Work Text:
The people who give you their food give you their heart. - Cesar Chavez
Cooking is love made visible. - Anonymous
a quick and easy dinner
Matthew was hungry. It was all his fault. He was over at Alfred’s for the weekend, and they’d spent most of the day playing video games, minus the short stint they spent braiding the manes and tails of the horses at Alfred’s sprawling ranch. And then Matthew got hungry. So he said, “Al, let’s eat.”
Sorry, world.
“Oh, you know, we could just order in,” Alfred said, whipping out his phone. “Although, I have quite a few ingredients…I did a grocery run yesterday…I dunno…d’you wanna cook? What do you want?”
Matthew knew his way around Alfred’s kitchen quite well, and he knew where Alfred kept the junk food. He knew his brother hid the sour candies and the Cheetos and the wafers and cookies and the rest of the trove of salty, sugary, cheesy badness in the corner cabinet beside the fridge. So he opened it. And as expected, Alfred had stocked KD.
“Come on, seriously?” his brother snorted. “KD, again?”
“What’s your problem?”
“I hate the stuff.”
Matthew whipped around, fingers digging into the box. “Literally go fuck yourself with a chainsaw and fall off a cliff.”
“Mattie.” Alfred grabbed his shoulders, cornflower blue eyes bearing into him like a pair of ballistic missiles Alfred wasn’t allowed to know the codes for. “Mattie, dude. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just Kraft Dinner. Don’t get so worked up.”
“Don’t shit-talk KD.”
“I will. It sucks. I only buy it for you.”
Matthew pushed past him, going over to the cabinet with the utensils. He pulled out a saucepan.
“Ugh, no, Mattieeee, I can’t.” Alfred threw his hands up. “No, we’re going to eat some real food. Real, All-American food. No—leave it, put it back—” he snatched the saucepan from Matthew. “Go sit. I’ll make us dinner.”
“But I want KD—”
“You need to eat something besides KD and pancakes and maple juice—”
“You know it’s syrup.”
“I did not.” Alfred grinned widely, just to annoy him. “I think I have all the ingredients for clam chowder.”
Matthew paused at that. He knew Alfred could cook, in the nebulous, tangential way he knew what the Schrodinger’s Cat experiment was about. Of course Alfred could cook; he was a whole, adult country, home to millions of people from thousands of cultures. He even remembered Alfred baking for Matthew when they were children in England’s care, Alfred a few years older, Matthew still a toddler. He didn’t honestly think Alfred ate Mcdonald's every night, no matter what Francis claimed. But clam chowder?
“Isn’t that kind of complicated?”
Alfred laughed. “No?”
Matthew blinked. “Oh. Well, I didn’t know you could make…” but he didn’t finish his sentence, because Alfred was already hefting groceries out of the fridge.
“I can totally cook, Mattie! Don’t you know that by now? Hell, I’m a better cook than stupid Arthur. You know what, why don’t you video me cooking so there’s proof? Yeah, I’ll forward it to Arthur and Francis and they’ll see that I’m a freakin’ culinary god.”
“...What?”
And that's how it happened. Alfred had a tripod lying around, and Matthew had his brand new iPhone, so they set up their studio in the kitchen and Alfred grinned at the camera like a food show host. “Hello world! Welcome to All American Cooking, with your favourite nation, America! What’s on today’s menu, you ask? Well, my brother—Mattie, get in here—”
“—But—”
Alfred marched off camera and yanked Matthew by the elbow, hard enough that Matthew thought he might dislocate his shoulder. He dragged Matthew into the frame. “My brother, Canada, aka Matthew,” Alfred went on, slapping him in the back. Matthew flew a few inches forward from the sudden blow, “is kinda hungry! And I’m not going to subject my baby bro to another sad, lonely night of eating KD—”
“Stop shit-talking KD! It’s delicious.”
“See that?” Alfred peered into the camera. “He’s so hungry he’s not making any sense. So without further ado, let’s get to work! First stop, vegetables!” From a plastic grocery bag before him, Alfred pulled out a whole celery, its fat green stalks so long they nearly knocked Matthew’s glasses off.
“Ow! Alfred, can I go—”
“Mattie, help me cut the carrots, will you?”
“On camera?”
Alfred squinted at him. “Yeah? We’re making a fun video, get with the programme!” And he smirked at the tripod-phone setup. “Cana-dude gets antsy when he’s hungry. But hey, who doesn’t?” He shoved a carrot the size of a horse dildo into Matthew’s face. “Let’s get lunchin’!”
“It’s dinnertime.”
“Okay, uh, let’s get munchin’!”
Matthew had the beginnings of a headache. Alfred saw himself as some sort of host, somewhere between Anthony Bourdain and Julia Child. He did the voice, too. “A lot of people think you have to be delly-cate in coOking,” he mimicked, raising the pitch of his voice so that he sounded like he’d swallowed the air from a helium balloon, “but you can be verrrry rough!” And he slammed the knife so hard on some poor unsuspecting onions that the entire kitchen island reverberated. Matthew was half afraid he’d chop off a finger. Matthew stayed in a safe corner, quietly making the roux as Alfred had told him to. “Let’s have a loOk, my little sous chef!”
“I don’t think Julia Child sounded like that.” Matthew stepped aside so the pan was more visible, not just to Alfred, but also to the camera. Alfred hovered over it, serious and contemplative, for once. He picked up the pan and showed it to his make-believe audience. He was done with the Julia Child voice, now he sounded more like Bourdain, lowering his tone to a low, rockstar drawl, “I’ve been roux-minating on roux lately, and as I stare into the bubbling white depths of this pan, I think about the swirling coils of identity and personhood that—”
“What?”
“That make the culinary experience so…” Alfred paused for a moment, evidently trying to replicate Bourdain’s pensive, philosophical worldview, “so…invigorating and unique.”
“Alfred,” Matthew cried, exasperated, “just tell me if the roux is fine!”
“...And as I mull on these complexities of life, I notice, critically, that this roux needs more butter.” And he turned around and plonked the pan down on the stove again. “Another teaspoon should do it,” he added, smirking at Matthew.
“I just wanted KD,” he muttered darkly, dropping a spoon of butter into the pan and watching it bubble.
The bastard posted it on Youtube. He called his channel All American Cooking, and within the hour, global news houses were talking about America’s nation personification making clam chowder at ten thirty pm, Wyoming, with his grumbling brother, Canada. Twitter was ablaze with memes, and the most pervasive of all seemed to be a snapshot of Canada’s bitter grimace as he glared at his brother, saying, I just wanted KD.
God, the memes. People were replacing Canada’s face with America’s, with the words, I just wanted Single Payer Healthcare.
Or replacing his face with their various fandom blorbos. Like Naruto. I just wanted Sasuke to fuck me.
Or changing the text to, I just wanted my father’s approval but here I am with $3000 therapy debt and a single bowl of clam chowder.
“At least that one’s kind of accurate,” Matthew muttered to himself. Even he could see the humour in this. But he refused to become a meme. He was never going to let Alfred film him for Youtube again.
world peace, one culinary disaster at a time
Group Chat with: France (Personal Phone), England (Personal Phone), America (Personal Phone)
Francis: A cooking Youtube channel? Alfred??? Now I’ve heard everything.
Francis: How was the clam chowder, anyway?
Matthew: …It was quite nice, tbh.
Francis: Matthew, mon chou, I told you to lay off the weed.
Arthur: He’s so high he’s not making any sense…
Matthew: Was that a MEME?
Matthew: Is that a meme now????
Matthew: Did you guys rehearse that???
Arthur: Hahaha.
Francis: Non! I was just checking if you REALLY liked that clam chowder.
Francis: After all, you just wanted KD…
Alfred: LMAOOOOOO
Alfred: I like this YT stuff tho fr!!
Alfred: next episode is gonna be about tandoori chicken pasta
Francis: I think I am going to faint
Arthur: I’ve made it before; it’s good.
Francis: Arthur if you like something, it’s a red flag!!
Matthew: …
Matthew: Did you say…tandoori…chicken…pasta?
Matthew: Al, you’re going to cause an international incident.
Alfred must have told the other countries what he was planning—a first, if true—because halfway through preparing for a meeting about the economy with his boss, he got a call from Kabir. He and India were old friends, having fought together in the trenches of WWI. More recently, there was so much cultural exchange between their peoples that they’d ended up spending a lot of time together. He liked the older nation’s calm and even temperament. Too bad that temperament was gone now.
“Matthew,” he said seriously, “what am I hearing about your brother making a Youtube video about—I can’t even say it.”
“Tandoori chicken pasta?” Matthew supplied, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“He called to ask me about using a tandoor oven. I am thinking I should cook him in it. He’ll fit.”
Matthew snorted. “What do you want me to do about it? Alfred listens to no one but himself.”
“He might even listen to you! Aren’t you his favourite brother?”
“Bit of a stretch there…”
He heard India exhale sharply. “Matthew,” and he said it like an order, “talk to him. Stop him. This cannot happen. It’ll be a travesty.”
