Matthews Story

Chapter 1

Every morning, young Matthew Conner, eight years old, would wake up in his trundle bed in the one-bedroom apartment he shared with his father. He'd brush his teeth and comb his dark hair, all the while making funny faces at himself in the mirror. Matty was a happy, cheerful kid. Next, he would get dressed and run as fast as he could the three blocks to the cafe, where his papa worked, to have his breakfast.

He liked to sit on a high stool in the cafe's kitchen and watch as his papa worked his magic.

"Good food is magic, Matty," his father would say as he mixed the batter for his blueberry pancakes. "Special magic to everyone all across the whole world. Why, even the Queen of England herself has to pay homage to the cooks who make her morning oatmeal and crumpets.

In the olden days, kings would rate their wealth by the richness of the delicious food on their banquet tables. One time a king even knighted a cut of beef it was so good. "I dub thee, 'Sir Loin'." I bet he knighted the castle's cook, too. That's the magic of food. It takes the wizardry of guys like you and me to cook it."

He laughed like he always did when he told Matty that story and plated a Spanish omelet for Matty's breakfast. "Can you tell what I did differently today?"

Matty would taste and say solemnly, "Papa, yesterday you cooked mine with jalapeno peppers and this one has none." And his daddy would shout to Alice and Mae the waitresses, "He did it! My boy, Matty, is going to be a master chef one day. World mark down my words, you'll see!"

And young Matty would laugh with the joy of his life.

Then came the bad day. When he got to the restaurant. A fire truck was there and a crowd of people and an ambulance.

His papa was gone.

And so was the magic in Matty's world.

"No next of kin?" The social worker flipped through the papers. Her voice was hushed, but Matty could hear her from where he sat on the plastic chair outside her office.

"None that we can locate," replied the police officer. "Father was James Conner, single parent. Mother died when the boy was an infant. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles."

Matty stared at his sneakers--the ones his Papa had bought him just last month, saying he was growing like a weed. The laces were undone, but he made no move to tie them.

Marco, the cafe's manager, had stayed with him at the hospital while the doctors spoke in low voices about "massive cardiac arrest" and "nothing could be done." But Marco had a large family of his own and couldn't take in an eight-year-old boy, no matter how many times he'd ruffled Matty's hair and called him "piccolo."

"We'll find you a family to live with soon," the social worker promised, kneeling in front of him with a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes. "But for now, you'll stay at Horizon House. It's a nice place with other children."

Matty nodded because that seemed to be what she wanted. He clutched his Spiderman backpack while she took his little suitcase filled with his clothes--and followed her to the car.

Horizon House was a square brick building with small windows and a chain-link fence around a patchy yard. Nothing like the cozy apartment above the Chinese grocery where he and papa had lived with the fire escape that they had turned into their own tiny herb garden.

"This is Matthew," the social worker announced to the group home supervisor, a large woman named Ms. Winters, with a voice that boomed even when she was trying to be gentle. "He's joining you."

Ms. Winters smiled, revealing a gold tooth. "Welcome, Matthew. We're just about to have lunch. Are you hungry?"

Matty wasn't. His stomach felt like it was full of rocks, but he nodded because saying no seemed harder.

The dining room smelled wrong--not like his papa's kitchen, with its aromas of garlic and herbs and butter browning in a pan. This place smelled of bleach and old cooked food smells.

"Meatloaf today," Ms. Winters said, steering him to a table where four other children sat. None of them looked up as he approached. "Children, this is Matthew. Make him feel welcome."

The meatloaf was tasteless and the mashed potatoes were too salty. Matty took one bite and couldn't manage another.

"You gonna eat that?" asked a boy his own age across from him, already reaching for Matty's tray.

Matty pushed it toward him and watched as the boy shoveled the food into his mouth, not tasting it, like he was just filling.

The room had two sets of bunk beds. Three other boys shared it with him. Their names--Derek, Luis and Jayden--washed over him without sticking.

"You get the bottom bunk." Luis said, pointing to the empty bunk.

"Okay," Matty whispered, his first words since arriving.

"Watch out. Derek pees the bed sometimes."

Derek, a freckled redhead who looked no older than six, punched Luis in the arm. "Shut up! I do not!"

Ms. Winters showed him where to put his few belongings. There was a small dresser drawer for each boy and a communal closet.

