Not Your Mama’s Kitchen

“Oh crap, crap, crap!”

I had turned around for two seconds to grab the bag of onions when the smell of burning cut through the kitchen. The once soft simmer of the pot had quickly erupted into a harsh hiss in that short moment. In a moment of panic, my bare hand meets the metal handle. An action that I immediately regretted when the heat and pain hit me like a freight train. I pull my hand away as I grip it tight with the other, and double over with a frustrated groan. The burning smell comes soon after. Is that from the pasta still on the stove or the blister forming on my palm? Either way, I snap out of it and finally turn off the stove while making sure to keep my hands away from the pot. Once the fire is off and no more bubbles are foaming over top, I’m left with nothing but silence and the ever-present burn across my hand.

The pizza boxes sit on the dining table like they’re mocking my inability to cook. I didn‘t even know it was possible to burn pasta, but everyone learns at different levels. Right? Troy, my boyfriend of two years, is sitting across from me with his mother, Melissa, at his side. She’s never been fond of me for ‘taking her baby’, but my lack of skills in the kitchen has only deepened that dislike.

“So,” Melissa starts, and I brace myself for whatever passive-aggressive comment she has now, “another holiday dinner gone wrong, I suppose? Or were you just too lazy to try this year?” Melissa always found a way to bring it up. Even though she knows I’m a horrible cook, she insists on coming over for Christmas Eve every year. I can tell she’s already on the verge of her usual rant about womanly duties, but hopefully this time, Troy will actually have the guts to shut her down.

I plaster on my practiced smile reserved especially for when she gets on my nerves, “Just a bit of an accident with the pasta and the stove”. I held my bandaged hand up a bit, “Troy was so helpful with the burn when he got home, though.”

“Pasta? For Christmas? Kiera, you really need to plan these things ahead of time before they sell out of ham at the store. It’s just not right. It’s tradition.” Melissa keeps going before I can respond. She pulls a little gift card out of her purse and shoves it into my hands. “That is exactly why I got you the perfect present”.

My eyes scan over the card as I realize what it is. It reads: “The Grapevine Kitchen. 1-Month Free Cooking Classes for Complete Beginners”. It takes extra effort to keep that faux smile after reading that.

“Oh, wow. That is so…thoughtful, Melissa. Thank you.” I’m throwing this away as soon as you leave. I look over to Troy since he’s been silent for so long, but that’s really no different than any other time his mother visits. We’ve had conversations about this before, but it always ends the same way. He defends her, saying she just wants the best for him and doesn’t mean anything by it, then promises to talk to her but never does, and so the cycle repeats.

Melissa shimmies her fat purse back onto her shoulder, and she stands up away from our modest dining table. “Well, would you look at the time?” she looks down at her dainty gold watch, which I doubt she even had to read. “Looks like I’d better get home. You know how your father gets if I’m out late.” She says to Troy.

“Oh, tell Dan Merry Christmas for me,” I say sweetly. Troy’s father has always been kinder than Melissa. Honestly, I wish he had come over instead.

“Sure…” She replies dismissively. I decide to let Troy walk her out while I gather up the dirty dishes. It’s like I can feel the tension melt as soon as the door shuts behind her. It won’t be gone long, though, because now Troy and I will most likely have our usual ‘overbearing mother talk’. I love Troy, but he really is spineless when it comes to that woman, and, to an extent, I can understand. A relationship can end, but parents are forever. What he doesn’t understand is that he’s pushing us closer and closer to that ending by letting his mother badmouth me to my face over and over again.

I’ve already prepared myself for the conversation once more, but when he comes back in, he just walks right past me to the bedroom. “Troy?” I place the rest of the dishes in the sink and dry off my hands before following behind him to our room. He’s already half changed into his pajamas by the time I get there. “Is something up, babe?”

He keeps his head down as he changes, “I’m not doing this again, Kiera. I know you get upset when she doesn’t like your food, but you could at least be a little grateful for the gift. She’s my mom. She wants what’s best for us, and, c’mon, we both know those classes would do you some good. You don’t have to like it, but I don’t want my mom thinking you don’t appreciate her gift.”

