Once we made it, all of us halted in astonishment, mesmerized by the scene before us. The kitchen resembled a battlefield of scorched cookware and thick, swirling smoke clouds. The chaos wasbeyondcomprehension.
Adrian shook his head, with disappointment etched across his features. “Well… breakfast is definitely canceled,” he announced, his tone dry as a desert.
The scene? Armageddon…in cast iron.
There was pancake battereverywhere—caked on the stove, dripping off the counter, and splattered across the curtains in what could only be described as a grotesque art installation. The floor had turned into a full hazard zone, grease pooling so thick it looked professionally choreographed, like somebody had been figure skating in Pam. The eggs sat in the skillet appearing utterly defeated, scrambled into pure depression, while the cheese huddled on one side, as if it had thrown in the towel mid-melt. And the poor bacon? Jesus. It looked like it died, got resurrected out of spite, and then immediately chose death again.
Isis stood at the center of the chaos, fanning the air with a wooden cutting board, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, though she was desperately trying to maintain an air of nonchalance.
I flung open the kitchen door to let the smoke escape—the fresh air a welcome relief. Meanwhile, Bryce sprinted to the fire alarm, frantically waving a dishtowel like he was swatting away a swarm of angry bees.
“Isis... what the hell?!” he yelled.
Adrian opened the toaster and held up two blackened, unidentifiable rectangles.
“Y’all... she cremated the toast.” He held one up like it was a tarot card. “This is a sign from the ancestors that we chose thewrongdamn cook.”
Isis whipped her head around, still fanning. “I had to multitask, okay?! Y’all act like I burned the cabin down!”
Adrian coughed. “Shawty, the walls got asthma now.”
Isis stood there with flour dusted across her eyelashes like snowy mascara, a whole chunk of pancake mix lodged in her hair as an unapproved leave-in conditioner, and her eyes all watery. But her pride? Chile… it stood ten toes down and refused to let a single tear fall.
I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh. “If you can’t cook, sis, you could’ve just said that.No hard feelings. We all would’ve settled oncereal.”
Bryce looked around at the disaster, scratching his head in anger and disbelief. “Let’s get this shit cleaned up.”
Then he looked at Isis, long and hard,like she was a health violation in human form.
“And you… just go clean yo’self up. I’m afraid if you touch anything else, the CDC gone have to clear this bitch before we can eat.”
“Yeah, shawty, go wash off whatever you was trying to prove… and maybe light a candle while you’re at it, ‘cause the only thing you cooked up this morning was chaos and disappointment,” Adrian said, putting his two cents in.
Isis let out a frustrated stomp and huffed toward the hallway, mumbling under her breath,“This is exactly why when I get rich, I’m hiring a private chef! Y’all gon’ be the broke ones begging for brunch invites!”
I watched her walk off, then turned to Bryce and muttered, “Andthat’sthe girl you decided to bring here?”
Without missing a beat, he shot back, “Andthat’sthe nigga you decided to bring?” He nodded toward Adrian, who was standing there, head tilted, still staring at the toast like it had just called him broke. “One whobrought a 3-inch blade for a probably almost 400-pound bear, like he was gon’ whisper, ‘Back up lil’ bro’, and it was just gon’ walk away. That nigga probably mentally made an emergency exit plan that didn’t includeyou.”
Touché.
I forgot how petty Bryce could be when he wanted to.
We spent the next twentyminutescleaning up. The tension in the cabin was thicker than the batter still splattered across the counter. Adrian poured himself a sad bowl of cereal like his morning had just filed for divorce. Bryce made a quick and easy turkey and cheese sandwich. And me? I bit into an apple and sipped some water like the classy, non-traumatized queen that I was. Icould’vecooked, but after all that cleaning, my spirit was too tired. Hell, my ancestors were probably still fanning smoke out of their wings.
“An hour later: Chili Chance Redemption.”
An hour later, the cabin had finally aired out, and the mood thawed a little. Isis had retreated into self-reflection—or shame. She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, clutching a mug ofwater, and fake sipping like she wasn’t just the villain in that morning’s culinary crime scene.Meanwhile, the rest of us had scattered to do our own thing.
Surprisingly, the smell floating through the air now wasn’t drama; it was chili… well, almost. I was still at the cutting board, humming low, slicing up bell peppers and onions, ready to become somebody’s reason for smiling again. The chili hadn’t even started simmering yet, but the prep alone had the cabin smelling like a cozy Sunday. Snow fell steadily outside, as it started frosting the windows and covering the trees like nature was trying to hush the world. So it was the perfect day for somethingwarm, thick, and spicy. It smelled likereallove in the kitchen, not that ‘fumble your way through a Pinterest recipe and burn water’type of love Isis tried to serve. Thehomemadecornbread I had planned to make later would be comforting withzerostruggle. There was no Jiffy box in sight, because I actually cared about people’s taste buds.
Bryce walked in, sniffed the air, and rubbed his hands like a man fresh out of jail.
“Chef Hollis is back in the kitchen like old times. Hell yeah. I knowthat’sabout to be good.”
I didn’t even look over; I just kept slicing and gave him a little shoulder. “As long asyouknow.”
He leaned on the counter. “I do. But let me find out you making it just ‘causeI’mhere. You know Chili is my thing… especially yours.”