“I’ll try, if you want, but…”
“Tell him I’ll stop sending my best scientists to NASA if he goes through with it! I have a wonderful space programme too, so it won’t be any loss for me.”
A credible threat, if Matthew ever heard one. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to him.”
He’d barely hung up the phone when a flurry of texts came in from Veneziano.
Feli: CANADAAAAAAAAA D:
Feli: America just told me he’s making a tandoori chicken pasta!!!
Feli: What even is that???? I had to look it up!!
Feli: Wait my brother wants to say something
Feli: Matthew, Romano here
Feli: Please give your brother a message from me
Feli: 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕
So Matthew grudgingly decided to tell America to knock it off. He glanced at his meeting notes, thinking, I just wanted to work on the economy. And he realised he’d memed himself.
“Alfred, before you go ahead and piss off two countries for no reason—wow.” Matthew forgot his words when he entered the kitchen. Alfred had turned it into a state-of-the-art studio with a fancy camera and light setup. Matthew had walked in on him setting up the ingredients and bowls.
“Hey Mattie! This is a pleasant surprise!” he chirped without looking up.
“You’ve made this really official, huh?”
“Oh, yeah! I even hired an editor!”
“Who?”
“Sealand,” Alfred grinned.
“Sealand?”
“What?” Shrugging, he pulled out a jar of ginger-garlic paste from a grocery bag with an Indian store label. “He’s got way too much free time, anyway, and he’s a kid. Kids are good with computers, right? Here, help me set up!”
“No!” Matthew crossed his arms. “I’m not getting roped into this like the last time! I’m here to stop you. You’re going to majorly piss off two countries, and India said he’d prevent his best scientists from working at NASA if you go through with this. Something about how he’s got his own great space programme, so he doesn’t care either way.”
Alfred, who had proceeded to wipe a cooking bowl until it sparkled, now paused to stare. “Ohhh…well, that’s a threat I’d believe.” Then, considering it for a moment, he shrugged. “I’ll convince him not to go through with it. It’s whatever.”
“Alfred! It’s rude. It’s two countries and they don’t want you to—”
“First of all,” Alfred whipped around, “I had tandoori pasta when I was in India the last time, his people invented it, so don’t blame me!”
“Yeah, but Kabir doesn’t approve!”
“Yeah, well, those old guys don’t approve of much. Look at Artie. Has he ever approved of anything in his life?”
Damn. Good point. Canada chewed his lower lip. “Well, okay, but the Italy brothers—”
“If they have a problem with tandoori pasta, they’ll have to take it up with India, man,” Alfred said breezily. “And for the record, the Italies are old farts, too.” He set the bowl down on the platform with a flourish. “Could you help me—”
“No.”
Alfred rolled his eyes. “Could you help me by pressing play?”
“Oh.” Matthew supposed he could do that. As long as he didn’t have to be in the frame. He found the red record button on the DSLR’s screen and as soon as he tapped it, Alfred came to life.
“Hello, world! It is I, your very favourite nation, America! Come to regale you with some awesome recipes of my youth, but also, some awesome food I’ve discovered on my multi-century journey through this, our home, Spaceship Earth.”
Matthew just rolled his eyes, just like Alfred had only moments ago.
“Today, I really wanted to try tandoori chicken pasta, which is a dish I discovered on my last trip to Mumbai! It’s like street food, or something, but it’s soooo good. Obviously I don’t have a tandoor oven, so we’re gonna cook the chicken in a pan, capisce? Shout out to India for inventing this epic fusion dish, by the way.”
Oh god, Kabir was going to love that.
“And if you’re wondering where my precious sous chef is today—”
Alfred, no.
“He’s behind the camera!” Alfred grinned widely. “Come on up here, mi hermanito precioso!”
Spanish, really? “Alfred, I really don’t—” Matthew squeaked, but Alfred, as before, stomped over to him and yanked him into the frame by the arm. Matthew froze at the camera, and then remembered everything he was doing would become a meme, so he had to act normal. He straightened and cracked a small smile. “Hi, everyone.”
Alfred thumped his back, again. Matthew was pale and bruised easily, he knew it was going to leave a mark this time. “Matthew speaks French,” he told the camera, “so I thought I’d break out the Spanish. D’you wanna show off your French skills, Matt?”
He almost said no. But then a bolt of annoyance seized him, and he said, “Va te crisser.”
Alfred knew enough Quebecois French to figure that one out. He roared out laughing and thumped Matthew’s back again. “Keep it PG, dude, we’ve got global kids watching! Okay, so that’s enough language lessons for the day, let’s get to what we’re really here for, the fooooood. Man, I’m SO hungry. Are you hungry, Mattie?”
“No,” Matthew glowered.
“Not even for KD?” Was Alfred seriously teasing him? He was so fucking sick of this meme.
“No.”
“Well, you will be hungry soon! So let’s start with familiarising ourselves with the spices, mm’kay? Ooh wait, let’s first do a funny voice.”
“Please god don’t do an Indian accent.”
“I wasn’t gonna!” Alfred huffed. “Jeez Louise. Let’s do Gordon Ramsay, eh?” Alfred jogged in place for a few seconds, so his breath was racing. “So,” he gasped, in an attempt to copy Gordon’s fast-paced rumble, his voice an accent that was neither British nor Scottish nor anything in between, “first we’ve gho’t,” and he picked up a glass bottle, “cumin, and red chilli powder, trrmricck,” which Matthew guessed was turmeric, “Cory-yander, gaa-raam masyala--” and then he burst out laughing, saying, “Okay, even Gordon wouldn’t say it like that, it’s garam masala, if you don’t have some, get some, it’s good for everything. It’s like Bay Spice, amirite? This baby brings the heat.” He shoved the spice bottles into Matthew’s hands, to free his own. Mimicking Ramsay again, he went on, “And then we gho’t—”
And somehow, Matthew was on pasta duty. As Alfred busied himself with a complex marinade of spices and yoghurt, Matthew was standing over a bubbling pot of pasta water, wondering where it all went wrong.
Alfred peered over his shoulder. When he spoke, he was trying and failing to sound like Al Capone. “Aay came ta Chicago wi’ forty dallars in ma pocket ta try and find out if this pasta’s all-denty? Al dente, geddit?”
“Your Ramsay was better.”
“Oh, dang, really?” said Alfred in his normal voice.
“I think the pasta’s done.”
“Blhoddy Bhrilliant, ya dongkey!”
Matthew was expecting it, and he got it. First, a phone call from Kabir, who just said, “Matthew…” and then sighed, for three-quarters of a whole minute. Well, presumably he didn’t follow through on his threat, anyway, because Matthew would have heard if the entire country of India suddenly stopped sending its scientists to NASA.
“Honestly, though, it was pretty tasty.” Matthew bit down a smile. “I mean, your people invented it, right? You shouldn’t be upset, it was really good.”
“Young’uns and their disrespect for tradition,” Kabir muttered in an undertone. “And thanks to Alfred’s comment, the Italy brothers sent me a pretty angry text message about butchering their pasta. I didn’t do it myself! I can’t help it if my citizens like to experiment with things.”
Speaking of the Italy brothers. Matthew toggled to the comments section of the Youtube video. Most of them were pretty good.
-Squeeeeeee america is soooo cuteeeeee <3 <3 <3
- Matthew williams needs to step on me!!!! Yes sir!!!!!!!
-ngl i’m obsessed with america doing impressions, alfred my guy if youre reading this you should do a podcast and just impersonate random people!! Lol
-America D: how dare you!!! I feel so betrayed T_T what IS THIS
- Haha sorry feli <3, Alfred had replied. Take up all complaints with Kabir tho!! lmao
-America, and Matthew knew for a fact that was Romano, because it was a paragraph of Italian expletives. Within the hour, Youtube had taken the comment down.
we(ed) the people
At least this time, Alfred was the one getting memed. Him saying Blhoddy Bhrilliant, ya dongkey! became the GIF-du-jour, even though Sealand insisted that GIFs were going out of fashion. (Matthew was already too old to keep up with this bullshit). He tried to ignore it, really, even though he, a world-famous introvert, was now somehow part of two viral cooking videos. His boss had even brought it up in meetings, chortling about how he’d tried making Alfred’s clam chowder recipe but had got lost with all the accents and wisecracking. Once was an accident, and twice was a mistake, but Matthew would not let it happen a third time. If Alfred wanted to torment the world with his cooking, that was his business. Matthew didn’t want to get involved.
Alfred was swimming in sponsorship offers he kept having to decline, much to his chagrin. Oh, he would have loved to get a set of expensive Japanese knives for free. He would have loved the fancy cookware, the lifetime supply of ingredients, protein shakes, and whatever else, but as a nation personification, he couldn’t legally be in the employ of a corporation, so he had to turn them down. Matthew almost felt bad for the corporations. Alfred had upwards of a hundred million subscribers, with more joining in every day. People were eating it up, and there’d only been two videos so far.
Alfred sent Matthew a screenshot of a Youtube comment one day.