Now, that got to me. “Troy, your mother doesn’t give a crap if I actually go to the classes. She just wants to take any chance she can to publicize everything she hates about me.” The silence between us stretches uncomfortably, and I decide to just get ready for bed.

Welcome back, tension.

The gift card continues to sit on the dining table for the rest of the week, my silent promise to throw it away unkept, waiting for me to give in. Waiting for the day I pick it up and put that coupon code in the website. Waiting for me to hit that ‘Sign Up’ button. And by the end of the day on Friday, I do.

It’s a nice-looking building as far as I can tell from the parking lot—simple, light grey brick with a large, gold, cursive sign promoting The Grapevine Kitchen. The black glass doors lead to a burst of warm air conditioning—something I gladly welcome after walking through the freezing winds of the new year. The inside really looks like a professional restaurant kitchen with all of the massive stoves and ovens. The lovely older lady at the front leads me to a stool at one of the stations where about six other people are waiting, and she lets us know the chef will be here soon. I take the remaining few minutes to let myself try to relax into the new, intimidating environment.

A creek from a door in the back catches our attention, and a large, muscular man in a chef's coat walks out with a smile. “Welcome, future cooks! My name’s Chef Julian.” Suddenly, it’s a bit too hot in here for my coat. I shrug it off onto the back of my stool. “There are a lot of different reasons you might have decided to start this class. A New Year’s resolution, maybe a bucket list, to grow the skills you have, or even to learn completely from scratch. No matter the reason you’re here, or the level you’re at already, I want you all to remember that cooking is a science. It takes time and patience to study and understand, but it’s also an art. That means it takes practice, practice, and more practice, and everyone will grow at different rates.” He looks around the room at each of us, and his eyes end on me. Maybe this won’t be so horrible after all.

It’s a simple recipe for our first class, Mac & Cheese, not from the box, but it’s groundbreaking for me. No burnt noodles or hands, no plastic cheese, and no smoke alarms set off. Everyone else seemed to be able to make this in their sleep, but I stayed engaged the whole time, asking questions and having him check every step of the way.

I’m too nervous to make anything from class on my own at home, and Troy never asks how they’re going, so it quickly becomes my alone time, and I decide to make it something I do for myself, not Melissa. By the fourth class, I’ve started staying late to help Chef Julian and the older woman, who I learned is named Mary, clean up the stations after class. It gives me time to feel proud of the work I did and of making this an experience for myself, and it lets me ask Chef any questions I may have been holding on to.

I reach over the large counter, a rag in my hand, to scrub up the remaining stains. “Y’know, you really don’t have to do all this.” The chef comes out from the large pantry in the corner. “That’s technically my job.”

“I like helping, Chef. Besides, it’s good company.” I grab the spray bottle full of cleaning solution and move on to the next counter.

“You must really like to cook. I see how happy you get when your recipe works. That’s always my favorite part of working here.” His lips spread into a small smile at the thought. It’s evident that this really is something he loves. I can see the passion in his eyes when he’s teaching. “Also, you don’t have to call me Chef outside of class. Julian works just fine.”

“Well, Julian, I used to dread cooking. I only tried anything more than frozen meals when my boyfriend's family came over. I wanted to do well, but even if I followed the recipe to a T, something somehow always went wrong.” I straighten up after wiping the rest of the counter. “My boyfriend’s mom is actually the reason I came here in the first place. She bought the classes for me, but I think she was hoping I would do it just to prove even a real chef couldn’t teach me. She really…she can be horrible about it, and my boyfriend isn’t much help.”

Julian’s eyes soften at my explanation, and for the first time, it feels like someone’s really listening to me. “Cooking is hard, Kiera. Not everyone can just pick it up from a book, and it’s only made harder when no one tries to help.” He steps closer and leans against the counter I had just cleaned. “If she really wanted you to learn and improve, then she could’ve taken the initiative to help you. And that boyfriend of yours? I’m sure he’s got a lot of great qualities, but a real man knows how to set boundaries with his family when they’re disrespecting his woman. You deserve better, but that’s not my place.” I can’t help but look him in the eyes and really let his words sink in. He’s not wrong. Troy shouldn’t be so comfortable with me getting talked down to just because it’s his mom, but is that really enough to think about ending anything?

