Cooking (Part 2)

After a couple more attempts to get on the table, Cake settled for watching from a chair, eyes going from Isabelle to me and back to her as we moved around the kitchen. We were… unorganized, to put it mildly.

We only got a bowl when we realized we needed one, same with the cutting board. I almost forgot to wash the broccoli, too. On top of that, this was nowhere near as easy as Mrs. West had put it. Chopping onions took me like 20 minutes and my eyes itched like crazy from it. Isabelle took like 10 minutes peeling and chopping two carrots, and they weren’t well peeled and they were cut in huge chunks. I didn’t fare any better with the beef. The slices I cut were all of different thickness and they were almost shredded instead of sliced. The bell pepper and the green onions were the only things that looked… alright.

We didn’t have a rice cooker, so Isabelle made it in a pot watching a tutorial video while I cooked the meat and the vegetables. Mrs. West’s recipe said to add the beef to the wok first for three to four minutes before adding the vegetables. I was afraid the meat wouldn’t cook properly, so I left it a little more. Then when I added the vegetables and the soy sauce , I noticed some of the broccoli was beginning to burn. Scared, it put out the fire. The result? Overcooked, very chewy meat and nearly raw, burned vegetables.

Isabelle didn’t fare any better either. She made the mistake of cooking the rice in a pot with a lid that had a small hole to let out the steam. She also forgot to add salt. The end product was unsalted, edible but hard rice.

Despite that all, mom cleaned her plate.

“Whyyyyy?” Isabelle asked her. “This is a complete screw up!” She was on the verge of tearing up.

I couldn’t say a word. This was one of those cases where the scenario my anxiety made up became reality. Mom had to eat our disgusting lunch out of pity.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and chuckled. “Yes, it was pretty bad. What are you making tomorrow? I don’t mind if you want to give this another shot.”

This frustrating feeling was oddly familiar. I remembered it from when I first started playing guitar, from the times my fingers wouldn’t play the notes I knew I had to play.

Isabelle and I wolfed down our plates as penance and without a single complaint. Mom said she’d wash the dishes, so when we were done, Isabelle dragged me to my room.

We spent the next two hours watching cooking tutorials about how to cut things, how to peel, how to use a wok or a pan, how to cook rice…

The next day we tried it again, and it was… better. Far better. Not great, but also not the worst. Isabelle used too little water for the rice this time and I still couldn’t completely get down the cooking time for the different vegetables, leaving some more cooked than others, but it was well seasoned and edible. We all cleaned our plates again, though I still felt bad that mom had to eat it.

“S-Should we… stop?” Isabelle asked mom. Her lip quivered as she looked down at her knees. “We suck at this.”

“Stop if you want,” Mom answered, crossing her arms “You don’t need to answer this, but why did you get the urge to cook? Was it on a whim? Because you thought it’d be fun? Or was it something else? Is this all the resolve you had?”

“No,” I answered, gripping my knees. “I want to keep trying”

Isabelle violently shook her head from side to side to shake away her own insecurities. “Me too. We’ll make dinner tomorrow.”

Mom smiled. “And I’ll eat it. Still, do make sure you continue improving or we’ll all be having upset stomachs very soon.”

After lunch, Isabelle followed me into my room and dropped face first on my bed while I sat down at my computer.

“I really thought we’d get it right this time…” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“We fixed what we did wrong yesterday, but we made new mistakes.” I sighed. It was still frustrating.

“...I expected it to be easier.”

“...Me too. A little easier, at least.” I smiled. “But we got it better this time, didn't we? Imagine how good we’ll be at it next year if we keep this up.”

Isabelle lifted herself up from my bed. “N-Next year?”

“Yeah. That’s how you get better at things, isn’t it? You keep practicing and slowly get better at it. When I started at the gym, I was bench pressing 70 kilos. Now I’m at 100. And you didn’t learn to edit videos in a day, right?”

Isabelle swallowed. “I guess not. You… You had this mentality from the start, huh? You were ready to put in a year’s worth of work.”

“You weren’t?”

“...No,” she admitted with a hanging head. “Like I said, I thought it’d be easier. But now?” She raised her head and looked at me with determined eyes. “By this time next year we’ll be making gourmet dishes! I swear!”

“We could make one tomorrow, but it wouldn’t be any good,” I told her.

“Ugh, you know what I mean!”

I chuckled. “Yeah. And hey, we all win with this, don’t we? If we learn to cook, we always get to eat what we like.”

Isabelle’s eyes brightened along with her smile. “Oh yeah! Ah, but I don’t want to get fat!”

I nodded. “We need to watch out for that, too. I need to keep a good diet or I’ll be wasting my time at the gym.”

“You used to love hamburgers as a kid. Are those still your favorite food?”

“Mmm… Last Thursday I would’ve said yes, but I still can’t get Mrs. West’s cooking out of my head.”

“You really hit it well with your in-laws, huh?”

“Shut up. You’d get it if you tried it. And how about you? Are chicken nuggets still your favorite?”

“You know, I’ll say yes for now, but I think salmon is starting to grow on me a lot.”

“Salmon? You used to hate it.”

“Yeah, but we had it the other day and I was really good. Maybe my tastes are changing as I mature.”

“Hm? I don’t see you maturing much.”

Isabelle brushed it off, waving her hand. “You’re too busy looking at boobies to see my growth. I made $270 in the last two weeks editing compilation videos for some tubers, you know? I’m getting my name out there.”

I whistled in surprise and amazement. “Very nice. And what are you going to use that money on?”

Isabelle flinched and looked away. “I’ll save it for… something.”

“A gift for a boyfriend?” I teased.

She scoffed. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m tired of dumb boys.”

I don’t know why hearing that was a relief. “If you get another one, introduce me to him. I’ll give him a scare so that he doesn’t hurt you.”

Isabelle bursted out laughing. “You? Scare him? Oliver, you have the muscles, but you don’t have a smidge of that ‘threatening older brother’ aura at all. Everyone knows you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

It was my turn to scoff. “I’ll have you know that I've made guys taller than me run away. Though I agree with you, so I have no idea why they did. But even so, if someone really hurt you…”

Isabelle smiled fondly. “Alright. I’ll keep that in mind. If a guy ever gets pushy with me I’ll send my brother after him.”

We shared a soft, comfortable laugh. This felt like it used to. We had started to fix our relationship, but for the first time, I think we had recovered a small part of how we used to be as kids.

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