Hey america!! Love your channel bro. Can i make a request. Ask your brother to share his fav weed brownie recipe? He’s canada, after all…i bet he knows a thing or two…
Matthew flushed. What rubbish!! He didn’t want to be on the channel in the first place, and—well, of course he knew a good many brownie recipes, he’d done his fair share of experimenting, after all...But was that even allowed? He wasn’t even sure Youtube allowed for content like that.
Alfred, don’t be insane, he retorted, and slammed his phone face-down on his desk. He didn’t look at it for another hour, in which time he tried and failed to focus on some documents about infrastructure improvement.
Alfred: Awww, come on, Mattie!
Alfred: You make the best pot brownies ever
Alfred: Better than Netherlands, even
Alfred: (It’s cuz you’re a better baker)
Alfred: (Because I taught you)
Alfred: (When you were a wee little precioso baby)
Alfred: (Because I’m your loving big brother and I’ve never asked you for anything before <3)
Matthew: What LIES
Matthew: Almost ALL of it
Matthew: First of all, Francis taught me to bake…the only "cooking" you taught me was apple pie
Matthew: Secondly, “I’ve never asked you for anything before”????? Are you HIGH?
Matthew: The one thing you said is true is that I make better pot brownies than Jan.
Alfred: Exactly! You’re the BEST at it.
Alfred: There’s no one I’d want doing this other than you :’)
Alfred: If I wanted a good car, I’d ask Germany, and if I wanted a good pot brownie, I’d ask you
Alfred: Because you’re the very, very best.
Matthew: Al, it’s not gonna work.
Matthew: You’re laying it on real thick, but it’s not gonna work.
Alfred: I think I canna-butter you up a bit more :P
Matthew: No, you canna-not.
Matthew: I’m busy, ttyl
Alfred: Aw, Mattie don’t be like that!
Alfred: Mattieeeeeeeeeee
Alfred: :(
This time it was Alfred barging into Matthew’s house, well past midnight, holding Walmart grocery totes and a smaller package that Matthew recognised immediately as a bag from the local dispensary. “Aw, Mattie, you asleep?” he asked, while Matthew was clearly curled up on the couch with Kumajiro, well into the first hour of his THC gummy, staring into the TV screen, his mind pleasantly blank.
“Al? Ugh. I know why you’re here.” He should take away Al’s key…but then, who’d come barging in on him just to say hi? Aw, and he’d kinda miss that, really. Man, this gummy was already kicking in.
Alfred patted Kuma on the head and laughed when he saw the opened pack of gummies on the table. “Damn, I gotta catch up!” he said, popping one in his mouth. “Come onn, Mattie, it’ll be fun. You get to show off your skills and--”
Alfred probably said more, but Matthew wasn’t paying attention to his words. He was struggling to pay attention to much of anything, honestly. But he didn’t need to pay attention to Alfred’s words, because Alfred was making The Face. That was why he was here, after all. Not to waste time making educated arguments about why Matthew had to teach his followers how to make pot brownies, but because he was going to emotionally manipulate Matthew into doing whatever he wanted. He was going to use his most powerful weapon.
The Face was the look Alfred gave to melt hearts and bend rules. A slight pout, wide eyes, brimming with innocence and hurt, brows turned down just a little, making him seem oh-so-pathetic and angelic at once, a puppy who’d been denied a treat, a kitten left to starve on the sidewalk.
“...When we were little,” Alfred sniffed, “we used to do such fun things together, and,” another sniff, “these last few weeks, with these videos, I’ve just felt like we’ve been reconnecting—”
“Oh, knock it off!” Matthew cried, rubbing his face. He really wished he hadn’t taken that stupid gummy now. His thoughts were slipping in and out of his grasp. “All right, okay? Fine. I’ll teach your pothead followers how to make brownies.”
“Aww, really?” Alfred hugged him. “I love you, Mattie! I already have all the ingredients.”
“Asshole,” Matthew groaned, stretching out on the couch.
“Hellooooooo world! Guess where I am? Canada, baby! Hell yeah, I’m at Mattie’s place, and today’s a super fun episode of All American Cooking—yeah, yeah, I know, Canada isn’t America, but you know what’s American? FREEDOM, and you know what’s a great example of Freedom? Being able to legally consume weed! Hell yeah!”
If Alfred wasn’t already getting scolded by his boss twenty-five hours a day, Matthew would chew off his own foot.
“I mean, sure, it's legal in my neck of the woods too," Alfred grinned, "But it's kinda-sorta more legal here, y'know what I mean? Anyway, back in ouuuur day,” he said, putting on a throaty, old-man voice as he threw an arm around Matthew’s shoulders, “—‘cuz remember, we’re like hundreds of years old—it was totally normal to take laudanum or cocaine or whatever the heck you wanted whenever the heck you wanted. And I’m not saying that's okay! But weed is totally legal in Canada, and my brother in crisse, Matthew—”
Matthew snorted.
“—Is going to teach us all how to make some very fun brownies. So if you’re not an adult yet, don’t watch this video, okay?”
“Like that’s gonna work,” Matthew muttered. “Well, anyway,” he told the camera. “We start with making the cannabutter. And you can use that for brownies or anything else you want to make, but…erm, yeah,” he finished, feeling awkward. “Okay, so you’ll need a cheesecloth and some twine, a double boiler, some butter, and the marijuana, obviously…”
“I feel like I’m going to get into trouble,” Matthew told Alfred later. They had a tray of brownies between them. The camera was off, finally, and Alfred cut them each a square.
“That’s just the anxiety talking,” Alfred laughed. “Here.” He handed a fairly large piece to Matthew. “You’ve earned it.”
“That’s a lot,” Matthew laughed, but took a bite anyway.
“That’s okay.” Alfred sounded genuinely warm. “Trip out. I’ll take care of you if it gets too intense.”
pancakes for dinner
Matthew did get in trouble. Not with his boss, who did not care, and in fact said he was going to try the pot brownie recipe the next time politics became too intense and he needed a day off. And it was kind of surreal, really, to look your Prime Minister in the eye and talk about making funny brownies. But anyway, no, he got in trouble with Arthur and Francis.
Group Chat with: France (Personal Phone), England (Personal Phone), America (Personal Phone)
Arthur: I just don’t think it’s entirely responsible, is all.
Francis: That is NOT why I taught you how to bake.
Francis: Having said that, I have to admit, the consistency of the brownies looked to be appropriate and your crust turned out quite well.
Arthur: Francis, we’re lecturing him right now.
Francis: I give constructive critique , Arthur.
Matthew sighed, frustrated.
Matthew: Well, we were in Ottowa, where my laws apply, doing something completely legal.
Matthew: So I won’t discuss this any further.
Alfred: Hell yeah, mattie!!! You tell em!!!
Alfred: Btw next video we can make Chicago style pizza!!! You’re gonna help, rite?
Alfred: I need my sous chef!!
Matthew would have said no, just to be difficult, but at that exact moment, Arthur texted him privately, saying, Matthew, I really expect you to be the more responsible one. Just because Alfred wants to make a fool of himself on an international scale, doesn’t mean you should too.
And ugh.
Burning with spite, Matthew swiped over to the group chat again.
Matthew: yeah, of course I’ll help you, Al.
Now that he’d made a promise, he couldn’t back out. Which sucked, because as the days passed, Matthew was starting to feel like death. It was definitely a bad cold; he’d been on three flights this week, between Ottawa and Vancouver and Edmonton, caught up in a flurry of technical challenges regarding the oil industry and national parks and a local election to boot. He hadn’t slept much, so by the time he landed in Alfred’s DC brownstone Matthew had a throbbing headache and a persistent cough.
Alfred opened the door and his face fell. “Matt, jeez, you look more pale than usual.”
“I’ve taken lots of Dayquil, I’m fine,” he muttered, pushing past Alfred. He did, however, let his brother help with his bag and coat. He could see that the camera equipment and lights were all set up in the kitchen. The ingredients were all out and the counters had been wiped down so they gleamed. It was late afternoon on a Saturday, and they’d planned to shoot the video now and go sight-seeing tomorrow. Matthew knew DC well enough…especially since he’d help burn it to the ground in 1812…but he still enjoyed time spent with his brother. He tried never to let it show too much, though. Alfred’s ego did not need even more of a boost.
“Sit down, I’ll make you some tea,” Alfred said, sounding almost nervous as Matthew broke into a fit of painful coughing. “If I’d known you were this sick, we could have rescheduled!”
“I’m busy next weekend,” Matthew managed to eke out.
“Matt! You have a social life?”
“Believe it or not, yeah.”
“Wow,” Alfred whistled, in mock-amazement. “Since when?”
“Since I became a meme and everyone wants to have sex with me.”
Alfred burst out laughing. His mirth faded quickly though, as Matthew’s coughing escalated. In minutes, he scampered over with a teacup, its hot contents sloshing over the rim as he patted Matthew’s back. His palm found his forehead. “Matthew, you’re like, burning up, dude. You should eat and sleep.”
“Ughh. Maybe you’re right.” Matthew took the tea with a grateful smile. “I guess I’ll just nap. I’m not hungry, anyway.”
