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I stare down at my plate, my gut churning as I look at the food before me. Everything smells absolutely delicious and my mouth is watering, but this is not what I expected.
“Will you tell us what you made, dear?” My mother’s soft voice asks the question with a lot more patience than I feel.
“Of course.”
I know it's rude to ignore her and continue staring down at the plate of food, but if I look up at her, I might not be able to contain my frustration. Either she didn't understand the assignment, or she purposely, willfully, and deliberately disobeyed what I told her I wanted. Neither option sits well with me.
“There’s a spinach and mushroom quiche and a smokey black bean hashbrown that has zero potato, but a ton of flavor.” She sounds thrilled about this Frankenstein of a dish she's put together.
The food somehow reminds me of one of those uppity ultra-popular restaurants run by idiot chefs that think the experience is more important than the actual food customers pay for.
“This smells absolutely lovely.” My mother sounds completely taken in by the meal, but I'm not convinced.
I can feel my anger rising, and I try to swallow it back. The quiche is beautifully arranged and vibrant on the plate. The black bean hashbrowns smell wonderful even if they look questionable, but there’s no meat. No steak. Nothing that I’d even consider breakfast on this plate other than the eggs.
“What do you think?”
I glance up, certain that the cook isn't talking to me. Surely she has to know that by going against the very directions I gave her after I offered a clear warning what would happen, that she's skating on very, very thin ice.
But I meet her pretty blue gaze and know that since she's looking into my eyes she's absolutely talking to me. My anger heats up, but I try to bite it back. I’m not about to lose control of my emotions because she’s actively trying to push my buttons.
“I think it's unacceptable.” If she wants to push my buttons to see how nice I'll be, I'll push right back and let her know that I'm not about to put up with this kind of behavior.
My mother's head swivels around and she glares at me. “There’s no need to be rude, Charles.”
I agree with her that there's no need to be rude, but that's not what I'm doing; I'm just being honest. The cook hasn't looked away from me, and I'd swear she's holding her breath. I hold her stare, slowly arching an eyebrow, as if daring her to explain herself.
“What's wrong with this meal?” Her voice is so very soft and measured that I sense a trap within the words.
If she's looking to battle, she might be surprised by an all-out war. “Based on the information I gave you about the meals that I eat and my preference, this does not match.”
A slight smile tugs the corners of her mouth and I sense she thinks she’s won. “You said that you prefer to eat meals high in protein. The black bean hashbrowns have 14 grams of protein per serving and the quiche has 17 grams of protein per serving. Given the professionals recommend no more than 30 grams of protein per meal because anything in excess of that is excreted through urine, I'd say that the 31 grams in this meal alone is more than you need.” She clasps her hands behind her back and straightens her spine, lifting her chin as she does so.
“But if you were truly listening, you'd understand that I prefer meat, not just protein.” I hold her stare, refusing to be intimidated by her.
She lifts both eyebrows and her shoulders at the same time. “I believe you stated that you eat a high protein diet.”
“Charles, try the food.” My mother's commanding tone isn't enough to make me do as she says. I know she's trying to smooth things over, but some things can't be fixed with manners and politeness. She of all people should know that.
I don’t plan to try anything. Instead, I scoot my chair back from the table, take the cloth napkin from my thigh, and throw it onto the table under the cook’s watchful eye.
Both women seem startled.
I don’t understand why. The cook has to understand that if she can't follow simple directions I have no reason to keep her around.
I’m not sure what has my mother so up in arms, but she of all people knows how important meals are to me. She’d been the one to call me out about this choice, even though she’d come up with the idea of hiring a cook in the first place.
“You’re not even going to try the food?” The cook sounds like she can’t believe what’s happening as I stand up from the table.
“You didn’t even try to stay within the guidelines given. Why would I try your food?” Surely this isn’t difficult to understand. I gave her parameters; she didn’t stick to them. Why would she be mad that I’d be disappointed and uncooperative given her actions?
Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead and her play becomes clear. She thought she’d ignore my boundaries, I’d try the food, and she’d win me over.
Well, she’d gambled and lost. Because I have less interest in her food than I do in her head games, and I’m done with her.
“Don’t listen to him.” My mother steps in, flapping a hand at me as she takes another bite of the eggs; though I’m surprised she’ll eat them any way other than benedict, given that she’s betraying me right now. “I’ll hire you if he fires you, because I’ve never eaten anything this delicious in my life.”
The cook lights up, a smile creeping across her lips as she stares me down. “Thank you,” she says, clearly delighting in my mother’s approval as I stand, locked in place, trying to think of my next move. I hadn’t counted on my mother throwing a monkey wrench into things.
