C is for Chef

“I could do better than that,” he said as a contestant was being ridiculed by a chef for their raw chicken on the show they were watching.

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She laughed. “You could, huh? Since when are you a chef?”

“I can cook!” he shot back.

“Put your money where your mouth is. Make the dish from the show,” she replied. “I bet you a backrub that you can’t do it.”

“You’re on,” he said. “Saturday night I’ll make it and then you can pay up.”

Saturday morning he went to the store to get his ingredients. He came home with a disgruntled look on his face.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“They were out of a few ingredients that I really needed so I had to make substitutions. It’ll be fine–after all, adaptability is important to being a chef–but it wasn’t exactly what I wanted.” He shooed her out of the kitchen to start his masterpiece.

She went into the living room and turned on a movie. She wanted to be close enough in case he needed help even if she was pretty sure that he wouldn’t ask. She was actually hoping that it turned out well for him.

A few clunks and curses came through the door and then it got really quiet. She settled back. He must have gotten things sorted out. She got sucked into the plot and when it was over, she realized it had been two hours.

“Things OK in there?” she called out. Silence. “Dave?”

“Yeah. I’m still here.” He came around the corner and was covered in what appeared to be flour. “It doesn’t taste right. And the outside of the chicken is burned, the thermometer says it isn’t done and the potatoes look like glue.” He looked totally dejected.

She got up and gave him a hug. When she pulled back they were both covered in flour and she started to giggle. He looked down at her and burst out laughing. “What a mess!”

She went into the kitchen and swallowed her gasp. He must have used every pot and bowl they owned. The flour cannister wasn’t opened, but the bag of coconut flour had been spilled. That would definitely explain the strange taste.

He had followed her into the kitchen and stood looking at the disaster. “I’m so sorry. I really thought I could do it.” She came over and kissed him.

“Maybe next weekend we’ll do it together. How about you make some reservations for dinner somewhere? We’ll get this cleaned up, go out for a nice dinner and then we’ll come home for your backrub.”

He shook his head. “Backrub was for success. How about cleaning up, dinner and then we’ll go out dancing instead? And next weekend? We’ll conquer the chicken.”

Wicked Wednesday

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