O Taste And See
Politics has been Laura's life since she first ran for student body secretary the year she was fifteen. She makes no apologies for it, and doesn't regret it, either.
That first election remains a much-treasured memory. Laura had been at the most awkward part of adolescence, slouching in rebellion against her new breasts, wearing baby dresses or outlandish prints that would be much-appreciated at a university but not a provincial secondary school, and fighting her mother about wearing braids. Her hair had always been a sore spot not only because it was red, but because it never laid down, split ends tormented her, and it would frizz up at any provocation.
Worse yet, Laura was well known, even then, as a bookworm and a brain. To be a brain with unfortunate hair, a slouch, and a tendency to dress free-spiritedly was to beg to be outcast, especially when your opponent in the election was perfect, pretty Lavinia Kirassoni, well-dressed, graceful, and everything that made Laura's secretly jealous heart burn hot with hatred. No one even thought it was a contest, not even Madam Pinkerton, the kind and encouraging teacher who thought Laura would do an excellent job in student government.
But Laura had always had unusual gifts that manifested themselves when she needed them, and when the speeches were given, Lavinia Kirassoni discovered that awkward little Laura was not nearly so awkward as she looked.
Across from her in the secondary school auditorium was a different person. Instead of a slouching, slightly rumpled fifteen-year-old brain, an elegant, black-clad woman whose braids were wound into a simple bun greeted her and proceeded to destroy her with an articulate speech that had shocked most of the popular students, and converted a good third of them.
More shocking still was that Laura Roslin was extremely talented at getting burnouts, losers, and the terminally resentful to care enough to vote and to choose her as the voice of their protest.
She won -- just barely, by less than fifty votes -- but she won.
The day after her election (and Laura would go on to be secretary for the next two elections, saying that she had no interest in being president), Laura turned up in her usual clothes and hair-styling, but also with the defiant raise of her chin that vanquished opponents mentioned in low whispers over beers as a deadly weapon in Madam Roslin's arsenal.
Lavinia had one comment on the whole thing: "The girl's a witch," she said in a dark voice, looking at her toes.
Surprisingly, or perhaps not, a number of well-educated Colonial politicians of Lavinia and Laura's generation would have agreed with the girl. Certainly, Laura Roslin was a lovely person, they were fast to say. Cultured, polite, civic-minded, dignified, very bright.
"And she can cook, too," said Meredith Harwood, one of her favorite under-ministers at Education. "Gods, that woman can cook. Of course, if she's cooking for you, you either did very good or very bad, but still..."
Education was one of the most powerful departments under Adar, much to the surprise of old hands of the Colonial political junket. The budget was a marvel of efficiency, and certainly showed little of the bloat of other ministries, but never once in either of Adar's administrations did he ever agree to a single cut to Education's budget, despite pleading from the opposition that he otherwise seemed amiable to listening to.
"Our children are our future," Adar said with a benign smile, and that was always that.
"So says the redhead, and so say we all," sneered one of the irritated under-ministers at Defense who'd also been around since the old days.
Most people who didn't like Laura called her the redhead. The superstition went that if you invoked her name in anger, she'd get you. Politely, of course, but everyone remembered what had happened to Marcus Allenby at Interior when he'd told her to her face that she was a meddling harridan and a velvet-gloved tyrant who had no sense about Cylons.
Laura had smiled -- Laura was never rude to people, because as she said, feeling uncivilized was a poor excuse to act it -- and told him, kindly, that certainly, Marcus had no problems with a senior member of Adar's administration having opinions on the Cylons and providing an alternate viewpoint?
Then, with a remarkable sense of timing, Laura had asked several of her dearest friends from Interior and a few new people she'd been wanting to get to know better over for a dinner party. Marcus Allenby had not been invited -- in fact, Marcus Allenby, swore every guest at that party, had not even been discussed, though his fight with Laura at the cabinet meeting had been hot gossip.
"Scallops," admitted one of the guests when asked about the discussion. "We were discussing just how Laura could make the damn things so toothsome, and she laughed. Said it was a secret, but she'd give anyone the recipe later."
Two weeks later, Marcus resigned from Interior under considerable internal pressure. He said it was the most humane execution he'd ever expected, and warned Adar that the redheaded witch was far too lenient about Cylons.
In fact, the truly ironic thing was that Marcus was correct. Laura Roslin had few faults as a political advisor, but she was blithely able to write off the Cylons as no genuine threat and to convince people that it was so without really trying.
Still, so few people had come against Laura Roslin in her political career that every last one who considered her to be the redheaded witch were dead on their various planets, as well as those who remembered that the woman was an excellent cook and one who loved food.
In fact, Laura thinks, looking at the drab protein-carb-vitamineral combination that is supposed to be food, the worst part of cancer is how much it takes the pleasure out of pleasant things.
Eating being the safe one to consider. She has started to crave the comfort of her own pleasant kitchen with wonderful exposure and a view that was inspiring for diners and chef. It wasn't that she had had an extravagant home, either. Laura's taste in furnishings was rather spare and linear. But she can close her eyes and see her knives, gleaming lightly in their wooden block. Herbs hanging in bunches over the range-top, good heavy-bottomed pots awaiting use.
And one of the greatest pleasures in Laura's life, even when caring for her mother had taken up any time that Adar hadn't, was to wake up early on Saturday mornings, sip a cup of herbal tisane and listen to a symphony while reading a mystery, and then put on a jacket and walk down to the farmer's market by herself.
