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She tilts her head, her smile playing at her lips. “Not when you're wrong.” She shifts in her seat and picks up her glass of wine, taking a sip of the deep red while staring off into space.
That wasn't the response I expected, but I guess I know where she stands. Even though there's a playful tone to our back and forth, there's also an undercurrent of seriousness that bothers me. And perhaps it's a ridiculous thing to fight over what meals our personal chef is cooking for us. But still, it's the principle of the matter that bothers me. I hired her to do a job, I gave her parameters to work with him, and she refused to meet me. So why am I still paying her?
The answer to tell everyone else is that I don't want my mom to pay for her services, and if I'm paying her, I might as well eat.
The real answer is that I secretly love her cooking, though I'd probably die before admitting that to her. Unfortunately, it seems like my mom's caught on though, so that's potentially going to be a problem.
“I wonder what she made us today? Maybe some new quinoa? Something with chickpeas?” My mother rubs her hands together, clearly excited for whatever this next meal is going to be. Based on the delicious smells wafting out of the kitchen, whatever it's going to be, it'll be mouthwateringly delicious and worth waiting for.
Still, I have that initial gut tightening thinking about eating all of these other things that are not meat. I really miss my steaks and my burgers, but I've been grabbing them while I’m out and hating the quality, because I know that if this cook would just try, she’d probably make the best damn steak or burger I’ve ever had in my life.
But getting meat out of her is similar to the proverbial blood out of a stone - it’s just not going to happen. And I thought about the fact that the sooner I accept that, the easier this whole experiment will be. But I'm still feeling a little frustrated about her inability to follow directions. She's lucky my mom likes her or she'd be gone.
And suddenly an evil plan dawns on me. If I disable the fridge’s ability to order food and I hire someone else to do the shopping, then I will absolutely be able to control the meals she makes. She can't make quinoa or chickpeas if they're not in the house.
With that, I pull out my phone and quickly pull up the app that controls the fridge. I quickly disable the ability to order groceries from the fridge, stating a broken feature as the reason. Now every time she tries to order, she'll get an error that something isn't working properly. And when she tells me the fridge is broken, I’ll feign upset and hire someone to shop. Simple solution to an annoying problem.
“What are you plotting?” My mother is watching me, still sipping her wine.
“I just solved a work-related problem.” I don't want to give her any opportunity to catch on to what I'm doing and thwart my plans.
Now all I have to do is wait.
The next day
“The fridge isn’t working.” The cook is rightfully suspicious as she says the words, eyeing me through narrowed eyes.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I can hire someone to do the shopping and deliver the groceries; no problem.” She puts her hand on mine on my phone as if to stop me, and I lift my gaze to meet hers.
“I don't mind doing the shopping.” There's a challenge in her eyes, as if she knows what I'm up to and wants to stop me before I can derail her health-train. Too bad this whole situation is already off the rails and her days as conductor are coming to a screeching halt.
“Oh, no; your time is too valuable to waste with shopping.” Obviously that's not the real reason I don't want her to be the one shopping, but hopefully she'll buy that excuse.
She lifts her chin, turning her head to the side, but her eyes never leave me. “Okay.” The tone of her voice tells me she's obviously bothered by this whole situation and knows that I'm up to something. Just maybe she's not sure what yet. Or maybe she knows exactly what I'm up to and there's nothing she can do to stop me. Personally, I don't really care; I'm just excited to sink my teeth into a thick, juicy steak tonight. I've gone long enough without meat - I don’t plan to go another night.
I send a few quick messages, glad that I'd already set up my shopper in advance. As I finish up my messages, she shifts her weight and crosses her arms, and I meet those pretty blue eyes of hers. “Just send me your list, I'll forward it to them, and you'll have everything you need in time.” Pressing my lips into a tight line, I hold back a grin, thrilled because I see this plan coming together perfectly. I can almost taste the steak I'm going to order and demand that she cook.
She seems reluctant, but finally nods her head and takes her phone out of her pocket. A moment later, my phone chimes with her list and I send my list to the shopper instead. Surely she won't get upset at a silly mix up, will she? And she's not going to let me go a night without eating just because of a silly mix up. And if she does, well, I know how to cook.
“They'll be here within half an hour.” As I say the words, I see her stiffen. There's no way she's not on to me at this point, but it's too late - there's nothing she can do.
“I guess I'd better get back to prepping.” With that, she turns and makes her way toward the kitchen and I watch her go, enjoying the little shake of her backside as she moves. I’ll say one thing, her diet certainly seems to keep her in excellent shape.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of those thoughts before following her into the kitchen.
“Can I help you?” she asks, apparently stunned to see me in my own kitchen. Which is a fair reaction given the fact that I've avoided this room like the plague since she started working for me.
“I'm just wondering what smells so good and if I can help.” I've seen my mom in here talking with her while helping with the dishes, so I know that the cook isn't against having other people doing tasks and helping out around the kitchen.
She seems unsure and maybe a little bit flustered as she pulls a pan out and loses grip of the metal, sending it cladding between her body and the countertop before catching it with her knee before it can hit the ground. “I’m fine, I don’t need help.”
I arch an eyebrow at her, glancing with the pan she nearly just dropped, and she glares at me. “That only happened because you're distracting me.”
I decide that I like seeing her distracted and make a personal goal to spend more time underfoot, in her way, and making her drop things.
My lack of response seems to bother her and she begins banging around, getting together a cast iron pan, a glass mixing bowl, and a pair of gloves, watching me all the while out of the corners of her eyes.
“So what are you making today?” I plan on sticking around and asking questions just to make her off balance, in hopes she’ll continue to be flustered. This hadn't even crossed my mind as a viable way to regain my power in my home. Maybe she'll have a lot more trouble standing her ground if I'm right here watching over her shoulder and distracting her.
