“You don’t need to ‘get’ tomatoes,” he told me. “Just walk out the back door and pick whatever you need.”
“Oh. Um. I also need onions and cheese.” I could feel my neck starting to heat a little.
“Onions are in the pantry. And this is Wisconsin, baby shifter. There’s going to be at least three pounds of cheese in the fridge.”
“You say that like everyone has three pounds of cheese in their fridge,” I told him.
“They do,” he replied.
“That’s… obscene.”
“No, that’s Wisconsin. Dairy state. What are you doing making shit with cheese in it, anyway?”
The heat crept further up my neck. “I mean. I’ll make one that doesn’t have cheese. But it’s better with the cheese. So…” I shrugged.
Elliot sighed. “You don’t have to make me anything different from what you make yourself—or make me anything at all, if you don’t want to,” he said, coming over and reaching out to touch my arm, sending tingles through the whole limb.
“You didn’t have ’mater pie when you were in Richmond,” I said. “And you should have some sometime. And it’s supposed to have cheese.” I shrugged again. “We’re each going to eat a whole one either way, so I might as well make yours right.” I’d tried to make one for myself with vegan cheese, and that had been a disaster. I went with the onions, extra breadcrumbs, mayo, thinly-sliced potatoes, and some sort of white beans. It was hearty and pretty tasty, even if it wasn’t the same.
“How do you know I didn’t have it?” he asked.
“Because in Virginia, you only make ’mater pie with fresh tomatoes, and March is not tomato season,” I replied. “Youreally should use Hanovers, but you can’t get those anywhere else.”
“Why not?”
“They’re Hanovers because they’re grown in Hanover county,” I replied. “The soil chemistry in the area causes a very particular balance of flavors in the fruit, and the variety is meatier than your average tomato.” I shrugged. “They’re the best tomatoes in the world. So it won’t be quite right, doing a ’mater pie here, but it’ll still be good with fresh tomatoes.”
Elliot was looking at me like I was delusional. “It’s atomato,” he said.
“Are yours better than store tomatoes?” I asked him pointedly.
“Well, obviously. But that’s because they’re actually ripe when you pick them, and not genetically designed to be red even though they’re still only half-ready.”
“Are they better than some you’d get at a farmer’s market?” I asked.
Elliot paused, thinking. “Some,” he said, finally. “But not others.”
“Because of the soil chemistry,” I told him. “The right balance of clay and acid can produce a richer flavor than something sandy or loamy.”
“Shit, you sound like Dad,” he muttered.
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be.” He was shaking his head. “I just didn’t expect anyone else other than Dad to care that much about plant chemistry.”
I blinked. “I’m a biochemist,” I pointed out.
He looked at me, surprise clear on his face. “I thought you worked at crime scenes?”
“I do—did,” I said. “But we have to have degrees to do that.”
“I mean, yeah, I knew that,” he said, and his cheeks might have been a little darker. “But I just figured… criminal justice or something. Like Val’s is.”
I shook my head. “My MSisin forensic science, but my BS is biochemistry.”
“So you’re a science nerd, then?”
“Obviously.” I offered a tentative smile.
