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Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
© 2004
Forced Simplicity

“You could make a salad.” He whined, sitting on the couch. “Lettuce. Avocado. Tomato. I’m so easy. Why is that so hard for you?”

“Because.” I glared at him. “You’re one of the top chefs in the country. And. You want me to cook for YOU?”

“Yes. I need it. I want to come home from work and have dinner on the table.” He pleaded.

“Oh.” I seethed. “Is that what you’re looking for? A woman who’ll have dinner on the table every night? I’m not that kind of girl, and you know it.”

He sighed. “Just once. Once a month? Once in six months? Can’t you cook for me just once?”

I clenched my teeth. “I’ve cooked you dinner. Several times.”

“WHEN?”

“See. You don't even remember. When your mother was here. And you started this whole, ‘Get Holly in the kitchen’ kick. I made you a big dinner, and you complained on and on about how many dishes there were and how messy the kitchen was.”

He leaned back on the couch. “I don’t remember that.”

“Don’t remember? Ask your mother.” I spewed as I knelt on the couch. Ok. He needs me to cook for him? Ok. Fine. I’ll do it one more time. I put on my sticky-sweet voice. “I’d be happy to cook tomorrow night. What time will you be home, dear?”

He froze as I dug my claws into one of his ‘buttons.’ He despised having to pinpoint the time of his whereabouts. “I don't know.” He said, quietly. “Whatever time things wrap up. If there’s an emergency in one of the restaurants, I could be late.”

I shrugged. “If I have dinner on the table, and you’re not home… likely I’ll feed yours to the coyotes. Just so you know.”

Ok. So. We set a time. Five thirty.

Truth is I used to cook for dinner parties where nobody left hungry and nobody had to be hospitalized for food poisoning. And. I’ve cooked for plenty of men, but cooking for Cool-guy was far scarier. The man could out-cook me without trying. He could turn my little dish into a ten course meal with tri-colored flames spewing from the dessert. (no torch necessary)

Was it worth my time or effort? I mean. People magazine had recognized his cooking genius. Um. Mine hadn’t been noticed by anyone save a few twelve-year-olds in my Home Economics classes.

I called my mom. “I’m cooking for HIM.”

“Why is that so hard for you? You’re a great cook.”

“I’m going to make that curry sauce with tofu.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m starting small.”

At four o’clock I started the brown rice. The salad was easy. I tossed everything together in a big bowl, then remembered to fix him his own plate. That’s how he normally does it. Individual salads. I arranged the vegetables around the lettuce in little designs. No. It looked forced. I undid the designs and made something simpler: vegetables laying on the plate. No. Now it looked like I didn’t care. I opted for forced simplicity: vegetables standing around a sliced cucumber. Yes. Perfect.

I made Holly’s Standard Honey Mustard Sauce: You pour some honey into a bowl. Then you pour some mustard on top of it. Stir and taste. If it’s too sweet, add more mustard. If it’s too tangy, add more honey. When it’s just right, add some olive oil till it’s a little thinner. Then the secret ingredient is a pinch of curry powder. Well. The size of the pinch depends on how much goop has been made. I needed two pinches for my goop.

I was nervous about making this dinner. How ridiculous was that? I couldn’t help it. I wanted to set the table for a romantic dinner, but didn’t. What if he came home and refused to eat my food? What if he criticized my standard sauce? No. I wouldn’t set the table. He might not deserve it.

Five thirty. I piled the plates next to the stove. I filled the water glasses. No car in the driveway. I turned off the stove. I walked to the front door and stared outside. Nope. No car in the driveway. I sat on the couch to wait.

I watched out the window as hummingbirds fought over the nectar in their feeder. They couldn’t get enough of it. My homemade hummingbird nectar was causing bird fights. They drank a full feeder every day.

Five forty five. He wasn’t home yet. Maybe he had gone out to eat? You know. For a snack before he came home. So he wouldn’t be too hungry for dinner. He hadn’t called. He promised to be here at five thirty. If he didn’t want to eat my food, why had he made such a big deal about it?

By the time his car pulled in at six o’clock, I had worked myself into a frenzy. He doesn’t want my food. He didn’t want my cooking. You know why he was late? He didn’t want me. I should’ve ordered out.

He walked in. “Hi honey.” He danced over to the couch with a hop in his step and gave me a kiss. “It smells amazing in here.”

I shrugged.

“I kept telling everyone at work you were cooking for me. They couldn’t believe you had the nerve. I told them you’re not an ordinary woman.”

I smiled and tried to shake off the frenzy. But it was a sticky frenzy and didn’t want to leave.

“Is something wrong?” He asked.

“Nope.” I said, trying to stuff my mood into a couch cushion. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Good.” He said, deepening his voice. “Don’t want no sickly woman cooking my dinner.” He turned and danced into the kitchen singing, “I feel good. Do-do-do-do-do-do-do. I knew that I would. Do-do-do-do-do-do-do.”

I bit my bottom lip and followed behind him.

He dipped a spoon into the sauce and raised it to his mouth for a taste. He paused after he sipped some more and turned to me. “What’s in here?”

“Ingredients.” I said, coyly, repeating his general answer as to how he makes his food. I had to remind myself to continue breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

He stared at me and lowered his voice. “How did you make this?”

“Mixing stuff together.” I smiled. Um. Did he like it or not.

He kept sampling it while moving his mouth in little tasting motions. “What’s it flavored with?”

“Yes or no?” I teased, folding my arms across my chest. He hadn’t reached for the pepper mill. I’d passed his test.

He took another taste before he turned to me, surprised. “Honey. It’s amazing.”

Then he said the words I hadn’t considered. The words I feared far more than any others. The words that would cut my days shorter by hours. I’d never get any writing done. “Now you can cook for us every night!”

I could barely choke down my dinner. How had I gotten into this mess? I could have made anything. Why had I gone with my old stand by? Why didn’t I burn the tofu? What had I been trying to prove?

He asked me to cook the following week when he was running late. I made my standard sauce again. Only. This time I left out the curry powder.

I set the table for a romantic dinner, feeling very sure of my place.

He tasted the sauce and burst out laughing.

“Something wrong?” I asked, innocently.

“No.” He laughed. “It’s perfect. Last time you hit something right. But. You weren’t able to repeat it. No problem. I like it this way too. But.” He reached for the pepper mill. “Maybe I’d better do the cooking for now on, you know?”

“Ok.” I smiled, moving our plates over to the candle lit table. “You know? It’s good we figured this out.”

Wanna try another column? How about #181: Visitors Don't Speak: Which is about me visiting a Toastmaster's Club meeting, yet again.

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