Making Tapioca by Lee C. Block
“It’s the end of the fucking world, and you’re making tapioca?”
“What else should I be doing?” I said, as I stirred in the almond milk and maple syrup. “I’m making it the way you like it – non-dairy and no white sugar.”
She ignored me, “New York, Boston, Seattle, DC, San Francisco will be obliterated in like 10 minutes, and you decide it’s a good time to make dessert? You know that has a high glycemic index and is bad for me given my condition-”
I snorted, “does it really matter? We have a few days before the fucking cloud gets here. I have the geiger counter, we’ll know when it’s time. So in the meantime, tapioca.”
“I can’t believe you bought that dumb thing-”
“Hey, it was only $85 on Amazon – a deal,” I said. “And I thought if the world wasn’t going to end, we could always use it to check the radiation levels down by the old defunct nuke plant,” I chuckled, “and at the very least, we got to check the radon levels coming off the granite counter top.”
(Yes, I really do own a hand held Geiger Counter. I decided to buy it when the maniac started posturing apocalyptically.)
“Still, totally stupid. Why does it even matter?”
“Well, I just thought I’d want to know when it would be time...I don’t want to die of radiation sickness...given that they haven’t handed out suicide pills like what Ava Gardener took in “On The Beach,” I figured we’d do the Fred Astaire in the garage thing for us and the dogs. Maybe the cats will survive on their own. I don’t know...” I used my spoon to scrape the sides of the sauce pot.
I changed the subject as I stirred slowly the warming tapioca, “You know, the entire 21st Cen- tury has been completely fucked. Dot com bust, and baby Bush - the twat - and the Supreme Court stealing the election. Then dickwad Osama Bin Laden and 9/11. And then those mother fucking war criminals – Bush, Cheney and that gaggle of neocon fucks and 20 years of use- less war in Afghanistan and Iraq, and that sadist bastard --John Yu and torture – ”
“Stop. you’re repeating yourself...again. Tell me something new...” she then said abruptly, “have you seen my glasses? I can’t remember where I put them – again.”
I laughed at this question that I heard countless times a day, “they’re on the side table next to your seat,” I said almost automatically as I spent part of everyday inventorying where she left the various objects for which she’s always searching.
I stirred the tapioca as it started to bubble. I turned down the heat to a simmer.
I continued my rant, “-then the fucking subprime loan meltdown and the Great Recession. Obama? Hope and Change? Nah. We just got nope and same.” I stirred some more.
“Ugh,” she said as she turned her back and went to retrieve her glasses.
“And then Trump and that abysmal kakistocratic kleptocracy and crooks and grifters and 1/6, and the totally fucked up pandemic, fucking anti-vax and anti-mask pestilence and morons – I so miss us seeing the grandkids the way we used to -” I babbled on, “and now this. This...” I trailed off and shook absent-mindedly my head.
While the tapioca continued simmering, I separated the egg yolks from the whites with my new egg strainer I purchased recently, and got out my egg beater to stiffen the egg whites to a froth, “...and now? And now, I feel like Charlton Heston’s Taylor character at the end of “Planet of the Apes.”
“Damn you! God damned you all to hell!” I emoted as I mechanically shook my fist. And then quietly I said under my breath, “madmen all these fucking madmen...”
We both went silent as our dogs started to bark as a car went by the house. To where? couldn’t say. Not really anyplace to go anymore, I thought. “It’s just a god-damned car!!” I yelled as they continued barking and ignored me. “Stop!!” But I gave up and just let them bark it out.
“So what else are you making?” She said.
“Nothing special – just usual comfort food,” I said as my cell phone beeped an emergency alert for the second time – the first was about fifteen minutes before I started the tapioca.
“Yeah, just the old standby – brown rice, steamed greens topped with the usual smoked tofu and sunflower seeds and soy sauce and rice vinegar and sesame oil. Why bother making anything else?” I said abruptly, “We’re almost 300 miles from the nearest Ground Zero...”
I paused for a second or so. “We still have probably a few days,” as I then removed the tapi- oca from the stove top and turned off the burner.
“I guess it’s time you’re going to bring up that 40 year old bottle of port from the wine fridge you have been saving?” She asked.
“Yeah, finally hit one of the three conditions to open it – I turn 75, terminal illness or end of the world,” I said wryly. “I guess we know which one.”
“After I’m done here, I’ll try to reach Mitch and Maureen, and Frank and Bill, and Gina and Kent and tell them to invite their friends to come over and help us drink up the damn wine and booze. Shit, between the 150 wine bottles in the basement and the full liquor cabinet, I hope we can empty everything before...” I trailed off as I beat the egg yolks and then added some of the hot tapioca goo to the mix and stirred vigorously so the mess wouldn’t curdle. I then added this mixture back to the tapioca and stirred again.
