“Really?” Grace giggles. “I never would have guessed.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, chuckling. “But I’ve survived for most of my life eating food straight out of tins.”
Grace staggers back a step, holding in her stomach as her body heaves with laughter. “Never say those words, or any variation of them, ever again. At least not in front of me.”
“Okay,” I agree, thinking about eating baked beans straight out of a tin with a spoon and trying to figure out how that might be offensive.
“Just get out of the way,” she says, shoving me. “Let me look and see if I can salvage the situation. I hesitate to ask this, but can you make coffee without setting it on fire?”
I swallow hard. “I, ah…”
“Oh, Jesus,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“I don’t know how to use a coffee maker, okay?” I say, a bit defensively. “I can boil a kettle and make instant coffee.”
Grace’s eyes widen, and it looks like she has to hold back a slight gag. “That’s okay,” she says, with difficulty. “You go ahead and do that. I’ll work on breakfast.”
She turns back to the stove, and I go to the opposite side of the counter, setting up the kettle and washing up last night’s cups. Grace’s leftover cocoa has congealed into a solid mass, and for the first time, I realize my version is probably unpalatable to most people.
I’ll have to start following cooking hashtags.
The idea makes me chuckle, and I try to summon a bit of flair as I make two cups of coffee. I use sugar and milk, praying that I’ve finally done something right.
“Okay,” Grace says, putting two plates on the table. “Here you go.”
To my astonishment, she’s salvaged some of the food by cutting off the worst burnt bits and smothering everything in honey barbecue sauce. Instead of toast, she’s stuffed the eggs, bacon, sausage, and tomato into thick burrito wraps.
“These look great!” I say. “Here’s your coffee. I hope you like it.”
We sit down together, and I actually moan with pleasure when I bite into the burrito.
“Oh my God, this is good,” I say. “Thank you, Grace.”
“No problem,” she answers. “It was a pleasure.”
She picks up the cup of coffee, and I watch intently as she raises it to her lips, desperately wanting her approval. When the liquid hits her tongue, her eyes widen, and she very carefully puts the cup back on the table.
“Oh no,” I groan. “You don’t like it?”
“Ah…”
“I put sugar in it.”
“The whole jar?”
“Well, I thought you might like it really sweet.”
“Ants would have trouble with that stuff. Also, it’s really cold—and weak.”
“I thought you liked milk,” I say, disappointed. “I really tried.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did,” she answers, smiling. “But from now on, you’re not to be in the kitchen unsupervised, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply, smiling back.
I may have screwed up again, but it looks like I have actually made some progress—and we’ve found something we can do together at least.
Chapter 8 - Grace