"Bathroom's down the hall," she explained. "Showers are in the morning, five minutes each. Lights out at eight-thirty for your age group."

She left, and Matty sat on the edge of his assigned bed, still clutching his backpack. He'd never had to share a room before. In their apartment, his trundle bed had pulled out from under his father's, and they'd lie there in the dark, his papa talking about a new dish or laughing about the picky customer who'd sent back his soup for being too spicy.

"What you got in there?" Derek asked, pointing to the backpack.

Matty hugged it closer. "Nothing."

"Okay," Luis said, sitting beside him. "Look, I got this GI Joe figure." He grabbed an action figure with a missing arm from his bunk. "My brother got it for me before he went to juvie."

Matty hesitated, then unzipped his backpack and showed the little boy his papa's pocket watch, a tin measuring cup and a tattered recipe book.

"Cool," Luis said.

Matty nodded and tucked it away.

That night, after the overhead lights had been switched off and only the dim glow from the hallway seeped under the door, Matty lay awake. Unfamiliar sounds filled the room--Jaden's soft snores, Luis muttering in his sleep, and the creaking of the bunk above him as Derek tossed and turned in the thrall of a nightmare.

In the apartment, there had been different sounds--the hum of the refrigerator, the distant honking of taxis, his papa's gentle breathing. Sometimes, his papa would work the late shift and Matty would fall asleep to the TV playing on low volume, knowing his papa would be there in the morning, the smell of coffee perking and bacon frying.

Now, there was only the harsh smell of some kind of cleaning chemical and the hollow feeling in his belly.

Carefully, making sure the others were asleep, Matty reached under his pillow for the pocket watch. He gripped it, feeling its weight, imagining it still warm from his father's pocket.

"Food is magic, Matty," his papa's voice echoed in his memory. "And we wizards who cook well are special."

But there was no magic here. No wizardry in the cafeteria's offerings. No happy smiles and laughter.

For the first time since the ambulance, since Marco's words "I'm so sorry, son" had landed on him, Matty began to cry, huge sobs tore out of him he clutched papa's pocket watch--the only bit of his papa's magic he had left.

And as sleep finally claimed him, Matty made a silent promise to his papa. Someday, somehow, he would find that magic again.

Chapter 2

Eight years later, sixteen-year-old Matthew Conner's clear blue eyes looked out at the world with reserved cynicism.

He knew three things to be true.

1) Nothing is for free, everything comes with a cost.

2) Nobody cares--He was the only person he could count on.

3) Self pity is a curse that makes you weak.

Those three were first among other lessons he had learned the hard way.

Matthew was big for his age, his handsome face marred by crooked nose-twice broken nose from two desperate brawls with a kid named Butch who had stolen his father's watch. Butch was now serving time in juvie after he stabbed another kid in a fight over who got the top bunk.

They had all learned not to mess with Matthew.

He walked to the Chicago Farmer's Market from Roosevelt High School, where he excelled despite his circumstances, or maybe because of them. A fifth-grade teacher named Miss Brown had told him over and over that knowledge can't be taken from you. Meaningful words to a kid who had nothing but a busted pocket watch, a battered recipe book, a tin cup and a distant memory of a magical kitchen.

The late afternoon sun bathed the farmers' market in a golden light that made the weathered wooden stalls look somehow magical. Matthew adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulder and entered through the east entrance to Mr. Pietro's flower stand where the Easter lilies and roses perfumed the air.

"Ah, Matty, my young friend!" Pietro called out, his Italian accent still thick in spite of forty years in the United States. "Come, come. I have something new to show you." He beckoned Matthew closer with gnarled hands stained green from decades of cutting stems.

Matthew approached with his customary wariness, but there was a softness in his eyes reserved only for this place, these people.

"Saffron crocus," Mr. Pietro said, gesturing to a bucket of flowers with delicate, elongated petals in vibrant orange and yellow. " The stamens give us the spice saffron. Takes more than fifty thousand of these plants to make a pound of the saffron that turns the risotto golden."

He always offered Matthew a taste of whatever edible flowers he had. All the long time market venders knew Matthews and his dreams of being a chef.

"Thank you for showing me, Mr. Pietro." He moved on with a nod, following his usual route.

Next was Mrs. Saanvi's spice and tea store, a riot of colors and smells that always made Matthew's heart beat faster. The middle-aged Indian woman was grinding something in a mortar and pestle, the rhythmic scraping a percussion note to the sitar music playing in the background.

