Lauren

July 4, 2014

 

 

“So, you’re sure you can’t stop by later? We could watch sappy chick flicks and cry because we’ll never find a love like that.” Elizabeth begged.

I browsed through the various pastas on aisle three like a visitor to a strange planet.

Angel Hair? Fettucine? Vermicelli?

So, I might’ve offered to cook without actually knowing how.

I’d meant to get around to that after David and Elizabeth’s wedding. I was supposed to be the next Martha Stewart by now. Instead, I’d relied on takeout and frozen dinners. Luckily, I had a friend who was a great cook so I called her for the easiest meal to make when you don’t know your way around a kitchen.

Her answer had been immediate. “Spaghetti. It’s so simple. And if you’re feeling intimidated, just brown your ground beef and then use jarred pasta sauce.”

Unfortunately, she’d also invited me over…repeatedly. I hadn’t quite told her about Mike yet. It was too soon and I’d feel like I was rubbing her face in it. That, and I still wasn’t quite sure what he and I were, and I didn’t have the courage to ask.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but I made plans. I haven’t seen these girls since college. But, while I have you on the phone, should I get six or seven boxes of spaghetti?”

To be honest, I hadn’t talked to the girls I went to college with since…well, college, actually.

Elizabeth laughed. “How many friends are you feeding? One box is plenty for four people.”

Oh, right. There it is right on the side.

I kept the one box of spaghetti and put the other five back.

“Look, I’m gonna let you go so that I can finish getting everything I need. I’ll see you on Monday.” I still needed ground beef and pasta sauce.

She sighed, “Okay, but if you change your mind, give me a call. I’ll be here.”

That was the problem with dating her soon to be ex-husband’s best friend, there was never going to be a good time to tell her.

God, she’d probably see me as a traitor.

 

Mike-

“Leaving work soon. I’m swamped with this case right now. Just make yourself at home.”

I read the text and put my phone back down on the kitchen counter with a dramatic sigh. A large pot of water was bubbling vigorously on the stovetop and I consulted the pasta box again for instructions.

“The water needs to come to a vigorous boil, but how do I know when that is?” I was immensely regretting my decision to try cooking.

At least the ground beef was turning out okay. I just threw the raw meat and the pasta sauce into a large soup pot and let it heat up. I lifted the lid and stared at it. The meat must just cook in the sauce. I cranked the heat up to high and took a long swig from my wine glass. It turned out that drinking had taken away most of my cooking-related anxiety.

My phone began ringing and I saw that it was my grandmother. “Hey, Abuelita!”

“Hola, Mija. How are you?” Hearing her voice made me feel like crying. I wished that she lived closer to me so that I could have her come over and walk me through this whole thing.

I tried to sound upbeat. “I’m doing great. I’m cooking!”

She made a noise that sounded a lot like laughter. “Oh? And what are you making?”

I frowned at the bubbling water. It didn’t look like it was boiling enough. “Um, spaghetti with meat sauce. I made a salad too. That was easy.”

“Mija, did you use my trick and have the butcher grind up a roast for you? You get more meat for a much better price.”

Um…yeah, I had completely forgotten that she did that.

“Yes, such a smart tip. Thanks, Abuelita. Um, how do you know if the water is boiling enough to add the pasta?”

She replied patiently, “Lauren, if it’s bubbling a lot, it’s ready. Just dump your pasta in.”

I did as she said and then walked out onto the porch to sit on the swing. I hadn’t been back since I spent the night last week. The last time we’d been together was at my apartment and that hadn’t been great because we got interrupted by some drunk guy and then Mike’s job.

The rest of the week had been so crazy for me at work that I came home most evenings and fell into bed fully clothed. We were in the weird stages of getting to know someone. If we saw each other every day, it probably wouldn’t be an issue.

As it was, I felt like we took two steps forward and then three steps back. His texts had been short and to the point and our phone calls hadn’t lasted more than five minutes. I just told myself that his week had been as hectic as mine.

It was absolutely not because he’d changed his mind about me. That thought left me with a pit in my stomach and a weight in my chest.

“Mija? Do you think that can be worked into your schedule?”

Oh, shit. I’d zoned out.

“Absolutely, Abuelita.” Just then a loud screeching came from inside the house, “Um, I’m just going to have to call you back. I have another call coming in.”

“Lauren, is that the thing? Como es que se llama esa mierda… ah, smoke alarm! Do you—” I hit end and ran inside to a very smoky kitchen.

“Oh, Jesus!” I didn’t even know where to begin. I turned off all the burners and threw open the windows. When the alarms continued to screech, I grabbed a broom from the small closet in the hall and began waving it wildly under the detector, trying to push the smoke out.

All I managed to do was knock an empty pasta sauce jar into the floor with the broom handle, shattering it.