We were silent for a moment as I beat the egg whites with the hand-held mechanical egg beater. I had always wanted a fancy Kitchen-Aid mixer, but had no room anywhere to store the behemoth when not in use. And I thought it was better energy wise to just use a hand held than an electric one. Also more challenging to get the whites to stiffen into little peaks. And I always liked a good challenge.
I thought, “but it doesn’t matter anymore, I guess. Does it?”
“Want me to drizzle brandy, bourbon or Kahlúa on the tapioca, dear?” I asked.
“Sure. Why not? I’ll just drink alcohol and smoke weed, and fuck the Dasatanib. So might as well splurge for the next few days, eh?” She smiled, “And will you stop calling me, ‘dear’?”
“Sure.” I ignored her edict, “dear – which booze?” “Oh, make it bourbon.”
“Ok,” I said as I removed the custard cups and lids from the cabinet. I then went to the liquor cabinet and took a few seconds to decide which of the four bourbons we had would be best. I chose the most expensive small batch 90 proof from Louisville we received as a gift last year.
I wondered, no, was amazed that we still had lights and the fridge working, and gas for the stove. The power comes from the conventional power plant down by the bay, which must be using the same protocols that lets the gas and electric company decouple the plant from the main electrical grid during wild fire season. Oh well. I imagine once they lose their gas source, we’ll lose both gas and power at the same time.
My cell buzzed insistently again. I wondered now if each alert I was getting was the death knell of another city. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to know which of my friends or family were be- ing systematically incinerated.
The tapioca was now cool enough to add in the egg whites. I folded them into the tapioca and stirred methodically until the mixture was complete. I set it aside until it was firm enough to add to the custard cups.
I then got down the rice cooker and prepared to cook the brown rice. I hoped the power would stay on long enough for the rice to cook. But if it didn’t, and we lost gas for the stove, I still had propane for the grill – between the tank in the grill and my back up, plus the one I had for the propane heater lamp, plus the two tanks on the camper, I figured we had enough to last...until?
A few weeks before the End of the World, I had stocked up at Costco on the two essentials every hoarder and survivalist covets – bottled water and toilet paper. We had enough to last so when the faucet water stops working, we’d still be ok for a few weeks. But most likely we won’t have to wait that long. It all depends on when the winds change from westerly to either of the three other directions.
I filled the cooker with the rice and the water and set it for brown rice. My rice cooker was one of those fancy Japanese digital ones. Nothing like a good quality rice cooker to make perfect rice every time.
I checked the fridge for the veggies. I had Russian kale (irony? Anyone?), some bok choy and even some chard. So I said to myself, “what the hell, no use saving any of it. Might as well steam it all up.”
I hadn’t stocked up on gasoline for the Honda generator that I use to power the fridge when the power goes out. But who knew this shit was really going to happen? Damn gasoline now with all the ethanol in it goes bad so fast. Can’t store it anyway.
I guess, when we lose the fridge, we’ll just have to cook up all the frozen stuff from the freezer before it rots and serve it at our drunken soirée.
I washed and chopped up the greens, and then added them to one of my stainless steel mix- ing bowls and used my hands to mix them together. I got out my old dented and enamel flak- ing a little, but trusty, Granite Ware steamer pot. I added the veggies into the steamer section, put in a little water to the bottom of pot, put on the lid and then set it aside until the rice was done, which would be in about an hour.
The tapioca was now cool and formed enough to add to the custard cups. I filled each one un- til I had eight evenly measured cups, and then drizzled the bourbon on top of each one. And before I lidded them, I decided to add some freshly grated 72% dark chocolate flakes. I then put the cups in the fridge.
She said, “leave one out-”
I interjected, “they need to cool and set up a bit-”
“It doesn’t matter. Just give me one. I want it now.” “Sure,” I said as I handed her one.
“Thanks,” she said as she retrieved a spoon from the silverware drawer.
I looked into her eyes as I passed the tapioca custard to her and suddenly blurted what popped into my head. “You know, I really do love you. 20 years of ups and downs and here we are, still together. Still together.”
She swallowed a spoonful of the still warm tapioca, “it’s a really a good batch,” she mumbled
with her mouth still full of dessert. And then laughed a little sarcastically, but with her genuine quirky smile, “I love you too,” she said and winked wryly. “And thanks for the tapioca.” I felt a little abashed by our honesty as she kissed my cheek. I smelled dessert with the kiss.
Then the phone buzzed angrily once again. And the power went out.