Julian’s words stick with me on the drive home, and they’re still there the rest of the night and into the morning. Troy was already asleep when I got home since it’s an evening class, and he was already gone for work when I woke up, so I haven’t had a moment to talk to him about my thoughts. They roll and marinate in my head all through the day. Stuck on replay like a broken record. Troy can’t even ask his mom to be nice about my cooking. Who knows what else he won’t listen to me about or support me with? What if Melissa says even worse stuff about me behind my back? I don’t trust that Troy would tell me if she does, and I really don’t trust him to stand up for me then either.

At about 5:30 pm, Troy finally gets home, and I’m sitting on the couch waiting for him. “Troy, I’ve been thinking a lot today, and we need to talk.” My tone stays even and controlled since I’ve been rehearsing this in my head all day. Imagining every way this conversation could go. He looks tired, but he sits next to me anyway. “I’ve been thinking about how you let your mother treat me, and I’m sick of it. I can’t take another meal listening to her talk about how I’m not good enough for you, and watching you sit there doing nothing. That’s not something I can handle for the rest of my life, so I need you to promise me you’ll talk to her. Please.”

Troy looks down at the couch cushion contemplatively before raising his gaze to me. He looks almost upset that I would even bring this up. Whether he’s upset about the thought of breaking up or me telling him to confront his mother, I’m not sure. “She’s a grown woman, Kiera; she has more experience in relationships and being an adult than both of us. I think if you just took her advice, she’d loosen up on you. Besides, we both know she’s right, so why should I have to step in if she’s just telling the truth?”

That’s it. I can’t take any more of this, and I will not let myself go through this any longer. “Get out of my apartment.” I stand from the couch and head toward the door.

“Excuse me?”

“I want you out of my apartment. I can’t be with you anymore, and my name’s on the lease, so get out of my apartment.” Troy finally gets up and walks toward me, but I grab his arm and move him the rest of the way out the door I had just opened. “You can pick up your stuff in the morning. It should all be on the lawn by then.” With that, the door shuts with a thump. I don’t slam it, but there’s just enough force for him to know I’m completely serious.

I made good on my promise the next morning. His clothes, his bags, everything was outside waiting for him, and I made sure to arrive at my class that evening a few minutes before I knew the other students would come.

I walk into the kitchen to see Julian cleaning up from his previous class. His eyebrows raise in surprise at my earliness, and there’s a slight sheen on his tan olive skin from how toasty it is in here. “Kiera, you’re early. Do you love cleaning so much that you want to help with this one, too?” He says lightheartedly. “Seriously, though. What are you doing here so early?”

I hesitate thinking about whether I should really tell him this, but I decide anyway, “I broke up with him.” I say quickly. “You said so yourself. I deserve better. Now all I’m wondering is what would better look like?”

Julian seems frozen in place when I drop that on him. For the first time since I’ve met this confident, independent chef, he stumbles over his words. “Y-you broke up with him?… Because of what I said?” I nod silently, and he takes a deep breath before looking me in the eyes. “The next step is up to you, whether you want to stay single for a while or get back out there again, but, in my opinion, I think you deserve someone who will be proud of you for trying something new. Someone who’ll show off your cooking, no matter what skill level you’re at. A man who appreciates you and the things you are good at, rather than one who only focuses on your faults.”

I can feel my heart beating just a little bit faster at his words. “And where do you think I could find someone like that?”

He smirks slightly, “Maybe at a cooking class? Perhaps a handsome, talented, young chef would be willing to spoil you and teach you himself.” There’s that confidence.

“I think I would really like that.” He steps even closer to me as his smirk melts into a genuine smile.

“Then let’s get this lesson started.”