She clutches the notepad to her chest.
“You. You actually did it?”
“Yes. I did it. Can you see it? No.” She sits down and her hands do not drop from the notebook.
“I didn’t even think you were going to show! You get credit for at least that much.” His hand drifts through the air towards the notebook, as she smacks it down.
“We both know that you didn’t bring that notebook to hold onto it all day. So…”
She inhales sharply and she slams it down on the table, sliding it to him slowly with an open palm. Her hand refuses to lift. He pries it from her.
“Last chance to turn back?” But he’s already reading it.
Until my mid twenties, I always thought I was a good cook. No, that isn’t right. Better than good. Fantastic.
That is until I had my family over for dinner.
If I blame anything, it would have to be my pride. I could have just made some bolognese. But no, I thought I could make a fuckings soufflé. And worse still, I bragged about it. Before people even showed up I spent the whole night talking about how amazing my soufflé is going to be.
“Can you believe your girl is making a souffle? Just wait until you get a taste of that soufflé. Soufflé, soufflé, soufflé.”
I think the energy of the room sabotaged me. “There she goes again, little miss perfect and her hobbies.” They were all waiting for it to blow up in my face.
I remember my brother and mom were in the kitchen when I opened the oven in absolute horror. My soufflé was a flat sticky crater. I slammed the oven shut. They were howling.
But worse, it throws my whole mojo off. I forget to turn off the oven, and my apartment fills up with smoke. I burn the pasta. I overcook the meat, and I discover I forgot to buy salad dressing. The house smells like an Italian restaurant burning down.
With each tier of failure my family laughs harder, and I get redder.
“Next time I think we’ll have dinner at Mom and Dad’s!” AHAHAHAHAHA, so funny!
They wait, these people. They sit around like predators, waiting for me to fail dramatically so they can hold it over my head. Well. Enough is enough.
“Go home!
All of you can just go home! You don’t like my cooking?
That’s FINE. You certainly don’t have to eat it!
Just…just get out of here!”
Uproarious laughter.
“I MEAN IT! OUT! I WANT YOU ALL OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
They laugh louder somehow, but they don’t budge. I storm into the living room, dejected, and toss myself on the couch, sulking.
They order pizza. I have none. I don’t even talk to anyone for the rest of the night. They don’t even notice.
But the most embarrassing part isn’t that I failed, so drastically, and in front of those sharks. If I’m honest, that’s the easy part.
The embarrassing part is that every time I go to cook I think about it. So I’ve stopped cooking entirely. And I used to love it.
“That’s it?”
She gasps. “What do you mean, ‘Firestarter!?’ ‘ThAt’S iT?’” She mocks. “I bear my soul to you and all I get is a ‘That’s it?’”
“Hey, calm down! It’s good. I liked it. I read this and…I can feel it. I kind of hate your family now. But I mean…do you ever think about…how your chapter of failure is just a footnote in the lives of others? And that’s if it even makes the cut.”
“Oh yeah, you’re so wise. Shut up.
I cried my eyes out. I’m pretty surprised writing this didn’t kill me.”
“Mission failed.”
“You know…maybe I’ll bake something tonight. Maybe.”