I opened the pantry, grabbing a box of penne pasta and a couple jars of tomato sauce before laying them out on the counter.
“It’s not organic chemistry.” I picked up the box, pointing to the instructions. “If you can read, you can cook. It’s why I’m surprised you can cook.”
“I can fuckin’ read!” His mouth hung open as he let out an overexaggerated gasp. Then he pointed at the counter. “What the hell is this? Jarred sauce? Did you seriously bring that shit into this house? The dumpster mattress was more appetizing.”
“Then go chew on that.” I said, flipping the jar to get a glimpse of the ingredients. “What the hell does it matter? Italian food is all just tomato sauce with different shaped noodles.”
Roscoe wrinkled his nose but didn’t respond.
“You know I’m right.”
He grabbed his chest and looked up, muttering “porca miseria” in a surprisingly good Italian accent.
“What does that mean?”
He said nothing, his tail hanging between his legs as he slowly dragged himself to the bathroom and shut the door.
“You’re such a drama queen.”
I stared in amazement at a blackened red and brown mass that was somehow overcooked and undercooked at the same time. Squeaky shower handles silenced the running water in the bathroom, and I started to panic. Roscoe had been in there for over an hour, and I’d hoped the residual smoke billowing around the fluorescent lighting would have dissipated by now.
My attempt at baking asimplemeal was a complete disaster, and I could practically hear Roscoe belching my words back into my face.
The blow dryer clicked on which meant I had a little more time. Perhaps I could let the ziti bake at a higher temperature to finish cooking the middle. After setting the oven to four hundred, I slid the pan back onto the center rack and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, the hair dryer cut off, and the bathroom door cracked open, Roscoe slithering out and sniffing the air.
“Smells like you’ve sure got things under control.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, opening the oven door for a moment to peek inside. Another puff of gray smoke rushed out. “It’s almost done, I think.”
“I think it was done before you even cooked it,” he muttered, stepping into the living area. The werewolf eyed the air mattress with disdain before opting to sit on the beanbag chair. “When we move, I should bring my furniture.”
“You have actual stuff?”
He nodded. “Well, yeah. It’s in storage.”
We both went quiet as he flipped through the channels. I turned back to the oven and opened the door again, this time letting out a puff of black smoke. The smoke alarm that I had taken off the wall earlier began to beep, so I threw it into a bottom cabinet.
“Oh boy. Sounds like dinner’s ready,” Roscoe said, running up to the counter.
“It’s a little overdone, but I followed the instructions.”
Roscoe scrutinized the pan, his expression darkening. “You need to be arrested for this.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever made baked ziti. It’s not that bad.”
“You can’t take a crispy dump in a pan, sprinkle it with cheese and call it baked ziti.”
“Do you want to eat this or not?”
Roscoe scratched his head. “That’s probably the toughest question I’ve ever been asked.”
“Fine. Don’t eat,” I said, grabbing a metal spatula from the drawer. I stabbed at the overcooked meal from the edge, but the utinsil was rather difficult to push all the way through. This was going to require a knife and some elbow grease.
Roscoe stood patiently and watched.
“You smell good,” I said, grabbing a butcher’s knife.