Alfred’s stare was long and searching. This whole thing had started because Matthew had been hungry. And instead of just letting him eat KD, Alfred had pulled out all the stops and made clam chowder. So it was almost idiotic to think ‘I’m not hungry’ was going to get him out of a warm, home-cooked meal.
“Have you eaten anything at all today?” Alfred asked. Matthew had always hated that tone. He remembered it from his childhood, when Alfred decided to drop the jokey act and become a responsible big brother. It always meant Matthew was about to be told off or told what to do, and neither was something he was interested in right now.
“I had Timbits,” Matthew said, sipping the tea. It was true, but it was not the answer Alfred wanted to hear.
“...Right.” His eyes hardened. “Okay then, I guess I’ll make you some soup. Go lie down.”
“No.” Matthew stood abruptly. “I’m really not hungry, Al, and I don’t want soup.”
“I wasn’t really asking for your opinion, Matthew,” Alfred said in that goddamn tone. When he was younger Matthew would wilt and comply, but he wasn’t that kid anymore. He was feeling sick and crabby and if Alfred was going to pick a fight, he was going to push back.
“Let’s just make the pizza. I’ll eat the pizza, all right?” He set the tea down and pushed past Alfred, heading to the kitchen.
Alfred followed after him, holding onto the teacup. “Matt—”
He hit the record button. “Okay, now what’s the first step?”
Alfred set the cup down on the counter and turned off the camera. “Matt, I’m serious. There’s no point working yourself sick over a dumb Youtube video. Just go lie down. I can make some soup.”
“I don’t want soup!” Matthew snapped, pressing his fingers into his temples to massage away a sudden rise in pain. “Let’s just make the video. Please? I thought the point was to spend time together.”
Alfred’s eyes softened. “Oh, all right, fine. But look, just--just sit,” he said, directing Matthew to a bar stool by the kitchen island. “We can do the video, but we’ll make some changes.”
“Changes like what?”
“We’re not making pizza. It’ll take too long and I have a feeling you won’t be able to stomach it right now, anyway.” His hand went affectionately to Matthew’s hair, carding his scalp in a way that almost immediately made him drowsy. “So you sit there,” Alfred went on, “and I’ll film and make some pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” Matthew straightened. “Oh. Oh yeah, I’d love that.”
Alfred hummed to himself as he put the pizza stuff away and went over to the camera again. He hit record, then came back to stand over Matthew. “Hello world!” he said, and his voice wasn’t quite so loud. “It’s me, your favourite nation, America! And I’m here with my favourite nation, my baby brother Canada, aka Matthew, who you might know from such artworks such as the ‘I just wanted KD’ meme and last week’s amazing video on brownies.”
Matthew snickered. Alfred patted his shoulder, and went on, “Today, I’m gonna do something different. I’m just gonna cook, and Mattie’s gonna eat—he’s my taste tester! And I’ll show you how to make the perfect pancakes. And I know they’re the perfect pancakes because they have Mattie’s seal of approval. I’ve been making them for him since he was a little kid! Back around two hundred years ago or something. I know right, they grow up so fast.”
“Har-har, Alfred,” Matthew muttered, but heatlessly and with a smile on his face. He rubbed his throat instinctively, and Alfred plopped his abandoned teacup down in front of him. It was still warm, thank goodness.
“So the first thing you gotta do is take your eggs,” Alfred said, cracking them into a large bowl, “and your flour…I like to use a cup and a half, it depends on the consistency you want…and Mattie always likes vanilla bean and cinnamon in the batter, so you can add that…trust me, if you ever want Mattie to be your friend, you just whip him up a plate of this and he’ll be all yours.”
Matthew let him talk, zoning out to the soothing lilt of Alfred’s indoor voice. He kept intermittently sipping his tea, quietly revelling in the small shows of affection he received from his brother--the frequent shoulder pats, soft nudges to elicit laughter or a response, the studious glances, to assess Matthew’s condition. Pretty soon the kitchen was smelling of vanilla and cinnamon and the intoxicating aroma of sizzling butter.
“Ta-daa!” Alfred said, still not as loud as usual as he slapped a stack of pancakes down in front of Matthew. In a flash he had a bottle of maple syrup, which he generously drizzled. “Pancakes for dinner,” he quipped. “Hey, isn’t that the name of a song? Yes it is!”
Alfred grabbed his own plate. He looked squarely into the camera as he set it down. “Now we are going to eat, and Mattie is going to go to bed because I’m pretty sure he’s running a 101F fever. And when he’s alive next week, we’ll see you then and we’ll make a pizza! Yay! Good night, my favourite dudes, and as always, eat to your heart’s content!” He waved to the camera, and smiling awkwardly, so did Matthew. Then Alfred scampered around to end the recording.
When he finally returned, Matthew’s shoulders slumped in exhaustion. He gratefully shovelled pancakes into his mouth, stopping only when he had to cough. Alfred laughed, patting his back. “Okay, okay, slow down. I know you haven’t eaten all day, but pace yourself, all right?”
“It’s just so good,” Matthew said, “and I’m so hungry!”
“That’s a good sign. I’m glad!” Alfred was eating at a more relaxed speed. “What do you want on the pizza by the way? Any special toppings? I’ll stock up next week.”
“Pineapple,” Matthew said without thinking. Alfred froze.
“Is your fever making you stupid?”
“What? It’s nice!” Matthew made a face. “You can put pineapples on only my side, if you want.”
Alfred huffed, sinking into his seat. “Maybe I should rethink letting you cook this with me…”
“Hey! For better or worse, I’m a part of this now.”
Alfred breathed out a fond laugh, and didn’t deny it.
INTERLUDE
chocolate/milk
Matthew came over to help Alfred film a Youtube short. He didn’t know what it was about, really. Alfred had just said he had an idea for a Youtube short, and it was a two-person job at the least. So that was how he found himself at the DC brownstone again a few weeks later, back to his full strength. Since the flu incident, his government had to issue an official statement that Canada’s economy was just fine, nothing to worry about, and the cold he’d had in the Youtube video was human-induced. The opposition party had made a big fuss about it in Parliament, insisting that Canada’s ill health was a sign of some big financial problem. They were blaming each other for bad governance, and it was gnawing on Matthew’s head. Man, he hated politicians at the best of times…
So it was a relief to take his usual break and come help Alfred with Youtube. He wasn’t expecting to walk into a domino situation.
Alfred had lined the kitchen island with stacks and stacks of small rectangular chocolate. Instead of the usual tripod-camera-lights setup, Alfred had invited Sealand over to film. “We need someone to move the camera around,” he explained without Matthew having to ask. “Okay, now, Mattie, pour yourself a glass of milk.”
“Uh..all right.” The glass Alfred had left out for him was enormous, almost like a beer glass. Matthew filled it halfway. He didn’t really want milk right now.
“No, no, more,” Alfred said, filling it for him almost to the brim. “Okay, now you sit down—no, not on the chair, obviously. On the floor.”
“On the floor?”
Alfred directed Matthew to sit cross-legged on the floor with his back resting against the kitchen island. Sealand—Peter, Matthew remembered—bounced around with the camera, apparently filming B-roll shots. “All right, Canada?” he greeted, in an English accent so jarringly pronounced, Matthew almost thought it was faked. He didn’t spend much time around Peter, he knew very little of the kid and his odd habits.
“How’s…school?” he finished lamely. Did he go to school?
Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust as Alfred laughed. He was examining his chocolate dominos up close, or at least, that’s what Matthew guessed he was doing. He couldn’t see anything from down here except the back of the sofa.
“I don’t go to school, you wanker! I’m a nation! Even America thinks so now.”
“Nah, kid, we’ve been over this. I think you’re a good video editor, that’s about it.”
“Hey! You said you’d recognise my nationhood if I helped you!”
“No, that’s what you demanded,” Alfred said patiently, and Matthew sat in quiet astonishment at what was happening. Alfred was the senior nation, for once. He had more experience being at negotiation tables and war. It reminded Matthew of the times Alfred would teach him how to write by holding Matthew’s hand, guiding him to draw out As and Bs. Alfred was coaching Sealand. “What we agreed on,” he said with what Matthew recognised as older-brotherly authority, “is that if you helped me edit my videos, I’d pay you three times the pocket money Sweden and Finland give you. And that you could use that money to bolster your tiny economy, right, short-stuff? What have you been doing with that pocket money, then? Investing in infrastructure?”
Peter scowled. “I…well, there were some new Marvel action figures I wanted…”
Above him, Matthew heard Alfred sigh. “Okay, whatever. I think we’re good to go! Mattie, you ready?”
“Sure…but for what?”
Without warning, Alfred set the milk glass down on his head. Matthew’s breath hitched in anxiety. He stilled, resting his neck carefully against the pillar of the kitchen island, “Hold still, okay?” he said. “All right, Pete, you ready, my guy?”
“Fuck yes!”
Alfred paused, tone a little hard. “You wanna try again, dude?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than England. Uh…hell yes? Heck yes? Oui oui mon ami ?”
Matthew smiled.
