"Do not betray me, you temptress, you imp," Iras threatens the oven with one sweaty index finger extended inside her oven mitt. She squints at her souffle through the clouded window in the oven door and regrets the flimsy efforts she has put towards cleaning. Her mother's kitchen, Iras knows, would be spotless, its every surface polished and the oven window bereft of a single hint of grease.
This isn't the stainless steel, freshly re-done, refrigerator-disguised-as-a-wooden-cabinet kitchen of Iras's mother, however. There is no shelf of glossy cookbooks and rolodex of recipes clipped from Better Homes and Gardens. There is no alphabetically arranged spice-rack and there is no drawer of the fridge designated specifically for "really special cheeses." In fact, there are very few items whatsoever in Iras's fridge, which is partially why a souffle was chosen as tonight’s entree.
The other reason, of course, is the nature of the souffle. Light, fluffy, fickle. The temperamental symbol of Iras's ability to function, sans-parentals, sans-suburbia, sans-boyfriend. Just her and the sallow-walled apartment on Eighth Street, only a block away from the bus station and only a bus ride away from all of the hip and unaffordable neighborhoods of the city. Nothing much could be done about the apartment, Iras knew, but the souffle-- a perfect souffle, a golden, puffy indicator of competence and achievement--would mean something to Rick and Wendy Alexander.
She knows that she can cook it. She grew up observing her mother, a master of the souffle technique, whip eggwhites into graceful white peaks and fold them into butter-yellow sauce. Wendy's souffles were perfection, smooth unblemished surfaces softly arcing heavenward as she removed them from the oven. But it was Wendy's demeanor, her air of confidence with the souffle, that Iras sought to emulate.
"I won't allow you to sink," she whispers to her adversary in the oven, then checks the green numbers on the $4.95 digital clock she got at WalMart.
They are due to arrive any minute. Her father will complain about the price of parking and her mother will make some remark about the flights of stairs and how Iras won't need to worry about her weight. And then they will eat. They will not linger past 7:30 because they have tickets for the opera and, as Wendy will say with a glance at the three chairs condensed awkwardly into Iras's kitchen, they would never want to feel like an imposition.
Inside the oven the soufflé is curving gently upward and outside the apartment two sets of footsteps grow steadily more distinct. Iras whispers one final prayer to whatever god is listening.
"Labor of my desires, you are beautiful, you are lightness, you are strength. When I remove you from the oven, you will not feel overwhelmed by the shock in temperature or the unfamiliarity of your surroundings. You will feel no pressure, and you will not collapse. And if you do," Iras grips the oven door with purple- clad hands and pulls it open, "At least you will go down knowing that, god dammit, you once flew high enough to touch the sun."