"Cardamom," Matthew said before she could speak, identifying the distinctive scent.

Mrs. Saanvi looked up, her face breaking into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Right again! You have the nose of a master chef, Matthew." She set down her work and reached beneath her counter, pulling out a small paper packet. "Try this one. It's a masala blend my grandmother taught me. Secret recipe," she winked.

Matthew took the packet carefully. These small lessons were precious--more knowledge that couldn't be stolen. "What's it for?"

"Lamb," she said. "Or goat, if you can find it. But chicken works too. I slow cook with tomatoes and onions." She demonstrated with her hands a universal language of cooking that Matthew understood perfectly.

He handed the packet back to her. "Thank you, I'll remember."

Three stalls down, the Ramirez brothers were arguing good-naturedly over a crate of tomatoes, their rapid-fire Spanish punctuated with exaggerated gestures.

"Too over-ripe for salad," the older brother, Miguel, was saying as Matthew approached. "But perfect for sauce."

"Hey, Chef!" The younger brother, Alejandro, spotted Matthew and waved him over. It was their nickname for him, both teasing and respectful at once. "Settle an argument. These pear tomatoes--sauce or salad?"

Matthew picked one up, feeling its weight, noting the slight give under his fingers. He brought it to his nose, another habit that had earned him strange looks at school but was perfectly normal here. "Sauce," he agreed. "They're too ripe for a salad. They'd make everything soggy."

Miguel slapped his brother's shoulder triumphantly. "See? The Chef knows." He selected one of the ripest specimens and handed it to Matthew. "Payment for your expert consultation."

Matthew hesitated. He was uncomfortable with gifts.

Miguel saw the hesitation and misinterpreted it. "No charge," he insisted. "Consider it payment for your professional opinion." He winked and turned back to his brother, ending any possibility of refusal.

Matthew took the tomato. Even if he couldn't use them properly, he could still enjoy them with a dash of salt, stolen bites of summer in his otherwise bland diet.

"Gracias, Miguel. I bet it will taste wonderful with a touch of salt."

The fish section was next, Matthew's favorite part. Mrs. Chen's stall was immaculate, her seafood arranged on beds of ice with military precision. Unlike many of the other vendors who saw his interest as cute or novel, Mrs. Chen had taken him seriously from day one.

"You're late today," she observed without looking up from the mackerel she was scaling with quick, efficient movements.

"Tutoring a couple of football players." Matthew said, watching her hands. Every visit was a free lesson in knife skills.

She grunted acknowledgment. "Yelloweye today. Very fresh. Come see."

Matthew moved around the counter--a privilege granted to no other--and peered into the display case. Two rock-fish lay there, their orange scales glistening, catching the light.

"Perfect fresh," he murmured, examining the red gills, the clear eyes. "How would you cook them?"

Mrs. Chen's methodical movements paused as she considered. "There are many ways, but I would sauté with ginger, scallion, splash of good soy sauce. Simple is best with fish this fresh."

Matthew nodded, filing away the information. "Can I fillet one for you?" It wasn't a question.

Without waiting for permission, he washed his hands at the small sink behind the counter, then selected a knife from her collection--a razor sharp boning knife, his favorite. Mrs. Chen watched critically as he scaled and filleted the fish with practiced movements that showed he had done it before.

"Better," she said when he finished, which from her was high praise. "Still too hesitant on the backbone cut, but better than most."

The fish went into the display case, and Matthew washed the knife, then his hands again. As he dried them on a paper towel, Mrs. Chen handed him a small book. "Copper River Salmon recipes I got from my fish monger." she said curtly. "Thought you might like."

It was their ritual. Whatever marketing materials she got, she saved for him. More knowledge to add to his collection.

"Thank you," he said, the words inadequate for what her thoughtful attention meant to him.

His last stop was always the same--Jack's Bakery stall, where the day's unsold bread was being discounted as closing time approached. The smell of sourdough and cinnamon drew him like a magnet.

"There he is!" Jack boomed, his voice as big as his belly. "My best customer!" The former Navy cook had taken a shine to Matthew from the first time he'd correctly identified cardamom as the ingredient in his Pulla Bread.

"Hi, Mr. Jack," Matthew said, eying the remaining loaves. There was a dark rye he hadn't tried before.