“All right!” Alfred chirped, clapping his hands together. “Mattie, you need to say a line. The line is ‘Hey Al, can I have a chocolate? And then you grab the glass off your head and enjoy, okay?’”
“Oh, I see where this is going. Sure. Ready when you are.”
Peter hit record, zooming close to Matthew’s face. “Aaaaaand…ACTION!”
Matthew feigned nonchalance. “Hey Al, can I have a chocolate?”
“Oh sure!” Alfred chirped from somewhere above him. Peter turned the camera up to the platform now. Matthew heard the small tap of Alfred pushing the first chocolate domino, and a sound like plastic rain filled the warm kitchen air. Ratatatatata—and then a soft splash as a single chocolate square fell into the milk glass. Matthew nearly coughed out a laugh. Instead he calmly said, “Oh thanks, Alfred.” He reached out to grab the glass.
But the angle was all wrong. His hand awkwardly curled around the top, his fingers slipped, and the glass went crashing to the floor, spilling milk everywhere. A hundred shards surrounded Matthew, trapping him in place, as milk trailed across the floorboards.
“Oh fuck!” Peter screeched. “I—I mean, dang it!”
Alfred burst out laughing as he went to fetch a broom.
the plants are talking to me
The world meeting this month was in the Netherlands, which brought up uncomfortable feelings for Matthew. He and Jan had left things on odd terms, mutually civil but awkward nonetheless, and he was kind of hoping to just slip through it unnoticed. Usually this wasn’t a problem. World meetings were so chaotic that nobody seemed to acknowledge his quiet presence. It used to annoy him once. By now, Matthew had come to recognise the great power in his invisibility. For instance, he could just slink off to his hotel room, turn on the TV, and lie there in a pool of misery, eating his body weight in stroopwafel, undisturbed.
They broke up for complicated reasons. Matthew didn’t like to list them, and he especially despised it when Alfred asked him to explain himself. So Alfred had, mercifully, stopped asking. It had a lot to do with their significant age difference, and wanting different things out of the relationship, and old flames. Ultimately, Matthew knew, they’d made the right choice. Perhaps they could rekindle whatever they had some time in the future…he knew they had time. But it would not stop him from enjoying his self-pity. God knows he’d earned the right.
A knock on the bedroom door. Probably Alfred. He’d overheard his brother talking about his Youtube channel with China. Alfred had said something about carrying an induction stove with him, in case he was inspired at the conference (and trust Alfred to be creatively inspired at a conference full of self-important old nations fighting like children in a sandbox). Matthew left them to it. Alfred could more than handle any critique thrown his way, and if he wanted to cook in his room, well, that was a weird way to spend a night in Amsterdam, but to each their own. Matthew sighed as he crawled out of bed as the knocking persisted. He threw the door open. “Al, I’m not in the mood for—oh.”
Jan was staring at him, his hard eyes crinkling at the edges when he saw Matthew. “Hello,” he said in his calm, flat tone. Matthew’s hand clenched around the doorknob.
“Uh, hi.”
“I didn’t see you at the afterparty, so I wanted to check if you were okay.”
“There’s an afterparty?”
Jan’s laugh was quiet, butterfly-thin. “Just the usual bunch of drunks getting it on, really.”
“Ugh.” Matthew grimaced. “Spare me. I’d rather not.”
“Yeah, me too, honestly.” Jan seemed to hesitate. “You want to go out for a drink anyway?”
“What, as friends?” Matthew asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Er, yeah. If you think that’s all right.”
He sighed. Well, it beat lying in a depression cave in a four-star hotel somewhere in Amsterdam. Matthew might even enjoy himself…besides, he knew what a ‘drink’ with Jan usually meant. There was very little drinking involved. And he’d much rather be high than sad right now. “All right, hold on,” said Matthew, closing the door on his face, “I need to change into something more presentable.”
He emerged a few minutes later in black jeans and an emerald green sweater over his white shirt. The colour of his dark coat matched his shoes. Jan, leaning casually against the corridor wall checking his phone, glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “Wow, Matt, you look great.”
He was over it, really. Swear. Still, he blushed, and glanced off, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “Oh? Thanks, I guess. Let’s go.”
It was half past midnight by then. Jan was leaning heavily on Matthew, humming the tune to a Dutch lullaby Matthew didn’t know the lyrics to, blinking vaguely up at the hotel lights. Matthew kept trying to ignore the plants along the walls…they were whispering dark secrets.
“Hey, Jan…hey Jan, sing louder…the plants won’t like it…”
“Slaap kindje slaap…daar buiten loopt een schaap… ”
“You’re such a good singer,” Matthew nearly burst into tears. “You should win a Grammy.”
“Why’d they call it a Grammy?”
“What?” Damn plants. Telling him the evil ways of photosynthesis. He wasn’t interested! Matthew shushed them.
“A Grammy,” Jan blinked slowly. “Why’d they call it a Grammy? Why not a Granny?”
Matthew squinted up at him. “Granny is like…a word…for grandma...but Grandmas sing the best lullabies, no? Oh shit.” He blinked. “It should definitely be called a Granny. You should win a Granny.”
“You really think so?” Jan’s eyes filled with tears. “Een schaap met witte voetjes…die drinkt zijn melk zo zoetjes…”
“You’re so good—”
“There you are!”
Matthew whipped around, and it was Belgium. She blinked at the pair of them, and then approached Jan. She grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and sniffed. “Oh, dear me, how much have you smoked?”
“I should win a Granny!” Jan said, gripping his sister’s arms urgently. “Matthew thinks so too.”
She glanced rapidly between the two of them. “Oh…okay…yes, you should…win a granny…okay. I’m going to take you to your room, all right? Matthew, will you find your way back in one piece?”
“That’s my favourite anime,” Matthew murmured vaguely. Japan had been lending him some. He liked Naruto, too. The recent One Piece movie had been crazy. Like an acid trip. Oh, he should rewatch it while high…perhaps he could rewatch it now?
“Er…right.” Belgium looked like she wanted to say more, but Jan sunk heavily into her shoulder and she sighed, righting him up. “Okay, stay put, Matthew. I’ll go put Jan to bed and come back for you. Stay put, all right?”
He waved her off, and then his attention was captured by his fingers. Wasn’t he supposed to have ten? Where did the other five go? No, there must be some mistake…he had to count. One…two…three…four…five…no!! Where did the other--oh. Right. His other hand. “Phew,” said Matthew, to the plants lining the hotel corridor. “I have two hands.”
“Mattie?”
He recognised that voice! He turned to it. Alfred was striding down the other end of the corridor, his face flushed, beads of sweat on his brow. “Al!” Matthew said, feeling almost euphoric at the sight of his brother. He loved his brother so much! Oh, he had to tell him the good news. “Al! Al! I have two hands!”
“What—?” Alfred blinked. “Doesn’t matter, come on, I need your help—” he grabbed Matthew by the palm. Matthew wandered after him, wiggling his other five fingers. Yup, still ten.
Alfred took him up and down a million corridors and steps. Matthew lost count somewhere between five thousand seventy-five and nine hundred thousand two hundred and one. And then they were at a door, and the door opened, and then they were inside Alfred’s bedroom. Matthew blinked, trying to focus. He saw the camera, the lights, the induction stove plugged in on the coffee table…and utensils and ingredients. Everything smelled like vinegar.
And China was there! Sitting elegantly on a sofa chair, arms crossed, scowling and exasperated. “Here,” said Alfred, pulling Matthew into the frame. “Now you see, I have a neutral taste tester. He’ll tell you.” He whipped around to Matthew. “China told me I couldn’t make decent chicken fried rice and I was like, what? No? I totally can! He says this sucks, but you tell me. I know you won’t lie to me!”
“Your brother can hardly be considered a neutral taste tester.”
“Mattie is always my taste-tester, man. And he’s totally neutral! Here.” Alfred shoved a bowl under his nose. “Tell me what you think of this chicken fried rice.”
Matthew stared down at what was being offered. Chicken…rice… “Wait.” He was so confused. He squinted at Alfred. “Wait, you mean to tell me…a chicken fried this rice?”
Alfred blinked. China covered his mouth and audibly snorted.
“Yeah…okay.” Alfred set the bowl down. “Off to bed with you.”
It was Youtube LIVE.
Comments under “LIVE: I try to make chicken fried rice good enough for the personification of China!"
- canada is totally blazed.
-like we can all agree, right??
- “you mean to tell me a chicken fried this rice” LMAOOOOOOOOO
- well, they were in amsterdam, waddya expect?
- wait so imp question: how did the rice actually taste??
yorkshire ire
“I think I’m gonna lay off the weed for a little bit.”
“That would be a good idea.”
Alfred had been huffy with him ever since the disastrous Youtube Live experiment. How was Matthew to know his brother would choose a random night at a world meeting to do his first-ever Youtube Live? If he’d had any idea he was going to get roped into something like that, he wouldn’t have gone out with Jan at all. Matthew’s boss, who was pretty 420-friendly, was actually kind of annoyed with him for getting high while on duty. Never mind that the actual conference had ended hours before he and Jan even considered going out. Obviously, the memes from that video were absolutely wild, and Matthew hadn’t dared look at the internet in days.