“Fuck!” I roared and flipped the broom over to sweep it up into the dustpan. In my haste, I rested my hand against the wood floor and sliced my palm open. I wrapped it in paper towels and continued sweeping as the screech of death continued.

Once I was certain that Mike’s kitchen floor was glass free, I tried to determine what set the detectors off. It was the spaghetti. I’d left the burner on high, so all the water had evaporated, leaving behind blackened sticks of pasta.

I grabbed a couple of potholders and carried the pot onto the back porch. Maybe it’d help clear out the smoke. I lifted the lid on the sauce and discovered that the bottom of the sauce had scorched on the pan, while the top still had bits of raw meat floating around in it.

My hand chose that moment to bleed through the towel and right into the pot of meat sauce. I couldn’t have stopped the tears even if I’d wanted to at that point.

I grabbed another bundle of paper towels and the bottle of wine and went back out onto the porch.

If he’d been on the fence about me before, this should firmly push me into the non-datable category. It wasn’t even about me not knowing how anymore—I just sucked. I tilted the bottle back and took a long drink.

Two bottles later and I still didn’t feel better about things. My hand was still oozing blood and I kept bursting into tears. This was why I couldn’t attempt to cook ever again—it was too stressful.

The dust kicked up out on the dirt road and I saw Mike’s truck.

“Well, it’s official. I’m about to be dumped,” I lamented, before taking another long swig and stifling the sob that was fighting to break free.

He parked and got out with a huge grin on his face. He took one look at my bandaged hand and tear-stained face and the grin faded.

He jogged up the steps. “Lauren? What happened?”

I held up the bottle and gestured with it wildly. “I made you dinner. And, well, it turns out that I don’t know how to cook. I should go.”

I stood up, but he stopped me. “Hey, calm down. I bet what you made is fine.”

I snorted, “Well, the spaghetti is nothing but burnt sticks and the pasta sauce has raw meat blended with scorched bits. Oh, and I bled in it on accident. It’s a real gourmet experience.”

He went inside and came back out almost immediately to join me on the swing. He took my hurt hand and unwrapped it. “I get what’s happened in there, but how did this happen to your hand?”

I held the wine bottle between my legs and wiped away the tears on my cheeks. “I set off the smoke alarm and then when I was trying to wave the smoke outside, I knocked over a jar of pasta sauce and it broke. I cut my hand trying to sweep that up.”

Mike pressed his lips into a flat line and looked away.

“Stop. Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”

His shoulders shook. “But, it kind of is. Jesus, Darlin’, you’ve had a day.”

The sky began to turn red as the sun set and I laid my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wanted to impress you.”

He pulled the bottle from between my legs and took a drink before replying, “Oh, I’m impressed. Up until now, I didn’t think it was possible for someone to have so many things go wrong while trying to make spaghetti.” I swatted him on the thigh and he grinned, “But, you made up for it with dessert.” Then he raised the bottle of wine in a toast.

I tapped my fingers against his glass before replying sarcastically, “Yeah, I really saved the day.”

“You know, Red. I might have some Pop Tarts lying around somewhere.” Mike winked at me and took another swig.

I smiled. He didn’t care that I wasn’t Martha Stewart as long as I remembered to bring wine.

He took another long drink. “You never had your dads teach you how to cook while growing up?”

Uh-oh.

I was two bottles past keeping my mouth shut. At this point in my drinking, I’d hand over my social security card and bank information if he asked for it.

I took the bottle from his hand and upended it for a little more liquid courage. “Well, Josué and Isaac didn’t exactly raise me. My mother was an addict growing up. So, while other girls were worrying about why the star quarterback hadn’t called them back, I was worrying about where my next meal was coming from. She tended to take off on these benders and leave me to fend for myself. I stuck to canned soups and things like that—foods that didn’t require electricity to be eaten.

“Josué had been my guidance counselor at school and when he couldn’t reach my mother over some trouble I’d gotten into, he showed up at the duplex I’d been living in. If he hadn’t shown up when he did, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me,” I paused, as memories from that night came back to me, wanting to shut down.

Mike’s expression hadn’t changed once since I started talking. He was also a detective though, so keeping his face impassive was part of the job.

I forced myself to continue. “When I started college, I was more concerned with getting good grades and proving to both Josué and Isaac that I wasn’t going to turn out like my mother than I was with learning how to cook. Then, I wanted to get a job and start making my own money. I found that drive-thru worked well enough and never took the time. It sounds stupid.”

He reached over and pulled my hand into his. “It’s not stupid. I can’t believe you went through all that and turned out like you did. Statistically, you’re an anomaly. Who gives a fuck if you can cook or not? You got me for that.”

We passed the bottle back and forth and watched as fireworks exploded in the distance. And for the first time that night, I saw the situation from his perspective, and was finally able to laugh about it.