No One Cooks Like Gaston: A Tale of Healing and Hope

LeFou paused at the weather-beaten door, hearing clangs and muffled curses from within Gaston’s cluttered cottage. A broken pot handle flew out the window, skittering across the frozen porch.

LeFou took a breath and knocked. “Uh… Gaston? It’s me, LeFou. I brought the rosemary and thyme you wanted.”

A crash of pots rattled the porch boards, followed by heavy footsteps that made LeFou swallow nervously. The door creaked open, revealing Gaston’s massive belly stretching the seams of a stained shirt.

LeFou forced a smile, holding out the herbs. “From my garden, the best in town.”

Gaston snatched them without a word, turning back inside. LeFou stepped in, greeted by a mountain of dirty dishes and the sharp scent of herbs and eggs. The man once admired for his strength was now a shadow of himself—overweight, hair wild, muttering as he shuffled.

“So… what’s on the menu this year?” LeFou asked gently, brushing crumbs off a stool before sitting.

Gaston arranged ramekins of diced vegetables and cheese on a tray, his hands trembling as he mumbled, “This year, my father will finally taste it.”

LeFou’s heart tightened. Gaston’s father had been gone for years, yet each winter, Gaston prepared another egg dish, trying to earn the approval he had never received.

“A roasted butternut squash frittata with goat cheese and herbs!” Gaston declared suddenly, slapping LeFou on the back. “Even my father wouldn’t turn this down.”

LeFou smiled weakly, watching Gaston rinse herbs with trembling hands. “It smells amazing, Gaston.”

Gaston’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, he was the man he once was—confident, determined, seeking praise. “When I was a boy, he fed me nothing but boiled eggs, day after day. Four dozen eggs a morning, LeFou! People sang songs about it, but it wasn’t heroic. It was punishment.”

LeFou felt tears prick his eyes. “I know it was hard. But you’ve made a life here. You’ve become your own man, Gaston.”

Gaston’s grip on the cleaver loosened, his shoulders slumping. “I wanted Belle to see me as more than a brute, to talk about stories and far-off places… but I didn’t know how.”

LeFou stepped forward, placing a hand on Gaston’s broad arm. “You were more than your father’s expectations. You’re more than the songs they sang.”

Gaston’s eyes glistened as he chopped herbs, whispering, “Sometimes I hear them—him, the songs, the jeers. I see Belle’s face, but I can’t remember her voice.”

LeFou swept the floor quietly as Gaston prepared the frittata, the two friends finding comfort in the quiet dance of the kitchen. The smell of roasting squash and garlic filled the air, cutting through the cold with warmth.

“Your father isn’t here to taste it, Gaston,” LeFou said gently, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t cook. Maybe this year, cook for yourself.”

Gaston looked up, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You’re a good friend, LeFou.”

“You’re my best friend, Gaston. Just… try to get outside. Maybe walk after you eat. You can’t live on eggs alone forever.”

A small chuckle broke through Gaston’s tears, and he ruffled LeFou’s hair like he used to in the old days. “No one cooks like Gaston, huh?”

LeFou grinned. “That’s true, old friend.”

They stood there, the frittata baking, filling the small cottage with warmth. Gaston turned back to the oven, humming the old tune under his breath, the weight of the past still there but lighter in that moment.

As LeFou left, he glanced back to see Gaston carefully plating a slice of the golden frittata, whispering softly to the empty chair across the table.

“I hope you’re proud, Father.”

LeFou closed the gate behind him, the cold biting his cheeks as he walked back toward the village, whispering, “See you next year, Gaston.”

In the silence of winter, the scent of herbs and hope lingered in the air, reminding LeFou that even the hardest hearts could find a moment of peace.

Moral of the Story:
Cooking can heal old wounds, and sometimes, the best approval you can seek is your own.