Gerzsi

My name is Gerzsi, and I am a beaver. In my family, that comes with a job description: chew wood, build dams, keep the lodge dry. My granny, Granny Birch, has built more dams than anyone on the upper river. My little sister Twig can fell a sapling before breakfast.

I wanted to cook.

Every evening, a smell drifted up the river from somewhere far downstream. Onions, browning slowly. Something with paprika. Fresh bread. I would sit on the roof of our lodge with my nose in the air until Granny called me in.

“You’ll never cook down there,” said Twig. “You don’t even own a knife.”

“I have teeth,” I said, and showed her. Beaver teeth are orange, very strong, and sharpen themselves. I was sure that made me a professional.

Granny Birch didn’t laugh. She packed me a small bundle: a wooden spoon she had carved herself, a jar of dried mushrooms, and a map of the river with one spot circled in red near the big bend. Next to it she had written: Riverbank Inn. Ask for the chef.

“Real cooks use real tools,” she said. “Your teeth are for wood. Go and learn the rest.”

So the next morning I pushed off on a log raft, waved until the lodge was a dot, and floated downstream toward the smell of onions. I had no idea how much I didn’t know. That was probably for the best.

Gerzsi, his family and his friends are made up. Chef Tamás and his lessons are real.