It took him a long time to realize what exactly the problem was. There were so many factors to untangle. Still, even before she had discovered why, it was clear: Sunny Baudelaire was a name that simply did not fit.
At first, it seemed obvious. Of course they hated the name Sunny. Sunny meant cheerful and optimistic, and she couldn't remember ever being that. His siblings could remember it—they had the memories of their idyllic childhoods in the Baudelaire mansion—but she had been orphaned as an infant and flung straight into a life of unending woe. The result was a person with habits of unknown origins, triggers caused by unremembered traumas, and a bleak outlook they never consciously chose. His entire life had been obscured by clouds of tragedy. Their mind was not clear enough for any sun to shine through. Nothing about her was sunny.
Still, there was more to it than that. It seemed that not only had their name become inaccurate, but he had outgrown it, as well. Sunny Baudelaire was the name of a poor orphaned infant who was scarcely bigger than a bag of flour; she was someone whose biggest assets were their teeth, because he had not yet developed a useful mind; she was Violet and Klaus' baby sister who they needed to take care of, not someone who was a guardian themselves. Most importantly, Sunny Baudelaire was also who Olaf had declared to be a murderer, who the Daily Punctilio had reported as a fugitive and a threat. Obviously, whoever he was now, it was not Sunny Baudelaire.
There was another aspect that she tried not to think about. Slow though he was to admit it, Sunny was a girl's name. Sure, when spoken aloud, they could choose to pretend it was Sonny, but in print, it was undeniably female. How could having a female name not set her on edge? Violet had spent her life being told that girls should be quiet and sweet, not inventors who wouldn't hesitate to get themselves in trouble when necessary. "Nice girls shouldn't know things like that," Mr. Poe had told her once. Of course Sunny wouldn't want to be a girl, when it could so easily be used against him.
Being a girl could get them hurt, too, truly hurt. Olaf didn't stare at Klaus, touch him, or try to marry him; Violet was the one who even the rest of the troupe made known was beautiful and worth keeping around for that. Even their mother, in her death, had become just another girl, someone who the mysterious Lemony Snicket fawned over in novel after novel. It was terrible enough to know the world saw him as a murderer; she didn't need to be seen as an object for desire, too.
That was all there was to it, of course. They didn't want to have to be ladylike; they didn't want to be leered at. Really, with his upbringing, it was inevitable Sunny wouldn't want to be a girl. There was nothing unusual about it.
There was nothing unusual about it, except the sense, somewhere in the back of her head, that even if Count Olaf had never crossed his path, girlhood would still somehow seem wrong. Even if all the optimism and cheer hadn't been wiped from their life, they wouldn't quite be Sunny. Somehow, without the history he was buried in, she still would have grown into someone else, who needed a different name.
Sunny wasn't the right name. That was certain. They were many things, but Sunny Baudelaire was not one of them.
But Sunny Baudelaire was also the only name her parents had ever used. Before they were all separated, Violet, Klaus, and Beatrice had known them as Sunny, and Sunny was who they were still looking for, all these years later. If they ever reunited, what would be the first thing the other Baudelaires would shout? "Sunny!" When nights were dark and lonely, and he went back to memories of her siblings for comfort, what did Violet and Klaus call them? Always Sunny.
And in all the worst memories, it was Sunny. Sunny had dangled in a bird cage, Sunny had stood alone on a frozen mountaintop, Sunny had nearly suffocated on spores. It was the infant girl who had nearly died, not whatever he was now. When all her memories were an infant girl's, it was hard to leave the name and the identity behind.
Somehow, a single name had to unite the traumatized child and the person they grew into. At every turn, he was defined by Sunny. Sunny was the one who had entered VFD. Sunny was the one who cared for Violet and Klaus enough to still be searching for them.
The first attempt was to find a name that still had the sun in it, somehow. There were the simple synonyms—Soleil and Sol—and also the names of gods of the sun, Apollo, Rah, and Aditya. Sunday was the closest name of that batch to fitting her, but it seemed a little strange to pick a day of the week as their name when they had known a Friday on the island and his time there had not been happy.
When none of those quite fit, she decided on another name that began with S. There had been few names that didn't start with S that they liked and didn't want to give up—Felix, Jules, Ellis, and Ira—but he could not away from the feeling that if their family heard of anyone by those names, even if she still had the last name Baudelaire, they'd have no idea that the name was supposed to mean them.
The closest-sounding names were Sunil and Susan, but those were too masculine and feminine, respectively. Sully was also close, but picking a name that meant the exact opposite of Sunny seemed too heavy-handed. There was also Summer, but Summer was far too positive of a name to capture the conflicted person he'd become.
Then finally, she stumbled on the idea of picking a culinary name. It should have been an obvious idea, but they had lived without access to a kitchen for so long that he couldn't remember the last time she had cooked. Saffron was out because it was a regal, rare, and expensive spice, and they certainly didn't think of himself as so far above it all. Sherry would have been a good name, except for the fact that she had loathed it as an ingredient. Sage was one they considered for quite a while, as it had a complex, almost wistful flavor. Sage never distracted from the main draw of the dish, but it certainly made itself known and tasted. It was not a bold flavor, but it was a distinct one. Indeed, he had almost settled on Sage before realizing the true perfect name.
She couldn't actually remember when they'd tasted sorrel. Certainly not in the time since the Baudelaires had been separated. Every so often, if Violet or Klaus managed to earn a little bit of extra money or found an opportunity for a trade, they'd come back with a new ingredient for him. For as long as she could remember, their birthday presents had been uncommon herbs, vegetables, and spices. Even the sherry had been an already-open bottle one of their siblings' coworkers wanted to get rid of after using it in a recipe. Sorrel had to have been one of those gifts. While receiving the gift hadn't stuck with him, its flavor definitely had.
It was a sharp taste. Earthy, too. Altogether unique. Nothing else, not even lemon, isolated sourness quite so perfectly. The sourness of lemon was too overwhelming, too intense, to really create a perfect note unless diluted by the rest of the recipe. Lemon pucked up the mouth, and squeezed all its sensation into a single point. Sorrel's sourness filled the whole palette. It seemed to echo throughout the dish. It was bold, distinct, and intense, but still not overwhelming. The reason for this, as far as she could tell, was that it was the only thing (at least that they ever found) that was sour without any acidity.
He was the only Baudelaire sibling who couldn't remember being orphaned or tailed by Count Olaf. Plenty of people were traumatized, but who managed it without actually remembering their trauma? It was as rare as a sour ingredient that wasn't acidic. She was the only of his siblings who had grown up in hardship and poverty instead of falling into it as an adolescent. In other words, down to earth. Earthy. They had never had a stable enough life to learn to be patient and noble and care about consequences, like her siblings. So he was all rough edges and bitterness. In other words, she was sharp.
The fascinating thing about sorrel was that no recipe they'd ever found called for it as just another herb or vegetable, a supporting flavor in a larger dish. It seemed to be the sort of thing that one just ended up in possession of and then had to find a recipe that would use it up. It was too hard to find and too rarely used to expect anyone to have it on hand. It wasn't even altogether clear whether it should be considered an herb or a vegetable.
Sorrel had been separated from her family for six years. In all that time, he'd never seen any hint of them. They had been shuttled around between foster homes and orphanages, never really fitting anywhere. She always felt like something no one knew what to do with. Like sorrel.
Most importantly, Sorrel was distinct as a flavor. It was impossible to forget. There was no other ingredient that compared. As Sorrel imagined having to reintroduce himself to their family, that was all she could really hope for. No matter what you called it, sorrel would always be recognizable. Sorrel hoped that to his siblings, she was the same.