Propping the cookbook open, the
pages kept flopping over – she had to use the salt and pepper shakers as a
paperweights. She rummaged through the
cabinets for the right pots, she took out all the measuring cups and spoons,
she got out all the cutting boards, and she cleared the rest of the countertop
– this meal had to be perfect.
The kitchen door opened. “Hey, hon, about how long do you think –?”
“Patience, my love.”
“Right.” He left.
She began the endless chopping,
slicing, mincing, and dicing, all of which generated pretty much the same
results. With the sweat getting into
her eyes and mixing with her onion-induced tears, she took a break to wash the
mounting pile of dishes.
The kitchen door opened. “So, what can we call this dish again?”
“A surprise.”
“OK. I’ll go back to –”
“Please do.” He left.
She was only on the first
paragraph of the recipe and already was behind schedule. How long does it take to boil a pot of
water, anyway? And then, would she have
enough time to create the sauce before the potatoes were done
cooking? She had not mentally prepped
enough and was paying for it in spades.
“I took out the salted
butter?! Son of a –”
“Hon, do you need any help?”
“Yes – could you parboil an egg
and make a roux?”
“Uh….”
“Don’t make offers you don’t
mean.”
The oven had been pre-heating for
the past 30 minutes and the fresh herbs still had not been thoroughly
plucked. Why did human beings only have
two hands and 10 fingers? She took
another break to sob in the corner while watching the soufflé to make sure it
didn’t run over. Then, she had to
re-arrange bowls for the third time to make room to knead dough for the bread.
The kitchen door opened. “Hon, I just wanted to let you know that
it’s almost midnight –”
“GET OUT!” A jar of pimientos sailed past his head and
crashed in the dining room. He went to
clean it up as he breathed “Oh my God.”
The timer went off, the meat was
ready, the vegetables were steamed.
“That’s it? It’s all done? It’s all done, ahahahahaha!”
From inside the kitchen: “Hope
you’re all ready for gourmet cuisine!”
She came in carrying a tray full of bowls and casserole dishes, placed
it in the middle of the table, and sat down heavily in her chair. “Whoo!
‘No Fuss Meals’, my foot!”
“Hon, this looks delicious.” He ate a few bites. “Can I make a suggestion?”
She froze in mid-garnish.
“Seeing as it’s just the two of
us, it’s OK to just order a pizza once in awhile. You don’t need to cook all this every night.”
She considered this for a moment.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
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