Page 86 of Taming Georgia

“Okay, you take the eggplant and slice it in one-fourth-inch cubes,” I instruct Wyatt.

“Like exactly?” He furrows his brow.

“I’m sure close is fine.”

He picks up the slice of eggplant. “Do I peel it? This skin is really thick.”

“It doesn’t say. Google it.” I look down to the recipe. “Do you know what a microplane is?”

“No clue.”

“We need a microplane for the lemon rind.”

My hands wet from washing the parsley, I ask Wyatt to Google what a microplane looks like, too. After I dry my hands, we spend the next fifteen minutes looking through every drawer and cupboard, trying to find the lemon peel device. When I’m certain Ethel doesn’t own one, I search online for what we can use instead.

“It says a small grater. Did we see one of those?”

“Do you all need help in there?” Ethel yells over the TV.

“Buy a vowel, E. We got this.” Wyatt opens a drawer and pulls out a metal object with holes. “Is this a grater?”

I bite my lip. “I think so, but aren’t the holes supposed to be smaller?”

“It’s going to have to do.”

We spend an abnormally long time on every part of the recipe. I pull open the top of the mozzarella balls, and some of the liquid they’re in splashes out, causing me to drop the entire container on the floor. White balls bounce everywhere.

“Shit!” I cry, staring down at the floor of wet balls. “I’m going to cry,” I say with a sigh.

“Five-second rule?” Wyatt questions as he hastily tries to retrieve the balls of cheese.

“Should we? What if cat hair gets on them?”

“We’ll wash them. They were in water to begin with. It will be fine.” He tosses the cheese into a strainer and begins running them under water.

I grab the mop and clean up the mess I made on the floor.

Wyatt looks back at me with his sexy grin. “We should’ve ordered pizza,” he teases.

“Totally,” I agree.

What feels like eighty hours later, our first meal is finished.

“This should be tonight’s dish. I’m starving after all of that work.”

“O-M-G. Me, too.” I laugh. “I can’t believe we have six more to do. We’re never going to finish. I thought you could cook,” I tell him.

“I never said I could cook. I figured you could. You’re a girl.”

“Sexist,” I huff in mock offense. “I am proficient at many things, but cooking is not one of them.”

“Noted. So, takeout for life?”

“Definitely. Or we practice and get better at it?”

“Takeout it is.” Wyatt reaches into the cupboard and grabs three plates.

We dish up the food. Ethel’s too sore to sit at the kitchen table, so he sets her meal on a tray and carries it out to her. I grab both of our plates and follow him.

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