wait.<\/p>\n The next Wednesday was the third last of the term, and the last time Phyllis would attend Professor Klein\u2019s office hour. She sat patiently on her wooden chair, her mouth parted slightly as Professor Klein gently critiqued her draft paper. He scooched his chair closer to show her his red markings, so that his desk was beside rather than between them.<\/p>\n \u201cYou could be a little bolder in paragraph three. Right here, see, you use \u2018may\u2019 and \u2018might,\u2019 when you don\u2019t really need to. Say what you feel. Be confident in your argument, Phyllis. You\u2019ve worked very hard this semester, and this essay is your chance to show me what you\u2019ve learned.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you, Professor Klein.\u201d The timeline is unclear, but sometime during the next five seconds Phyllis felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand erect as a highland dance troupe. An unwelcome element had landed on her thigh\u2014bare beneath her skirt\u2014and had rested there. The hand was firm and rough, but skinny, quite unlike Henry\u2019s. However, any curiosity Phyllis felt about the hand\u2019s shape was overwhelmed by dismay. Its confidence was perverse. There was no tremor, no hesitation. The hand was alive. It made a choice. For two, three, four one-thousands, flesh sat atop flesh, as if perfectly called for. Its audacity astounded Phyllis. Five one-thousand, six. The scene was shifting, certainly, it already had. Phyllis Blake rose and, without a word, left Dave\u2019s office as if physically expelled.<\/p>\n Kris laughed about it, wrapped in Phyllis\u2019s throw blanket. \u201cI didn\u2019t think you had it in you. Nice one. What were you expecting? Yeah, he\u2019s a professor. But he\u2019s still a guy.\u201d<\/p>\n That night, after Kris had said goodnight and gone to her own room, Phyllis took out the glass jar Henry had given her. For when you miss me<\/em>. She knew she didn\u2019t. Not in the way he wanted her to. But she drew out a slip of pink construction paper anyway.<\/p>\n I love u because your delicious.<\/em><\/p>\n Phyllis stared at the boyish handwriting and laughed. She laughed so hard that her ribs began to heave like a starving kitten\u2019s, and her arms felt like lead weights. Kris banged on the door to ask what the matter was. Her shoulders shook. Her chest felt oddly concave. Maybe she was just hungry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Fake Food For as long as she could remember, Phyllis had sat at the front of the classroom. Whenever the teacher posed a question, her hand reached highest. Phyllis could remember the name of every teacher she\u2019d ever had. There was squat Mrs. Davies in grade three, who used to ask her to reach supplies off the top shelf,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":5143,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2156","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2156","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2156"}],"version-history":[{"count":35,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2156\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5423,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2156\/revisions\/5423"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5143"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2156"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2156"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2156"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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\n\u201cThat\u2019s him, Kris, look, that\u2019s my professor I was telling you about.\u201d
\n\u201cFood guy?\u201d
\n\u201cFoodways<\/em>. He even posted a meme on the class website about how where there\u2019s a food will, there\u2019s a foodway.<\/em>\u201d
\n\u201cThat\u2019s not even a pun.\u201d
\n\u201cBut he\u2019s so human <\/em>Kris. It\u2019s sort of cute how it isn\u2019t funny.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat are you going to do, fuck him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBaby Creek. I\u2019m sure you haven\u2019t heard of it.\u201d
\n\u201cBaby Creek. Au contraire, Mademoiselle Blake. I probably know more about your hometown than you do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPlease, call me Dave.\u201d<\/p>\n