She could almost swoon with the memory, at the sensory pleasure of it. The sounds of people bustling along Caprica City's sidewalks, the sight of all those bright colors of the vegetables, music played at the different booths.
Sampling orange blossom honey pressed on her by a good-looking boy with a tousled mop of dark hair in his early twenties, "Promise, you'll like it. Better than chocolate and better for you, too" and smiling at him because it was good, light and sweet on the tongue.
Buying some because it will be perfect with the bread Laura plans to make this week because kneading works out some of the anguish and frustration Laura hides from her mother.
The boy smiles back at her when she slips him a card with her number on it. "You'll be around later today, ma'am?" he asks.
"It's a beautiful day," Laura says, looking toward the waterfront. "I do think I'll stay a while. Maybe make a picnic of all this produce at the park."
"Well, say hi when you come back this way," he says. "My uncle takes over for me in two hours."
So she comes back for him two hours later, and he takes her hand as they stroll down to the park. He even brings a blanket, and so it's all very romantic and enjoyable, sharing out the food and having a picnic.
"So you make honey," Laura says, taking a drink from their one plastic cup that they've filled with a nice little syrah she bought in one of the shops during her two-hour ramble. "How do you like it?"
"I like it a whole bunch," he says, brushing his hand against hers. "Turns out bees are interesting, and my uncle's promised I'll be full partner in a couple of years if I keep doing good. What about you? What do you do?"
"I'm the principal at a small day school just out of town," Laura lies easily. If she ever mentions her real job, they get frightened and respectful. Madam Minister, I didn't recognize you, oh goodness, that must be an exciting job...and they run. So she tells white lies that might be true; she could very easily be the principal of a small day school. Or a high-level administrator at the university, et cetera. "It's wonderful work."
"Oh, I bet," he says glibly. "This is really good wine. I wish we had real glasses so it could breathe."
Laura is suddenly much, much more interested in her companion. "Oh, Lords, not another foodie?" she asks, her smile bright. "I'm such a junkie. The farmers' market is my weekly pilgrimage, really. I get up early so I don't miss anything."
"I guess it's working with all the food that helps," he says, leaning closer and brushing her cheek tentatively with the back of his hand. Her eyes close as she lets herself stretch out on the blanket. "But there's something about watching people enjoy really good food. Like you when you were trying that sample? I mean, I use that better than chocolate line all the time on women, but the way you looked when you were trying the orange blossom honey was...really something."
"I know exactly what you mean," she says, meeting his eyes forthrightly. "The honey was really good. I want to use it with the bread I'm going to make this week, a crusty buttermilk loaf, and maybe sweet butter? I think that would go well with the honey and maybe chocolat chaud."
"Sounds divine," he murmurs, reaching out and taking her hand in his.
He kisses well, and Laura can't help but enjoy the feeling of his stubble brushing her cheek, the way his thumb rubs circles on her neck. Nothing very serious happens; a little necking on a scratchy red-and-green plaid blanket that he was so smart to bring along. Breathless kisses that tickle her mouth, neck, jaw, earlobe, and the comfortable feeling of resting her head against his chest and looking out at the rest of Caprica City, enjoying the afternoon.
Nothing serious, but definitely very pleasant, and something Laura would like to repeat.
"I'd like to see you again," he says, arm around her waist.
"I'd like that," Laura agrees. "Will you be here next week?"
"Week after next," he says.
"That sounds lovely," Laura says, twisting around and kissing him again, the sunlight glittering through her eyelashes. "I'll bring wineglasses."
"It doesn't matter, as long as you bring you," he replies.
These things seem to flow together as Laura daydreams on Colonial One, trying to hold back her hate for this food they shove in front of her. She'd had a two-year affair with the honey-boy, every other Saturday until he met a girl his own age who wanted to get married and have children and meet more than every other Saturday.
There'd been others, of course, but of all of her clandestine lovers, she'd liked him the best. They always ate first, always had their picnic, even on cold and rainy days when they'd have to run to the covered market and face the slightly puzzled glances and bemused looks of "good for you, lady" that Laura hated quite a lot.
Saturdays had been the days when politics were not Laura's entire life, and now, when she has dedicated herself body and soul to the politics of survival and salvation, they seem even more wonderful.
Because it's not that Laura regrets her life. She can't imagine herself like other women her age, with children Billy's age, a husband, just coming into her own freedom. And given her own taste in men, the taste that would have doomed her if any of her enemies had realized it and kept most of her affairs short, the idea of a normal personal life seems particularly foolish and grandiose. But at the same time, she misses having Saturdays, having something sensual and ridiculous and all her own.
Even if she were to try to recreate the feeling, seduce Billy or Lee or gods, even Bill Adama doesn't look bad, it wouldn't be the same. Politics would still be there, and none of them would look at her the way the boy in Caprica City did, kissing her lips after she'd eaten a slice of bread with honey and declaring that she made it taste even sweeter. None of them would look at her and see just a woman who enjoys food and sex to their fullest; she'd still be Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies, possible prophet, salvation of the people.
There is no man in the fleet who would make her feel selfishly good; part of her will always belong to her work in their eyes.
Saturdays were hers, and Laura misses them the way she misses the savor of salt and the touch of a lover's hand on her body.
Politics have always been Laura's life, and she makes no apologies for that, but food has been her life, too, and as it and all other simple pleasures slip away, it makes her wonder if the Cylons were to offer her honey (or bittersweet chocolate, or a bite of medium-rare filet, or any number of things that have actual taste), if she would close her eyes, let it coat her tongue, and declare it delicious.