The Future We Wish We Had

Marjorie girded her loins and grinned resolutely into the crosshairs of the cameras. “Hi, everyone!” she chirped. “We’re here today to help our good friends the Newcomb family learn what a wonderful convenience the Careme 6000 by Mequizeen can be once you fully understand it. Mr. Newcomb here is an intelligent man. He’s been alive long enough to know that new and exciting technology always requires a little getting used to, and there’s no shame in that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Newcomb?” Boone only nodded. Marjorie thought it was amazing how the man could stand perfectly still and yet give the impression of squirming like a hooked nightcrawler.

As much as she sympathized, Marjorie had no choice but to proceed. “When I got my first Mequizeen, I just about starved to death before I got up the nerve to touch it.” As if I could ever afford anything this expensive! she thought. “Sometimes new is just another word for scary,” she went on, showering charm alternately over Boone Newcomb and the reporters. “And sometimes you get so scared by something new, you convince yourself it must be dangerous, because if it wasn’t, you’d be kind of silly to be scared of it, right? Well, we at Paradise Purchased Properties care about our clients’ happiness, even long after the papers are signed, and how happy is a family that’s scared of its own kitchen?”

The reporters chuckled. Just like I wanted them to, Marjorie thought. I’m making the Newcombs seem like frightened children. Boone and Betsy both look like they wish they could crawl into the freezer and hide. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt, then she glanced at Emily and the twinge vaporized.

“People, please,” she gently chided the reporters. “How can you make fun of a man whose only desire is the safety of his family?” With impeccable timing and delivery, she distanced herself from the derision she had just incited. The reporters were abashed, Boone and Betsy gazed at her with pathetic gratitude, but Emily looked rightfully suspicious.

Marjorie turned to the business at hand. “So, let’s make our valued Paradise Purchased Properties friends happy by showing them-and you-that the Careme 6000 is nothing an intelligent, forward-thinking family can’t handle. I have personally worked out a demo that will prove it’s a modern marvel of efficiency, safety, and courtesy. Mr. Newcomb, if you would-?” She handed him a small, folded slip of paper.

Boone Newcomb’s apprehension grew perceptibly as he scanned the page. “ ’Scuse me, but what’s all this?”

“The menu,” Marjorie replied suavely. “The Careme 6000’s built-in voice recognition software doesn’t let anyone but its owners give it instructions-another fine safety feature from the folks at Mequizeen, and one which we at Paradise Purchased Properties really appreciate.” Her expression did nothing to hint at the masterful way she was turning a news story into a free commercial for both companies. Mr. Parker would be pleased. “Just go through that list and ask it to cook up every item while our friends from the media witness how well and how safely your food is prepared. We’ll start small-a simple amuse bouche of Irish salmon tuilles with accents of asiago cheese and white truffle oil-then work our way through a series of ceviche presentations, a trio of tapenades, some basic meeze, ortolans, potages a la saison, a crown roast of New Zealand lamb, a classic Peking duck, filet de boeuf a l’absinthe, venison on a bed of lilac blossoms, trout a la mode de Gertrude Stein, and finally a complete Kyoto-style kaiseki ryori experience. Then for dessert, we-”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Emily June strode forward and slapped her hand down on the gleaming kitchen counter. “You could have this ladle-wielding death machine cook stuff like that from now until doomsday and it won’t demonstrate why it’s a menace to life, limb and-”

“Ms. Newcomb, did you know we’re broadcasting this live?” Marjorie said quietly. “Because I really don’t think that the good people at Mequizeen can let their fine product be slandered like this without taking legal action.” Joss gave her a discreet look of approval.

Emily’s cheeks blazed. “You can’t slander a machine.”

“But you can be slandered by one?” Marjorie lifted one eyebrow. “You did mention ‘hate speech’ among the other charges you’ve lodged against the Careme 6000. I’m sure it made perfect sense to you, but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your line of-” She coughed for sarcastic effect. “-reasoning.”

Emily glowered at Marjorie, then shoved her unceremoniously away from the control panel. The enraged Newcomb heiress pushed her father nose-to-speaker with the machine, and commanded, “Tell it to make something you usually have for lunch, Daddy! Something you like. Show these people what we go through every time we want to get a simple bite to eat in this house!”

All eyes and all lenses were on Boone Newcomb. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment, then took a deep breath and addressed the Careme 6000 in a strong, clear voice: “Boone Newcomb here.”

At the sound of its master’s voice, the kitchen hummed to life. Reporters watched entranced as various wall panels slid back to reveal the contents of a well-stocked pantry, an array of gleaming copper-bottomed and stainless steel pans, a mad scientist’s trove of glittering utensils. Part of the floor raised open and a bistro-sized table blossomed into the light, accompanied by a single chair.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Newcomb, sir,” said a richly textured, affable voice from above. It boasted a slight French accent. “So pleased to serve you. Will you be lunching alone, or shall I provide for your guests?” Individual rays of golden light shot down from the ceiling to pinpoint every human being in the room. Some of the reporters became decidedly uneasy at being thus singled out by the Careme 6000’s sensors, but Marjorie stepped in quickly.

“And here you see one of the finest safety features of the Careme 6000. It is 100% aware of every living thing in this kitchen so that, when it begins to cook, it will take all necessary precautions to be sure you’re kept safe from any sharp or heavy culinary tools it might need to use.”

