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“I followed it to the letter.” I step forward, tapping her book as she gives it a sniff.
“It smells good.”
“The smell is a dirty lie. It’s awful.” I watch her cut it with a spatula. “On the other hand, I didn’t know you put lemon zest in it.”
“Gives it a zesty, floral tang.”
“Well, this does not have a floral tang. It tastes like floral poop.” I would say shit, but I’m not sure my sudden adult status covers swearing.
She scoops out the piece onto her plate then sticks it in the microwave for thirty seconds. “Did you fry the eggplant?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” She waits for the microwave to finish. “Makes it soggy.”
The buzzer goes off, and she takes the plate out, setting the paper towel to the side and looking at it judgmentally. “That is a very good recipe, an old recipe.”
“Well, it didn’t work.”
She cuts a bite-sized portion of vegetables and cheese, lifts it in the air, holds it a second, blows on it, then sticks it in her mouth and chews with a quizzical expression.
I bite my lip as I watch her. I have always been a shitty cook. It’s the joke of my mom and my two sisters, and it’s really unfair because I try really hard.
With a frown, she stops chewing and places her hand on her chest dramatically. Her eyes close, and she shakes her head. Crossing the room, she sweeps napkin over her mouth and spits the offensive bite into the trash.
“You over-zested your lemon.”
“Over-zested?” I blink rapidly. “I don’t even know what that means. How do I over-zest a lemon?”
“You zested past the color on the skin. If you get into the white part, that’s the pulp. The pulp has that bitter flavor.” She holds up her hand and shakes her head. “There’s no way to save this.”
With that, she takes the entire plastic container and dumps it in the garbage.
Crossing my arms, my lips part as I lean back against the sink. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”
“Language, please.”
As I expected—I’m only an adult when it’s convenient for her. “Sorry. How the heck was I supposed to know that?”
She pulls out the decanter of red wine and two glasses. “Drink some wine. I’ll show you how to zest a lemon.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” I take the glass and sip long and slow.
She goes back to inspecting the leftovers in the fridge.
“Ma?”
A container of penne with mushrooms and olive oil satisfies her. “You want some of this?”
“Sure.” I take another long drink of wine. “Ma?”
She finishes spooning out two servings, putting one in the oven before acknowledging me. “What? Say what you want to say, and stop carrying on like a child.”
My stomach is in knots. It has been ever since this morning when I realized
Sawyer had left the nursing home without telling me. It got a little better when he softened for five minutes at the pond, but the way he kissed me has me all in knots again.
Something’s wrong, and I’ve never been able to force Sawyer to talk to me about his feelings. But what am I supposed to do with that? Is this any way to build a relationship?
