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“That’s laying it on a bit thick, young man. And it’s Nora.”
“If you say so, Mrs. Lucas.”
He gave her a wink and she shook her head at him.
“So, why have these tomatoes got you in a twirl then, honey?”
“I want to cook dinner for Kate.”
“Oh…” Mrs. Lucas gave him a knowing look.
“No, not like that. I’ve just… not been the best roommate so I want to do something nice.”
“Sure thing, sugar.” He knew she didn’t believe him. He didn’t really believe himself, either.
“Only… I’m kind of new to the whole cooking thing so I don’t know where to start.”
To his extreme gratitude, Mrs. Lucas walked him around the whole store, pointing out the things that he’d need to make a simple pasta dish for Kate. Pasta, she assured him, was almost impossible to fuck up. Well, she didn’t say fuck up, but that was the impression that he got. Boiling water. Ten minutes. Add the sauce. Couldn’t go wrong.
When he was standing back in the kitchen surveying all of the products she suggested he buy, trying to remember her instructions, however, the apprehension started to set in. It only got worse as he started to cut up the ingredients, managing to catch one of his fingers with the knife and bleeding over the carefully picked tomatoes, so he had to start again once he’d fumbled around for a bandage to stem the bleeding.
If he thought he’d been sweating before when he was cleaning, it was nothing compared to how he was feeling as he tried to assemble the sauce once all the now-thankfully-blood-free ingredients had been prepped. It was like he’d never cleaned the kitchen earlier, with different bowls and utensils strewn across the surfaces as he attempted to pull together dinner in time for Kate’s arrival.
He’d listened intently to Mrs. Lucas and even taken notes on his phone, but everything seemed to have fallen out of his head now that he was actually adding heat and, you know, cooking it. He abandoned the pan on the stove, and went to scroll back through the instructions that Mrs. Lucas had given him. It had all seemed so simple when she was explaining it but now everything was congealing… was it supposed to do that…?
The smell of smoke reached him seconds before the blaring of an alarm went off.
“Fuck!” he shouted, lunging for the stove, just as the door swung open and Kate appeared.
“What on earth is happening…?” She had to shout over the loud beeps of the alarm.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Emile couldn’t seem to say anything else, as he hastily turned off the stove and took stock of the now blackened and burnt sauce in the pan in front of him. The pasta had boiled over, getting water all over everything, and when he attempted to stir it, it was all stuck to the bottom of the pot. Emile wanted to cry. How had it gone so wrong?
The beeping mercifully ended, and he turned around to see Kate standing on a chair to press a button on a device on the ceiling.
“That’s how you switch off the fire alarm. You know, if you ever decide to try your hand at cooking again.”
“Thanks.” He could hear how pitiful his voice sounded. “It was supposed to be an apology. You know, for letting everything get in such a state.”
“What was?”
“The dinner. I was cooking you dinner.”
“Oh, Emile.” Kate came over to where he was standing, dejectedly staring at what should have been a simple meal, and put her hand on his arm. It was comforting, despite the churn of his stomach at how badly he’d fucked up.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know. Come on, get changed. We’ll go out for dinner. On me.”
The dinner that was placed in front of them at the Mexican restaurant down the road looked about a million times more appetizing than the burnt pasta dish that they’d left behind, and he felt a fresh wave of gratitude for Kate.
“What did you say this was again?”
“You’ve never had a chimichanga before?” Kate’s eyes were wide in disbelief, as if it was unthinkable to her that he’d never had such a dish.
“They don’t do a lot of Mexican food where I’m from.”
It was true. Emile had eaten a lot of delicious food in his lifetime. Caviar. Steak tartare. Escargot. Lobster Thermidor. But right now, none of that sounded anywhere near as appealing as the dish that was in front of him.
