Writing Prompt!

From Rosalind: Your character is fixing a Valentine’s Day dinner for his/her significant other, but there’s only one problem. Your character can’t cook. Describe their cooking experience.

Write for 10 minutes. Post your piece to comments.

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Posted on February 14, 2017, in Writing Prompt. Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. He will be coming back soon. I needed to make something fast.

    So there I was, flipping through cookbooks and looking up easy DIYs on Facebook (which for your information, are not easy and I could most definitely not do it myself) as he was out to run some errands.

    Olive oil. How do you even make oil out of olives? Is there some kind of formula or sick trick to somehow magically turn something like an olive into a liquid-like substance? Or did they think it sounded pretty?

    Flour. How DARE they name it such a thing. I had somehow mistaken it for flowers. The plant. This was going to be a long night.

    Chocolate chips. They aren’t chips. Who names these things?

    Avocado oil. Now this is just going too far.

    After over an hour of coming close to burning the house down, I sat on the floor with that cookbook in my lap with my hands coated in various types of oils that refused to come off when put them underneath the kitchen sink. My chest sunk into my stomach when I heard the sound of the door open.

    I wish that I could have read his mind when he entered the kitchen to see the disaster that I had created. But what he did next was proof that our relationship would last forever.

    “Not to worry, I picked up Chick-fil-a.”

  2. I watched as her car pulled out of the driveway and turned the corner. Running into the kitchen, I pulled my laptop off of the table and googled ‘how to make pasta sauce’. I scrolled through several websites until I found one that explained things well.
    Step 1: Put the pan on the burner and turn the burner on medium high.
    I did that.
    Step 2: Pour about 2 tbsp. of olive oil into the pan.
    I didn’t have a measuring spoon, so I eyeballed it.
    Step 3: Dice about 1/2 an onion, 1/2 a green pepper, and 1/2 a red pepper and put them into the pan.
    While I was chopping I managed to cut both my fingers and the veggies. I pushed on, this was going to be the best night she has ever had.
    Step 4: Slice a sausage into about 1/4 in. thick pieces and place them into the pan.
    I didn’t have sausage, so I cut up hot dogs. That works right?
    Step 5: Pour in one can of tomato sauce.
    Okay, easy.
    Step 6: Stir in a pinch of basil, oregano, rosemary, salt, and pepper.
    Got it. I pulled each spice out of the cabinet and shook a bit of each into the now bubbling sauce. I got a bit to close. There was splashes of red sauce all over the nice white shirt I had picked out. Great.
    Step 7: Turn the burner down to low until read to serve.
    I was done! And with 10 minutes to go until she got home!
    I changed my shirt then ran back to the kitchen. I pulled out the good plates, wine glasses, flowers, and candles.
    The table was beautiful! I plated the pasta and poured the sauce on top. Just as I put the plates on the table I heard her car pulling into the driveway. I poured the wine and rushed to the door to greet her.
    I opened the door and there she stood. Her smile was radiant. I took her hand in mine and guided her to the candlelit table. Her smile vanished.
    ‘The kitchen is a mess.’

  3. The room was silent as it grew dark, save the furious typing of my keyboard and the occasional grunt and groan of frustration I gave. I had wanted to make my husband ice cream and cookies for valentines day, but the longer I sat looking for a decent recipe, the longer I knew it would be a mistake to even try. Yet, try I shall, and if he hates it, it will give me an excuse to make a run to Brusters and get some of their sent-from-heaven goodness.

    “Ooooh, wait, wait wait!” I cried in delight, scrolling back up to find the thing I had just passed. “We won’t be needing to leave the house tonight, no, no, no. Let’s see, chocolate chips, yes, flour, okay…” I browsed the list of ingredients in the chosen recipe and my face lit up in delight. My goal was to make chocolate chip cookies with cookie dough ice cream, since he loved those the most, and as I look through the two recipes I had, one that I found some ten minutes ago and this new one, I believed I had what I wanted.

    Three hours after that discovery, after I had thrown myself energetically into the task before me, I felt I couldn’t have been more wrong if I had said Hitler wasn’t evil.

    The cookies, when whisking the butter and sugars, made an awful mess, and when I tossed the pan of the vaguely heart-shaped lumps into the oven, it almost looking like they had melted, not at all retaining the delicate form I had given them. The cookie dough for the ice cream was okay enough, but lacked…form? It didn’t seem to have enough flour, even though I used the 3 tablespoons it asked for…unless the tablespoons were the ones label tbsp rather than tsp… I shrugged and threw the mixture into the freezer, hoping it would solidify in there.

    And the there was the ice cream. The recipe said to make it first and then mix in the cookie dough, but it also said to first put salted ice in a bowl and another bowl on top of that. Lacking a second bowl, I decided to throw everything into one and strain out the ice later. Then the ice melted…

    I was now sitting in the living room preparing Netflix for my husband’s arrival. I carefully picked out a movie with half a star, our favorite pastime being making fun of those terrible creations allowed to exist in our lives. The ice cream was setting, the cookies were cooling, and everything was going okay. The sounds of gravel in the driveway caused me to jump out of my seat on the sofa and rush to greet my husband.

    A few embraces later, I was dragging him to his armchair, where I would also recline with him. I rushed into the messy kitchen, making sure the door closed before he could witness the disaster, and set up the treats. I came back out with one big bowl of ice cream with two spoons sticking out and a plate of misshaped cookies. I set these on the coffee table and relaxed next to him with a spoonful of the creamy mixture in one hand and a cookie in the other. I shoved the first into his mouth, making sure I smeared it mostly all over his face for kicks first, and asked him if we should go get Brusters.

    His face contorted into one of sadness and nodded. I came back later and he had finished all of the cookies and was halfway through the ice cream.

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