“I mean, you should have figured out I was high, Al,” Matthew went on. They were hanging out at the VIP section of YVR airport. Alfred had come to visit Canada for work, and Matthew had dragged him out to watch the latest Canucks vs Maple Leafs match in Vancouver. “I was in Amsterdam, after all. Most people had gone out to get stoned. Besides, I’m sure I was reeking.”
Alfred threw a French fry in his mouth. “I didn’t even know you and Jan were dating again.”
“We’re not!”
“Oh, so you’re just stoner buddies.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “So judgy…what an American prohibitionist.”
“Whoa, stop swinging accusations like that around.” But Alfred’s tone was jokey. “Anyway, what do we do for the next video?
“Oh, I’m still allowed to be part of the videos?
He’d been kidding, but Alfred looked momentarily startled. “Of course! Hey, I was irritated with you, but I’m not cutting you out! You’re a part of this now, Mattie! Whether you like it or not, there’s no escape. Anyway, I was thinking, we should annoy Arthur.”
“You’re always thinking that.” Matthew tried to sound exasperated, but annoying Arthur was basically the family hobby. Francis and Alfred were the experts, but Matthew loved chiming in whenever it seemed most opportune.
Alfred picked up his phone and showed him a text from Arthur.
You know, Alfred, I tried to follow one of your recipes the other day and I couldn’t figure out a word you were saying in those ridiculous accents.
Perhaps, Alfred had replied, you’re just a bad cook <3
Arthur: Oh ha ha. Well, if I’m a bad cook, what does that make you? I taught you everything you know.
“Oooh, that’s spicy,” Matthew commented idly. “Which is funny because England doesn’t like spice.” It was a low blow, especially since Matthew’s own spice tolerance was pathetic, but well, they were making fun of Arthur right now, so whatever.
Alfred snickered, anyway. “Yeah, so I was thinking we should make Yorkshire pudding. And we should make it better than him.”
“And we should make it while talking exclusively in English accents.”
“I like the way you think, brother mine.” And he put on a Churchillian growl. “We shall cook in the kitchen, we shall cook soups and cakes, we shall cook with growing confidence and growing aromas in the air, we shall defend our kitchen island, whatever the grocery list cost may be.”
Matthew covered his mouth to control his laughter. “Is that a parody of the We Shall Fight on the Beaches speech? You can quote it from memory?”
“Arthur,” Alfred said with dark exasperation, “kept quoting it to me unprompted during the early years of the Cold War. I was forced to remember it against my will.”
Alfred did not actually know how to make Yorkshire pudding. Arthur was a shite cook, so he never ended up passing on any good recipes. Despite his bravado, Matthew could tell Alfred was a little nervous about this one. Because Al was doing something he never otherwise did. He was practising. Over the next week, Alfred kept sending Matthew pictures of tragic, burnt, deflated Yorkshire puddings, his countenance becoming increasingly miserable.
Matthew: You know, Al, you don’t need to make this rn
Matthew: practise a bit more and try again in a few months!
Alfred: no!! That’s where you’re wrong
Alfred: I called Artie over for dinner this Saturday D:
Alfred: to show off a perfect Yorkshire pudding!!
Alfred: and if it sucks, i will NEVER hear the end of it
Matthew: well…
Matthew: well, that’s just stupid who told you to do that
Alfred: I know :(
The weekend that Arthur was due to come over was also the weekend they were going to film. Matthew arrived early, to find lightning in his brother’s eyes. He steered Matthew into the kitchen, wearing a warface. “All right, Matt, this is the big leagues. We cannot mess this up, or Arthur will hold it against us for the rest of time. And we’re immortal, so you know it’s going to be a long fucking time. I’ve been practising for days now, and I think I got it.”
“Okay, good.”
Alfred set up the camera and everything. Matthew just stayed in one corner and steeled his nerves. He knew this was a stupid battle between the US and the UK, but he had always been roped into those, and if tonight went badly, Arthur was going to make him suffer for it as much as Alfred.
“Hello world!” Alfred boomed at the camera. “Today we’re making Yorkshire pudding. It’s not an American dish, but perhaps that’s what makes it so dang American, eh?” he laughed at his own joke. “I’m making this for my good friend Arthur Kirkland, who won’t believe I can make this well. It’s a common misconception that the British can’t cook. That’s just not true!” he stared beseechingly at the camera. “Arthur can’t cook. I don’t blame the citizens of Britain for their personification being such a giant wang. Oh well.”
“Yeah,” Matthew piped up, smirking softly. “We all have our unique personalities, too.”
“Agreed,” Alfred said. “His just sucks a little bit.”
“We love him, of course.”
“Yeah.” Alfred nodded. “Let the record state that we do love him, and everything we do from here on out, we do with love.”
“And an urge to kick his ass, just a bit.”
“Ooooh,” Alfred nudged him. “Mattie’s got that competitive hockey look on his face now, so let’s just get kraken’. Get it, kraken, ‘cuz he’s an old pirate.”
“But first,” Matthew said seriously, “the accent.”
“Ah, yes, good sir,” Alfred quipped, dipping into an overdone, upper-class British accent. “The first step in making Yorkshire pudding, is perfecting the British accent.”
“Jolly good, bloody well, and so and so,” Matthew retorted. He set a large bowl down in front of Alfred. “Whot nex’, my good man?”
“Well, m’boy,” Alfred said, sounding more and more like Arthur when drunk, “we’ll need four jolly good eggs.”
“Four jolly good eggs, toodly-pip!” Matthew picked them out of an egg carton. Alfred was starting to sound like a middle-aged Tory.
“And now, my dear boy, we’re going to crack these eggs and whip—” he said it like qwhhhyiipp—“these eggs up with a splash of that blessed juice of the cow—milk.”
Matthew nearly broke character trying not to laugh at ‘blessed juice of cow’. Alfred actually did break character—he had to pause and hold onto the edge of the kitchen island as mirth wracked his body.
“That’s a necessary step, as well,” Alfred said when he calmed, his tone imperious, almost kingly. He was trying to mimic the royal accent. “Laughter adds a certain depth to the flavour of your meal.”
“Blimey, I’m bloody chuffed to hear that,” Matthew replied.
“Blimey, m’boy, I bet you are. To the viewers at home, be sure,” he said shyyyure—“to add generous helpings of laughter in the cooking process. This will, in fact, make all your food taste better.”
As they cooked, Matthew ran through his vocabulary of Britishisms—bollocks, poppycock, smashing—and when they finally poured the batter into the hot muffin tins, and shoved it all into the oven, they reached another vital step in the cooking process.
Alfred had switched from a Tory voice to a King Charles voice and finally, he'd settled on sounding like an old-timey BBC radio host. “And nowww, the time is a quarter to six—” his jaw unhinged and he turned to Matthew, the act slipping. “Wait, is it really quarter to six?”
Matthew checked his phone. “Oh man, yeah.”
Alfred whipped back to the camera. “The time is a quarter to six, and the personification of Great Britain, the perfectly average and fine Arthur Kirkland, will be arriving shortly at the house of one Alfred Jones. The personification of Canada, the very delightful Matthew Williams, will be setting the table—”
“—Wait, why me?”
“Because he’s being a good baby brother and if he doesn’t listen, he doesn’t get to eat any Yorkshire pudding,” and Alfred turned to Matthew and smirked, “innit, mate ?”
“Bugger off, bloke,” Matthew retorted, but moved to take out the plates anyway.
Alfred turned to the camera. “Of course, we have to do the most important step in the cooking process, which is to pray.” And so he turned to the oven and knelt before it, interlocking his fingers. “Dear Lord of Home Chefs, please make this Yorkshire pudding rise—rise to defeat the evils of hunger and arrogant British dudes who think they can cook better than you even though they hella can’t. Matthew, you’re not praying with me.”
“Oh, sorry.” Matthew set the plates down and copied Alfred. “Oh Holy Mother of Maple, please allow these puddings to be soft and airy and rise like hot air balloons on summer afternoons.”
The doorbell rang.
“Oh monkeyfeathers, he’s early.” Alfred dropped all pretences and stood, dusting his jeans. He turned to Mattie. “Don’t tell him I just quoted Avatar: The Last Airbender, he won’t let me live it down.”
“You know I have your back.”
Arthur Kirkland entered the house carrying a bottle of wine and a store-bought bundt cake. Alfred yanked him into the camera frame, saying, “Artie, my man! Say hi to the good people of the world. We’ve been making fun of you and your accent so we need you in this video to show you consented to it.”
Arthur rolled his eyes good-humouredly. “Ah yes, of course you two were. All right, Matthew?” he added, throwing a glance and smile his way.
“All right, Arthur,” Matthew smiled back.
Arthur turned to the camera. “I suppose I’m speaking to the good people of Youtube, then? Hello everyone, wherever you are. I believe these two are trying to upstage me with Yorkshire pudding. Well, we’ll see about that. I’m a tough customer to impress, you know.”