“Uh, you’ll just be cooking for me right now, if you don’t mind,” Boone said. “Lunch please. And what I’d like is, um, a sandwich.”

“Yes, sir,” the kitchen replied. “I can prepare a lovely sliced sirloin of prime Angus beef, served on a freshly baked twelve-grain roll, topped with Maui onions, homemade mustard sauce, and-”

“Potato chip,” said Boone Newcomb. He was perspiring slightly, but a determined look had come into his eyes.

“Certainly, sir, it would be no trouble at all to fry a batch of potato chips as an accompaniment. Thick or thin cut? Kosher salt, Mediterranean sea salt, Baltic sea salt, malt vinegar, garlic, shallots-? Ah, but perhaps you’d prefer to set those parameters after you select the variety of potato. I can offer you Yukon Gold, Idaho, russet, Peruvian Blue-”

“ Sandwich.” Boone Newcomb’s jaw was set so tightly that the word escaped as barely more than a hiss. “I want a potato chip sandwich.”

A great and awful stillness settled over the kitchen. Everyone present, with the exception of Mr. Newcomb’s immediate family, stared at the man as though he’d just requested a big bowl of cotton candy soup or perhaps a scoop of frog ice cream. Betsy Newcomb twisted her fingers, looking mortally embarrassed by her guests’ shocked response to her husband’s lunch order. Emily just grinned like a jackal.

“A… potato chip… sandwich?” One young reporter was the first to break the silence, to ask the question everyone else was perishing to pose. “Ex- excuse me, Mr. Newcomb, sir, but did you just ask for a potato chip sandwich?”

“So what if I did?” Boone Newcomb suddenly stood tall and defiant in the teeth of the media. “You ever had a potato chip sandwich, boy?” The reporter shook his head in the negative. “You ever know anyone had one?” Again the hesitant headshake. “Well, when I was a boy back home, my mama used to make us potato chip sandwiches for our lunch every now and again, and let me tell you what, they’re good eating!”

He returned his attention to the Careme 6000. “Well?” he demanded. “You heard me. I want a potato chip sandwich. Store-bought sour cream and onion flavor chips. A big old dollop of mayonnaise on both slices of the bread. White bread. Store-bought white bread. And I mean the grocery store, not some boutique, gourmet, artsy food shop. You got all that?”

The kitchen began to hum again. It was a low, deep hum that slowly turned into an even lower rumbling. It sounded very much like an earthquake in the making. Some of the reporters began to glance around, checking for the nearest exit.

Then the rumbling stopped. A dainty silver bell chimed once, melodiously, and a narrow panel in one of the kitchen’s walls slit itself open as a rosewood tray emerged. On the tray was a pale jonquil linen placemat, on the placemat, a vibrant celadon plate, and on the plate, a potato chip sandwich.

“Luncheon is served, sir,” said the Careme 6000 as a mechanical arm telescoped out of the wall panel and deftly set the tray down on the table. For a moment, Marjorie thought she detected a vague note of petulance in the kitchen’s synthesized voice.

Boone Newcomb picked up the sandwich, examined it closely, then took a bite. He chewed, swallowed, and a sunny smile slowly spread itself across his face. “Just like Mama used to make,” he announced. “Kitchen, you done good.” Several of the reporters applauded. One even cheered.

“There you have it,” Marjorie said, stepping back into the spotlight with the finesse of a born game show host. “In spite of the fact that Mr. Newcomb’s lunch order was culturally unique and not part of the Careme 6000’s preprogrammed library of cookbooks, this fantastic machine produced the requested item quickly, accurately and safely. Now perhaps there are some people-” She stared meaningly at Emily. “-who consider such momentary hesitation on the part of the Careme 6000 to be unacceptable, even if it was by no stretch of the imagination dangerous. No doubt we’d all be happier in a world where our every whim was fulfilled the very instant we articulated it. But I doubt any right-minded person would call the Careme 6000’s behavior in this instance insubordination, let alone hate-”

“May I offer you a beverage to accompany your lunch, sir?” The kitchen’s voice cut in over Marjorie’s.

“Well, thank you,” Boone replied affably. “I wouldn’t say no to a nice frosty glass of-”

“-wine? I would recommend an impudent little white, a sauvignon blanc from Chateau Kiwi. “The ’16s are eminently drinkable now.”

“Er, no. I can’t say as I really care for-”

“You’re sure, sir? The clean, fresh fruit notes will pair nicely with the sour cream and onion potato chips. Even the least sophisticated palate can appreciate it.”

“There it is!” Emily fairly crowd in triumph. “You heard it: this miserable machine just insulted my daddy!”

“Now, Emily June, I wouldn’t call that an insult.” Boone took another bite of his potato chip sandwich, a man at peace with the world.

“Mr. Newcomb?” Marjorie assumed a look of cautious optimism. “Was this what happened before? You asked for a… down-home dish and the Careme 6000 acted a little-?”

“Patronizing,” Emily broke in. “Condescending. Demeaning.”

Marjorie could take no more. “Oh, for pity’s sake, does your father look like a man who’s been mortally insulted?” She waved one hand at the happily munching Boone. “Even if the Careme 6000 did get a little snotty when he refused its wine selection, do you actually believe he’s stupid enough to be personally insulted by a freaking household appliance? Because if that’s your opinion of your own father’s intelligence, Ms. Newcomb, I think