Page 65 of Cakes for the Grump
Putting the stockpot down, I turn and face Luke. “So kind of you to offer your opinion on the style of someone who is not quite on the mend.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I force my body to relax. “Really, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“Even with that smile you’ve put on, I know you are lying.”
If I wasn’t currently suffering under the immense pressure of inventing aninnovativebutpracticalrecipe centered around a protein that has already been cooked for millions of years, I would give more thought as to how Luke continues to foil my fake-cheer persona. Instead, I chalk it up as a malfunction of my own in that I’m probably too knackered to have deployed it correctly.
Going to the stove, I try to turn on the left burner. It’s powered by gas but requires one of those long lighters to initiate the flame. Normally I can do it within a second, but my hands are being clumsy right now.
“Look, I know you have a passion for cooking,” says Luke, “but take the week off.”
The lighter button continues to act like an asshole.
When a little starter flame is finally produced, I jab it at the stove, but not quickly enough. It sputters out and a subtle kerosene-like odor fills the air. I shut off the gas dial and bat my hands around, trying to dissipate the smell.
Then I resume my campaign against the lighter button.
Click, click, click.
My eyes also dart towards the small timer on the counter because shouldn’t the herbed broiled egg be done in the oven, yet?
“You are clearly unwell,” says Luke. “Go back to bed.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t.”
Click, click, click.
I throw the defective lighter down onto the kitchen island behind me and start rifling through a drawer to find another. When I grab a new one, any feeling of success is short-lived since Luke uses an embarrassingly minimum amount of force to tug it out of my hand.
The way he holds it, the lighter has become his personal hostage. This not only annoys me but effectively sabotages my cook because I can’t proceed without another open flame.
I glare at Luke. “Real mature. Is this how you behave to get everything you want in the boardroom too?”
“I am nothing if not handsy in the bedroom.”
“No, I saidboardroom.”
“Did you?” He smirks. “I must have misheard. Regardless, the answer remains the same. Now tell me, why are you so worked up?”
His smugness practically yells,I’m bigger than you and I can stand here all day if you don’t want to answer.
“Fine,” I groan. “I’m cooking because I only have a few hours to think up a dish, get it photographed, and submitted for a competition. Now, please, give me the lighter.”
“What competition?”
Time is precarious, so I do my best to whizz through the rules.
When I’m finished explaining, he says, “Well, this explains why you’ve been wanting free use of my kitchen.”
Is he going to yank those privileges away? In my experience, employers don’t like when an employee works on their own projects if it means an escape route from the job. Or maybe Luke will lecture me that winning an online competition open to the public is a long shot and hoping to be a finalist is like playing your last dollar on the lottery. A foolish waste of hope.
He does another survey of the kitchen. “You need help.”