“We know,” Alfred and Matthew said in unison.
“I suppose there’s nothing left to do but eat?” Arthur said as the oven dinged to signal completeness. “Let’s see what you two have come up with.”
The muffin cups were overflowing with some puffy bread-like thing. They really did look a bit balloonish, Matthew thought. When Alfred took them out of the oven, Arthur’s eyes widened.
“Oh, neat!” Alfred cried, carefully placing the tray down on the kitchen island. With a spoon, he gently pried a single pudding out of the tin and placed it on a plate. He held it up to the camera. “It looks perfect.”
“Well,” said Arthur coolly, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Have at it, old man.”
Arthur scoffed and took a bite. Steam escaped the crust, and Arthur’s face transformed. Matthew had never seen anything like it—even in the worst years of the war, Arthur stayed stoic and hard, a British stiff-upper-lip that intimidated and impressed Matthew in equal measure. One bite of this Yorkshire pudding had Arthur crumble on camera. He chewed, swallowed, and lowered the rest onto the plate, and it took a single shivering breath.
Even Alfred realised something was wrong. “Artie?” his blue eyes went wide. “You okay? Is it that bad?”
“Bad?” Arthur croaked. Holy fuck, was he about to cry? “No—no, it’s not bad.” He swallowed thickly and turned his face away from the camera. Where Matthew stood, he could see a flash of water in Arthur’s brilliant green eyes.
“Arthur—” Matthew uncoiled himself from the platform he’d been leaning against.
“Can you turn the camera off?” he told both of them. Alfred jumped to obey, so quick he was almost panicking.
“Arthur, I swear, I practised and everything, I didn’t mean to do such a bad job—”
“Quiet, Alfred.” Arthur gripped the kitchen island, taking several deep, shaky breaths. “That’s…that’s quite an accomplishment,” he managed after several awkward seconds. Matthew was rubbing his arm, trying to placate him. He wasn’t even sure what was wrong, but he’d never seen Arthur react like this. “That was,” Arthur went on, “flawless, actually. No, I wouldn’t even use that word…” and he glanced up, eyes jumping between the two of them. Shit, he was actually crying. Finally, he managed, “That made me nostalgic.”
“Oh,” said Matthew softly. He pulled Arthur into a hug. Alfred bounded up to join in.
“Aw, Artie. Good nostalgic?”
“Yes, good nostalgic.” Arthur sank into their embrace, another thing he would never ordinarily do, usually eschewing overt displays of sentimentality. “It reminded me of this afternoon during the 18th century, during this Christmas luncheon I shared with my brothers. We’ve always been on such bad terms, I suppose, but…” he swallowed thickly. “Well, that was a good day.”
They pulled out of the hug gradually. Arthur wasn’t looking at either of them, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. He was staring at the half-eaten pudding on the plate. “Thank you,” he said at length.
“Dude,” Alfred laughed, sounding relieved. “For what? We were trying to upstage you.”
“For giving that memory back to me.”
Alfred’s face melted like microwaved mozzarella. He stared at Matthew, at a visible loss of words, and Matthew, who was always the quiet one, suddenly knew what to say.
“So,” he prodded gently. “Should we eat?”
Arthur swallowed and smiled, wiping a final tear with the back of his hand. “Yes, yes, of course. Let’s eat.”
as american as apple pie
Matthew didn’t hear from Alfred for several weeks, which wasn’t unusual because they were, you know, nations. There were always things to do. What did give him pause for thought though, was when he got a Youtube notification that Alfred had posted a new video. What, without him? Matthew was confused at first, then hurt, because surely if Al had a new ridiculous food idea, he’d bully Matthew into joining in. That was how this worked, right?
He clicked on the video, but the title itself was a red flag. My favourite Great Depression recipe!
“Uh oh,” Matthew muttered in an undertone. Others wouldn’t see what he could see. The way Alfred’s cowlick hung a little to the side, like a wilted leaf. The way the shirt he was wearing hung off his shoulders by a quarter of an inch. The Great Depression had been a horrible time for everybody, of course, but Matthew remembered the many days and nights he’d spent coaxing Alfred to eat measly meals born from shortage and financial devastation. Alfred had been very sick back then, and inconsolably depressed, and he swore up and down he was never going to eat another dandelion salad in his life.
And yet—
“So these are dandelions I picked from my garden,” Alfred said in his Youtube video. He sounded chipper enough, but Matthew could tell when his brother was lying. He showed them to the camera in a bunch. “I think it’s good to remember these old recipes,” he added, a tad wistfully. “Yeah, the Great Depression is gone, thank goodness, and hopefully we’ll never see the likes of it again, but there’s just so much inequality out there, and not everyone has the same access to food, so…” his voice trailed off, and an expression of genuine sadness filled his face. It was there one second and gone the next, and Matthew’s heart plummeted.
At that exact instant, Arthur texted him. Have you seen his new video?
I know, I know, Matthew typed back hastily. Watching it now
“Let’s talk about dandelions,” Alfred said, lifting one up again to the camera. “See,” he said, pulling apart each leaf, “a good one looks kind of like a leafy flower. No broken stems, nothing. We have to clean these, since they’re fresh from the garden. You need to pluck out all the dead ones.” For several terrifying seconds, Alfred went completely silent, plucking out one bad leaf at a time. At last he added, “we don’t need the flowers, so if you have flowers,” he pulled one off, “you get rid of them,” and he crushed it in his hands.
Francis now texted.
Mon dieu is alfred ok?
This new video is depressingly low-energy
Matthew hit pause on the Youtube screen. He didn’t want to see any more of this. He called his boss instead. “I’m going to take a few days off,” he said flatly.
“No, you can’t. There are too many meetings coming up.”
“It’s a family emergency. I’m going to take a few days off. Sorry,” Matthew added blandly, though he was not sorry at all. He hung up, and booked the first flight out to DC.
Alfred’s brownstone was a sight of jarring stillness. Matthew let himself in, and found the lights and the TV all switched off. The kitchen, usually fairly impeccable, was a mess of dirty dishes and food left out to rot. “Alfred?” Matthew called, cautiously making his way across the floor. “I texted and rang you five times, you didn’t answer once, so I thought I’d check on you. Where are you?” He peeked into the bedroom, certain that Al would be hiding under the covers. But—nope. The bedroom was, as expected, a mess as well, untidy sheets and the smell of sweat and whiskey. God, this was a bad one. Alfred’s old prohibitionist instincts meant that he usually didn’t drink more than a couple of glasses of anything. Matthew found half a bottle of Scotch lying on its side by the nightstand. “Alfred, this isn’t funny,” he said, “where are you?”
Matthew checked the restrooms and the guest bedrooms, and he wasn’t there either. He finally found Alfred in the laundry room, slumped against a wall with a pile of dirty laundry covering him like a blanket. He was awake. He blinked as Matthew appeared over him. “Was…trying to clean up,” he mumbled, bringing a hand to rub his face. “I just…got tired.”
“All right.” Matthew crouched, ignoring the way his heart clenched at the sight. Alfred rarely got this way but it always scared Matthew to his bones. He didn’t care that they were both strong countries; they were both human, too, and Alfred was his older brother, the brother who cared for him and taught him and protected him. “Are you sober?”
“I’ve been lying here all night.”
“So…yes, then. Good. Okay, let’s get you up.”
“Nooo,” Alfred protested weakly, as Matthew linked his arms under his shoulders and hoisted him up. “Ughh, just go away. Stop…”
Matthew wasn’t as strong as Alfred, so he couldn’t carry him, but nevertheless he dragged Alfred to the bed. Alfred, at least, seemed relieved that he wasn’t being made to shower or something equally egregious. He pulled the covers over his head.
“Okay,” he mumbled thickly. “You can go now.”
“Not happening. When was the last time you ate?” When Alfred said nothing, Matthew prodded the blanketed lump. “Al, answer me.”
Alfred groaned. “I dunno, man. When did I upload my last video?”
“Yesterday.”
“It took Peter a couple of days to edit it, so…three days ago, maybe.”
Matthew exhaled sharply through the nose, to show his disapproval. “I know you’re an immortal nation, but you still have to eat. I’m going to make you some food.”
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not asking you,” Matthew snapped. “I’m telling you.”
“Fuck off, Mattie.”
“Yeah, okay.” Matthew rolled his eyes and turned to exit the room. A sweaty palm grabbed his wrist.
“Wait.”
Matthew turned. “Al,” his voice softened at Alfred’s panicky expression. His palm was clammy against Matthew’s skin. He was trembling a little, probably from hunger. “I was just going to the kitchen. I’m not leaving, I promise.”
“I wanna help,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. “I need to film a new video, Peter takes a couple of days to edit stuff and I don’t want to fall behind on my posting schedule.”
Momentarily speechless, Matthew had to pause and recalibrate his response. He was so ready to tell Alfred off for not eating, so ready to convince him that he deserved a good meal—he wasn’t prepared for arguing about a Youtube posting schedule. “Al, this isn’t your day job. You can take it easy, all right?” he said gently, prying Alfred’s hand off his wrist. “You just posted something yesterday, I’m sure people can be patient. Especially since you’re not feeling well.”