"Got something special today," Jack said, reaching beneath the counter. He produced a notebook, dog-eared and stained. "Found my old recipe journal from my Navy Days. Thought you might want to copy some down."

Matthew's eyes widened. Recipes were gold in his world--knowledge that transformed ingredients into something magical.

"Really?" he asked, his usual reserve cracking.

Jack nodded, pushing the notebook toward him. "Take your time. Things are a bit slow today."

For the next twenty minutes, Matthew sat on an overturned milk crate behind Jack's stall, copying recipes into his recipe notebook--one he guarded carefully. Jack worked around him, breaking down displays and packing unsold bread into donation boxes for the local shelter.

"You should think about volunteering at the shelter kitchen," Jack suggested, not for the first time. "They're always short-handed, and maybe they'd even let you cook."

Matthew nodded noncommittally. The idea was appealing--a proper kitchen, real ingredients--but the group home had strict schedules and the shelter's location across town made it complicated.

As the market shut down around them, vendors calling final prices and breaking down stalls, Matthew closed his notebook. He'd copied seven recipes, his neat handwriting squeezing every precious word onto the paper.

Jack handed him a paper bag. "Day-old sourdough and a cinnamon roll that's a bit squashed. Still good though."

Matthew took it with a nod of thanks. It had become their understanding: Mr. Jack would always offer, Matthew would always accept, despite his reservations about handouts. A mark of trust on his part that neither mentioned.

He had learned the hard way that handouts made you weak.

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows between the stalls. Matthew shouldered his backpack., He'd have to hurry to make it back to Horizon House before dinner check-in, though the meal itself--always bland, always institutional--held little appeal.

"See you Friday?" Jack asked, folding the last tablecloth.

"You bet," Matthew replied. Friday was delivery day. He could pick up an extra buck or two helping the vendors.

He turned to leave, but stopped when Jack called after him. "Hey, Matty, I almost forgot. The cleanup job. I heard Edwards is looking for someone. Julio quit on Monday. Pays good, I hear."

Matthew brightened. A rare grin tugged the corners of his mouth upward. "That's great news. I will."

He walked away from the market, his stride purposeful. In his backpack was a notebook full of recipes and techniques, knowledge gleaned from vendors who saw past his guarded exterior. The market people had slowly become his quasi-family.

Chapter 3

Matthew moved methodically through his cleaning ritual, a dance he'd perfected over the last year. At seventeen, he'd grown taller still, his shoulders broadening from hauling crates and scrubbing down stalls. His broken nose gave his face character--at least that's what Mrs. Chen told him on the rare occasions she offered personal observations.

"You missed a spot," Miguel Ramirez called, pointing to a splatter of tomato pulp on the corner of his stall.

Matthew flicked his wet rag at it without missing a beat. "I was getting to it."

"Sure you were," Miguel laughed. "Here, don't forget these." He handed over a paper bag bulging with tomatoes, bruised but perfectly usable. "For the soup today, no?"

"Yeah, Mrs. Geigle's letting me make the minestrone soup," Matthew said, unable to keep his excitement disguised. After six months of chopping, peeling, and watching--always watching--the head cook at St. Vincent's soup kitchen was finally giving him a shot at one of the main entrees.

"Ah! The big promotion!" Miguel clapped him on the shoulder. "You must use some zucchini and yellow squash, and swiss chard too." He waved at Alejandro, who handed over a half case of the dark green heads.

"Fresh picked this day," Alejandro said solemnly, as if bestowing a sacred gift.

Matthew nodded, tucking the oregano into his already bulging backpack. "Thanks. I will."

He finished his cleaning circuit, collecting stained cardboard for recycling and hosing down the concrete where necessary. At each stall, vendors pressed ingredients into his hands--the ritual that had begun ten months ago when he started volunteering at the shelter was now an established tradition. Mrs. Saanvi offered a small glass jar of her custom Italian spice blend. Jack handed over a loaf of day-old sourdough with a wink.

"For your croutons," he said. "Way better than that grocery store bread they use."

Old Man Pietro, as always, insisted Matthew take a few edible flowers. "For the presentation," he insisted. "We eat first with the eyes, then the nose, then the mouth."

By the time Matthew finished his rounds, his backpack and an additional canvas tote were filled with the market's generosity--their contribution to St. Vincent's evening meal service, channeled through the quiet teenager they'd all collectively adopted.