Aasia carefully measured, took great pains in mixing, and sampled the product.
Yikes!
She spit out the mouthful into the trash can then scanned the ingredients on the counter in confusion. “Apples. Butter. Sugar. Cinnamon. Salt. Oh no.” She’d used a quarter cup of salt instead of a teaspoon.
She’d misread the recipe written in Aunt Pedora’s messy handwriting.
Aasia slumped her shoulders, feeling her frustration growing. Why couldn’t she learn the skill of making a simple dinner? She’d ruined the pie. The pie that was supposed to be the shining star.
Picking up the bowl and dumping the contents into the sink, she turned on the garbage disposal and watched the big fail disappear along with her pride.
Why was she trying so hard?
Why did she care that she couldn’t create a masterpiece?
What could be so difficult about making a pie anyway? Pedora made it appear as easy as mixing up a little of this and a little of that. And poof. A pie was born that made people nearly cry.
For heaven’s sake.
She couldn’t even roast a chicken for that matter…
The bird was burning.
She sprinted over and nearly choked to death on the smoke that rolled out from the oven when she opened the door. Reaching for the oven mitts, she took out the pan of chicken cooked to a crisp and dropped it into the sink. She used her foot to close the oven door as she stared in disdain at the ruined meal.
She leaned against the counter and stared at the chicken as if it had personally betrayed her. Everything was dusted in flour with nothing to show of it.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I can synthesize compounds with six-step reaction chains, balance equations, mix chemical experiments, but this…”
“What is room temperature butter?” She poked the recipe card as if it would answer back. “What room in what country?”
She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache brewing. She’d spent her life turning uncertainty into certainty. Living by formulas and logic. Flour and butter refused to be quantified.
Why did Bentley make her so stressed?
He’d called her that morning and said he would be dropping by that evening. There was something they needed to discuss. They’d barely said two words to each other since he’d been whisked away by work at Oscar’s three days ago. Although she didn’t feel it was her duty to prove anything to him regarding her domestic skills, she wanted to prove something to herself. She could do anything she set her mind to. So why did preparing a decent meal seem like orchestrating a trip to another universe?
Pedora’s words that morning before she left for her road trip with her friends resounded through Aasia’s mind…“Don’t be too hard on yourself. How many people do we know who can recite the definitions of cellular structures and atomic behavior? Just one comes to my mind. You.”
Although Aasia appreciated her aunt’s boost of confidence, Bentley had instilled in Aasia that to be a part of hislife a woman would have to prove to his mother that she could run a household. Had they traveled back to the nineteen fifties? Aasia didn’t need to prove anything, to anyone, and yet she felt like Bentley had placed a challenge before her. Most mothers liked Aasia, but Francine was in a league all her own.
Aasia had a saying, “If the experiment fails it’s still a result.” Nothing in life was a failure, not even apple pie and burnt chicken. She might not be a skilled cook, but she was resourceful.
Going to the freezer she dug out a frozen lasagna and placed it into the oven.
After setting the timer, she refilled her wine glass and took it out onto the patio with her laptop. She had time to relax before she had to face Bentley. If he didn’t end things, she would. They’d come to a fork in the road. She’d never add up to his expectations and she didn’t want to try any longer.
He’d come from a long line of housewives who supported their powerful husbands. His mother and father had been married for at least thirty years and Bentley always bragged that his mother was the epitome of the perfect wife. Aasia didn’t touch that statement with a ten-foot pole. After fifteen minutes of meeting the haughty, borderline conceited, buttoned-up woman Aasia knew her future mother-in-law wasn’t the definition of perfect. Far cry from it. She’d practically single-handedly tossed Aasia out on her ear when she admitted she didn’t cook or had any clue what “pressing trousers” meant. Aasia had wanted to ask Francine when the last time was that she’d prepared a meal or did “pressing” or anything else on a man’s trousers, but she’d bit her tongue. The cook and housekeeper weren’t in the Fletcher home just for looks.
Aasia sat in the wicker chair under the stringed lights surrounding the patio and read a text message from Bentley…
“See you at seven.”
He’d become consumed with his campaign for running for senator. He’d been spending all his time attending political functions and usually dragging Aasia along with him to the high-society events. Until lately. He seemed satisfied to attend alone. That was fine by her. She had her own career that needed attention.
Her mind naturally wandered to Bear. She hadn’t seen him since that night at Oscar’s either. They’d left things in a bit of a mess to say the least. She did find him attractive, and undeniably sexy. Bear was a walking archetype of a rebellious, confident man who had an underlying dangerous quality. After learning her lesson with the “bad boys” she dated during most of her twenties, she’d made a promise to herself that she needed someone predictable.
Aasia liked working with variable she could control. Temperature. Time. Outcomes that could be measured. Bear wasn’t a formula. He was a variance. Logically, she knew they weren’t a match, not when she wanted safety. He was far from predictable. And yet, every time he looked at her, she felt something shift, like atoms changing under heat.