“No.” Alfred’s eyes were shimmering. He covered his face and curled in on himself. “No, no, no, this is the one thing that’s going right in my life, I can’t mess this up—”
“Alfred!” Matthew jumped beside him in bed and pulled him close, and somehow Alfred was practically in his lap, his whole frame wracked with sobs. “No, come on, you have a lot more going for you,” he said helplessly. “Your economy, your people—”
Alfred wouldn’t stop weeping.
“What is it?” Matthew swallowed, rubbing his back. “Hey, talk to me. What happened?”
“I’m just a fucking inconvenience, is what. The only good thing I’ve ever done for the world is that goddamn Youtube channel, it’s the only reason people like me, the only reason the other nations kinda wanna talk to me anymore.”
Matthew blinked back words of alarm, because this did not at all sound like the Alfred he knew. “Al, did someone say something? You know they’re all just so bitchy, right? They don’t mean it. Literally, all of us…” he trailed off. Gosh, they really were a petty bunch, weren’t they? They’d lived too long, seen too much, and the seriousness of world events had given way to a kind of exasperated cynicism, this sense that nothing mattered enough to care, because they’d probably survive it in the end. It was why the personifications seemed so blasé about things. But because they were all like that, they couldn’t really hurt each other too badly. Perhaps sometimes their snarky remarks cut too deep…
“Nothing happened, all right?” Alfred muttered, swallowing tears. “I just woke up one day and realised I’m a terrible person. You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t even be doing this to you. I know you’re busy.”
He wasn’t sure what to address first. In the end, though, Matthew knew there was no reasoning with him in this state. He’d seen his brother during the Great Depression, tended to him at the worst of it. Alfred’s spiralling thoughts would never entirely fade, but they could be quietened, and arguing with them was no way to silence them.
“All right, Alfred, I hear you,” he said simply. “Now here’s what we’re going to do, okay? I’m going to cook you a nice hot meal, and I’ll clean your room and kitchen because holy hell, it needs to be sanitised, and you’re going to shower and eat and maybe later, if you’re feeling up to it, we’re going to go for a walk. Maybe at that local park you like so much, so you can see the puppies. You need to interact with the world again.”
Alfred said nothing. He just curled back into the pillows and moaned miserably.
“Okay,” Matthew said, more to himself, grabbing the whiskey and dirty glass as he turned to go again.
“Mattie, wait.”
He paused at the door.
“Please film that video, I can’t bear to film one anytime soon and I don’t want to lose my momentum.”
Matthew nearly launched into another speech about why Youtube videos were hardly important right now. But Alfred looked ready to crumple, and Matthew just couldn’t do that to him. “All right,” he said quietly. “Sure.”
He didn’t like being the centre of attention. Still, Matthew set about cleaning the kitchen. If Alfred had said he’d eaten that dandelion salad, he had been lying. Matthew found most of it rotting on the counter by the sink. It was quiet but quick work, dumping everything and putting out the garbage bags. He wiped down the counters to Alfred’s standards, and mopped the floor, which was a little sticky.
Then he did a quick grocery run, and went about setting up the camera and lights, which he had become accustomed to by now. Matthew knew he didn’t have Alfred’s screen presence, so he wasn’t even sure the video would be any good. But well, if this was really what his brother wanted, then this was what he was willing to do.
He hit record and stepped into the frame. “Hello world,” Matthew said with a quiet smile. “It’s me, Canada. Today you’ll just have me. I probably can’t do the funny voices, and I definitely don’t have Alfred’s manic energy, but I can show you how to make six different kinds of apple pie.”
Matthew hefted several pie plates onto the kitchen island. And it was a testament to Alfred’s love of pie that he owned so many in the first place. “The trick is to make your own pie crust,” Matthew went on. “If you can’t, store-bought is probably okay, but…” he trailed off, glancing towards the camera with a small smile. “Alfred taught me to make these,” he admitted. “And Alfred’s very exacting about apple pie. So we’re going to do it his way.
“Back in the day, we didn’t have food processors, of course.” Matthew pulled out cold butter, shortening, flour, salt, sugar, and a cup of iced water. “So it was a lot harder to do this. Especially for me, because I was little. Alfred always did this step. Mixing all this together by hand? And you know, the butter has to be very chilled. That’s important. But it also becomes tough, as a result. I guess we can use a food processor now, though. It’s faster and easier.”
So he talked them through it, his future audience, and as he worked, Matthew could only think of the fall afternoons spent picking apples with Alfred when they were kids. Alfred never let him cut the apples, fearing Matthew would slice off a finger, but he always let Matthew squeeze the lemons and ground the spices. This was before the Revolutionary War, of course…before things between them got complicated, before the unrelenting tides of time and history swept them up and threw them kicking and screaming into the modern era.
Matthew missed the simplicity of the past, and even as he did, he wondered if it had ever been simple at all. Nostalgia made everything rosy. But they weren’t those kids anymore. Perhaps they had never truly been those kids. Humans got to have simple childhoods and fond memories. Nations were forged on the ravines of blood and complication, where everything was dire, everything was political, and peace was just the interlude between endless tracks of war.
And yet, perhaps, things had to be easy, too. Because no matter what happened in the past or the future, there was ease baked into these apple pies. There was familiarity, and softness, and more joy than Matthew had the words to express.
“We have fun with food here at All American Cooking,” he mused, popping the last of the pies in the oven. “But I don’t know." Matthew looked at the camera as he dusted flour off his hands. “I think sometimes we forget what food is really about, which is love. You eat well because you love yourself. You feed your family and friends because you love them. You try the same recipes, over and over, perfecting them, because there’s beauty in the method and that beauty touches your heart. I think I wanted to make apple pie today because I love my brother,” he went on, idly. “He gave me the skills to make this. So I wanted to give back. Does that make sense?”
Matthew had been in such a pleasant culinary headspace, he hadn’t noticed Alfred step into the kitchen until the smell of strawberry soap punctured the apple-haze air. Alfred had showered, thank god, and he watched Matthew work from behind the camera. His eyes were hollow blue, lacking their usual sparkle, but Matthew smiled at him anyway. He didn’t expect Alfred to lumber into the frame.
“I’ll whip the cream,” he said quietly. He threw a single glance at the camera, his smile fragile. “Hello, world.”
Matthew kept an eye on the pies and busied himself with cleanup as Alfred took a hand whisk to the cream, whipping it without the usual vigour. Matthew knew he wasn’t going to be talkative right now, so he stepped in.
“You want to make sure your cream is fluffy,” he told the camera. “Heavy whipping cream is the best option for this, and if you want, you can add a bit of sugar or honey for flavour. I personally like maple syrup, of course.”
Alfred cracked a small smile at that, but said nothing. Matthew snuck a taste of cream from the side of the bowl. Alfred offered him the whisk. Matthew held it up to the camera, brandishing a perfect dollop of cream. “See how it holds? It looks like a cumulus cloud! This is the consistency you want.”
The pies were done. Matthew donned oven mitts and patiently took all six out to air. Alfred let out a short whistle. “Why’d you make so many, Mattie?” he asked in an undertone. Peter was probably going to have to edit this part out. Matthew would make sure of it.
“Because these are the pies you taught me,” Matthew replied, taking off the glove and squeezing Alfred’s shoulder. “You know I love you, right?”
Alfred’s eyes filled immediately. He sniffed, but said nothing, and only nodded once. Matthew found himself pulled into a hug. He got a kiss on his forehead. “Oh gosh, Al,” he smiled, “it’s just apple pie, you’re being so affectionate.”
“It’s not just apple pie,” Alfred countered quietly. Matthew just rubbed his arm. Al didn’t need to explain himself any further.
The pies cooled, and they ate. Alfred came back to life with each bite, complimenting their different textures and flavours. “Aha,” he said at one point, “I can taste how you roasted the cinnamon beforehand.” He pointed a fork at Matthew. “The bitterness adds a great kick to it, especially when combined with the honey-sweetened apples. Good job!” He turned to the camera. “Matthew did a good job.”
Matthew’s ears turned pink. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled awkwardly, stuffing another bite in his face. “Glad you’re happy.”
And he really was.
Food is about love.
Matthew thought about that refrain often these days.
Whenever he found himself overtired, too exhausted to bother cooking or feeding himself. Whenever the dark haze of sadness swept over his mind and he wanted to curl into bed and cry. Whenever he thought about his friends, or Kumajiro sneaking fresh-caught salmon off the kitchen counter, or Alfred. Whenever a birthday came around, and Matthew thought about gifts. He thought, I love you, and you deserve to eat well.
So he took special effort in his own meals, experimenting with flavours and cuisines, expanding his palette even as he perfected his favourite dishes. He took even more trouble when he cooked for other people, choosing the best ingredients he could afford, slaving at the kitchen until he was sweaty and tired. Everything added up, when he took a bite, when he saw other people eat his food.
Food is about love, he kept reminding himself. And food is also about survival.
But that made sense, after all. Love was an act of survival.