Alchemy

We take turns cooking. But I still do it more often because he’s such a messy cook. He splashes food on the walls, fills the sink with pots and pans, the cutting board, dirty utensils. One evening, I’d planned to make a North African stew, and I told him about it the day before; I’d even soaked the beans overnight. But when it came time to cook, I didn’t feel like it. I lay in bed all day and didn’t want to do anything apart from retreat from the world.

When he found me spread like a jellyfish under the blankets, he lashed out. “You said you were going to cook! I’ve been looking forward to it all day!” He said that was typical of me; I never do anything I say I’ll do, and I never finish anything. I rolled out of bed, shuffled into the kitchen, shutting him out. While I chopped vegetables, I cursed and cried, throwing the ingredients carelessly into the pot. I cooked noisily, tumultuously. I threw the dishes on the table, poured tepid water into a carafe, and called “Bon appétit!” when the sweet potatoes were still half hard to the tooth.

In the meantime, he sat at his computer in the living room, not once looking up to acknowledge my cooking conniption. He walked into the kitchen, sat down at the table, grabbed a plate. I watched him scoop a forkful of vegetables and beans, blow on it, and slide it into his mouth. He chewed, scowled, tore off a paper towel, and spat the food back out. Without saying anything, he stood up from the table, grabbed an apple, and went back into the living room, where he sat down in front of his computer.