I find the bowl of cubed beef by memory—three steps to the left, hand to the counter, slide until my fingers brush cool ceramic. “Slow and steady wins the race, isn’t that right, Jason? We do not want a repeat of last time. I think Hattie would have a full-blown conniption if she had to come give me more stitches.”
I pause, then add, “Asking for a friend… but is it wrong that I didn’t tell Meemaw I fell off the horse? Actually, no. Don’t answer that. I’m still not telling her.”
I trade the spatula for tongs like a boss bitch. “Look out, world, I’m here for action today.” I tap the pot’s rim so I know where I am, then lower the beef piece by piece.
The sear sings.
“Yes! That’s the sound of flavor, my dude.” Grinning, I do a little shimmy. I feel ridiculous, but who’s judging? Jason? He saw me trip over a laundry basket this morning. We’re way past judgment.
The steam brushes my face, and I tilt back a little.
“Don’t judge me if I burn my eyebrows off, okay?”
A soft sigh.
“Not helpful, Jason.”
When the beef is done, I scoop it out.
Plop.
The wet splat on the floor tells me I missed the bowl completely.
“Shit and damn it,” I groan. “Missed that. You can have it later, boy, but not now. It’s probably hot enough to sear your tongue off.”
With the next few scoops, I’m more deliberate, my wrist brushing the rim of the bowl each time until I’m sure the food is in the bowl, not on the floor.
“Whew.”
I add the carrots and onions to the pot, and the sound shifts from an aggressive sizzle to a softer, gentler one.
“Didn’t miss this time,” I say, though a thin edge of doubt sneaks in, threading under my words despite the cheer.
I stir until the onions sound softer and feel more slippery.
Jason’s toenails click against the tile as he gets closer. He laps up the meat that fell on the floor, but still stays close to me.
“What? You don’t trust me? I’ve listened to like, like, eight tutorials. That basically makes me French.”
I bump into the drawer I neglected to close properly and wince.
“Okay, maybe notFrenchFrench. But optimistic French.”
The garlic goes in next. Yeah, that’s the stuff. The house already smells like victory, rich wine, garlic, sizzling beef, and for a delicious, fleeting moment, I let myself believe I’ve got this.
Maybe I’m not the girl who burns toast and bumps into her own coffee table twice a week.
Maybe I can be the version of me I used to be. The girl who cooked because she loved it… not because she was trying to prove she still could.
“Okay, flour,” I mutter, patting the counter. “One tablespoon, right. Siri? Siri?—”
Nothing.
Perfect. Abandoned by technology at a critical moment. “Well, one tablespoon it is. I’m sure it’s just for thickening the sauce.”
My hand sweeps wider and bumps against a bottle. The sharp scent of wine hits my nose an instant before the cool liquid spreads under my fingers.
“Crap, crap, crap.” I grab a towel and blot wildly, following the spill by instinct, locating the edges through texture and temperature. It’s fine. It’s salvageable. My heart shouldn’t be pounding over spilled wine, but it’s jittery, jittery, too aware of how quickly a small mistake can snowball.Okay, Violet, no need to get into a tizzy. No use crying over a little spilled wine.Ha, see what I did there?
