Chapter 2- Property of Thomas Cavanaugh
I stared down at the mangled mess of noodles in the pot I was stirring. They looked kind of funny. I’d never been one for cooking, so I wasn’t sure if they were supposed to look like this, but they did not look very appetizing. I was hoping this class would improve my cooking skills a little, but now I’m starting to think it’s a lost cause. Maybe when I add the sauce it will help it some.
Thomas was being no help whatsoever. The only thing he had done was fill the pot with water. I was the one having to attend to it. He didn’t even offer to help when I made the meatballs, and I was not so keen on the smell of raw meat. I was borderline vegetarian. I could tolerate chicken but that’s about all. Anything else only tested out my gag reflex.
“Is something burning?” Thomas asked looking up from his phone for the first time since this lab began.
I panicked. Oh crap, the meatballs. I grabbed the oven mitt from the counter and threw open the oven door. Smoke came rolling out of the oven making me cough on the fumes. I took a step back to get some fresh air when I noticed the surrounding kitchen’s looking at us…or well, me.
I flushed red. Great.
“When are these things supposed to be done?” I asked examining the burnt, crisp lumps of meant on the pan.
“I’m gonna guess and say about ten minutes before they look like that,” he smirked.
I groaned furiously and grabbed the pot of noodles off the stove and placed them on the counter. They had turned out better than the meatballs but that wasn’t saying much. It was only a small victory. They still looked a little dry. Perhaps it was the lack of water I put them in.
I mean seriously! What idiot can’t boil noodles? It looks so easy on TV.
After the remaining water was drained from the pot I placed it back on the stove top. Just as I reached for the jar of sauce it was already swiped away by a certain smug person’s hand.
“I’ll take that,” I snapped reaching for the jar but he quickly jerked it away from me before I could grasp it.
He only increased my annoyance.
“I’m helping,”he said twisting the lid and opening it.
I quickly picked up on what he was trying to do and stopped him.
“Oh no,” I protested. “If you think you’re just gonna swoop in here at the end and open jar of sauce and call that helping, you’re very wrong mister. This isn’t going to be an easy A!”
He chuckled at me as if I’d just said something humorous. “Mister?” he repeated.
“Your right,” I smiled sweetly. “I’m sure I could think of more fitting endearments for you.”
“Name one,” he challenged.
“Pig headed, arrogant, overconfident jerk…”
He looked amused. “Did you come up with all of those on your own?” he teased. “And I thought that confidence was a virtue.”
“Normally, yes,” I agreed. “In you? No…no it’s not.”
He seemed to ponder on that for a moment before smiling and turning towards the spaghetti pot. He lifted the jar up to the pot and started to pour it in.
“I’ll do that!” I successfully grabbed the jar, but he refused to give in and let go. We were actually standing here playing a game of tug of war in the middle of the kitchen with all eyes on us. He was being disruptive to the class.
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Just My Type
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