With a puzzled expression, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“Christine, I can’t cook. I lived on buttered noodles and pizza in college. How in God’s name am I supposed to give Holden dinner every night without offering him the same thing over and over again if I can’t prepare a decent meal?”
She fought against her smile, which tightened her lips yet still curled them in the corners.
I dropped my forehead to the bar top and groaned. “Mom’s getting me a cookbook I won’t be able to use. When I say I don’t cook, it’s not because I don’t like it. It’s because I literally don’t know how.” I sat up straight again and met her stare. “Well, I know the concept of cooking. It’s just every time I try, I mess it up in one way or another.”
“It’s all in your head. You just have to start off small and work your way up. Like make chicken and rice and go from there. No one can mess that up.” She studied my expression for a moment and then giggled to herself. “I’ll call you in the morning so you can write it all down. It’s really the easiest thing to make and barely takes any time at all to prep.”
Just then, Mom returned from the pantry and set the book in front of me. “Your grandmother gave this to me when I first married your father. The other three used to help me in the kitchen when they were younger, so I didn’t think about giving it to them when they got married. But I guess that was a good thing, because now you can have it.”
“I don’t need this, Ma. I’ll be fine.”
“No. You’re my last daughter, so take it. If I wait to give it to you as a wedding gift, I might be long gone by then. So I might as well do it now.”
All I could do was swallow my need to groan and roll my eyes. “Enough with the dramatics. You’re sixty, not a hundred. Both Rachel and Stacey were older than I am when they got married, so you never know, I could surprise you all and be married in six months.”
“Then good, take this and maybe it’ll bring you wedding-bell luck.”
I ran my fingertips over the front of the cookbook, taking note of the worn edges and grooves. If I believed in magic, I might’ve suspected this old book of having powers, because for some reason, I found the idea of cooking something new for Holden exhilarating. “Thank you, Mom.”
And deep down, I had a strange yearning to discover what it would be like to be a real wife, one who could actually cook instead of just heat up premade meals. And with my mother’s unknowing help, I felt confident I would be able to find out—I would be able to experience the role of a wife, without all that comes with it.
If only I could convince Holden to let me experience all the good marital parts without the baggage. Then I really wouldn’t have an issue staying with him until the divorce papers are signed…not that I really had one anymore.
12
Holden
The timer on the oven beeped as soon as I closed the front door behind me. I heard Janelle in the kitchen moving around and the clang of pots and pans. My stomach rumbled, something smelling good. A smile immediately took over my face as I made my way through the living room. This was the first time I’d come home to actual food—not that country fried steak in the microwave isn’t real food, but I could tell just by the aroma that this wasn’t bought on a frozen food aisle. I made it to the edge of the kitchen when I heard her curse beneath her breath.
“Something smells good.” It may have been the same line I recited every day when I walked through the front door, but I really meant it this time. I moved to stand behind her, and with a hand on her hip, I lifted the lid on the stockpot and peered inside from over her shoulder. “What’s for dinner?”
“Christine called this morning and gave me detailed instructions on how to make this recipe. She swore up and down that it was foolproof, and there’s no way I could mess it up.” It was obvious she was extremely irritated by the melodramatic way she spoke, overly enunciating her words, and for some unknown reason, saying them in a lower octave as if mimicking a man. But Christine wasn’t a man, which only meant one thing—Janelle had long ago passed frustration and had moved toward downright furious. “But apparently, it is possible to mess it up…because I did. No matter how long I cook the rice, it’s still hard and there’s still water on the bottom.”
She proceeded to elbow me out of the way in order to pull the chicken out from the oven.
After setting it on an empty burner, she tossed the oven mitt aside and huffed. “And the chicken doesn’t look right. I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t still be clucking.”
I tried not to laugh, I really did, but I couldn’t hold it in. The way she pouted was not only adorable, but hysterical, as well. Once I got it all out, and she finished slapping me for the last time, I glanced over the food she lovingly attempted to cook me. And it dawned on me. Really hit me like a two-ton truck…
Janelle Brewer cooked for me.
And if salmonella wasn’t a real threat, I would’ve eaten it just like that. However, I didn’t care to spend the night in the bathroom due to food poisoning, so I held onto her shoulder, my fingers extending to the back of her neck to keep her attention, and said, “It’s not a total loss. The chicken just needs to be cooked a bit longer.”
“I set it to three fifty and put it in there for as long as she told me to. I even moved the rack to the middle like she said. I did everything she told me to do. Foolproof, my ass.”
I was rather certain I knew what the problem was, but I worried I would insult her if I were wrong. Still, I didn’t care and asked her anyway. “Did you wait until the oven had preheated, or did you just stick it in there as soon as you set the temp?”
“I never preheat ovens and haven’t had a problem yet.”
“You mean…when you heat up frozen dinners that are technically pre-cooked?” I honestly hadn’t meant it as an insult, but the way she stood in front of me, eyes blinking rapidly, no words coming out, I knew she was more than likely contemplating the quickest escape route. “You know what? Let’s just stick this chicken back in the oven, and we’ll make a new pot of rice.”
“It’s pointless. I’ll throw this out, and we can order pizza or something.”
“Why can’t we just stick the chicken back in the oven and start a new pot of rice?”
“Because you’re probably hungry. Not to mention, it’s very obvious I don’t know how to cook. Like, at all.” She shoved the paper with the recipe on it in my face. “I’m pretty sure an illiterate chimpanzee could’ve followed these directions better.”