The Ingredients of a fire

Content Warning: (Contains some swears and mentions of Suicide)

Boiling, hissing, seething, sizzling, charring, crackling, steaming, searing,

Cooking.

The pressure had been on from the moment chef Ailing had woken from nerve-wringing sleep. The air had been sharp, the ozonic tinge like a knife against his cheeks as he had sat up from his bed. He didn't remember the morning. He didn't remember the drive over; he barely remembered to dress, only to remember mid-remembering that he'd preemptively dressed the night before. James Ailing was odd like that: he had a vindictive and ingrained need of preparation that in the long run hurt himself and others. The crinkled smock and unkempt hair had not gone over well with the judges initially, but that hardly mattered to him now. Though true that he was sauteing in his own sweat, his appearance was no concern...to the food.

James' need for prep work had gone above and beyond the realm that even the most prepared of kitchen staff operated in. The prevailing joke among his staff had been that even though they were open only four days a week, that the head chef stayed there for the other three; spending his days, evenings, and nights dicing vegetables, pulling apart cuts for stock, and measuring out everything down to a 1/32 teaspoon. If Ailing was not so wholly focused on the competition, he would muse over how correct they had been.

He had spent those days preparing. He had slept in his office, the fold out cot he kept below his desk wearing thin with use. All for a moment like this. He had sworn to himself that he would never miss an opportunity by being unprepared; never again, and his oaths were unbreakable.

He worked over the tools and appliances with robotic perfection, adjusting dials, adding and subtracting ingredients as dictated by memorized recipes. The air was charged, the audience watching greedily as he paced to and fro, switching stations. After all, such a bold attempt deserved attention.

No one had ever tried to make a seven course meal in a contest that lasted only a half an hour. Not before Ailing, his methods and prep work immaculate as he continued to perfect the dishes. The ticking of the clock scratched behind him no matter which way he turned, yet he wasn't bothered. Everything was scheduled out, everything was in its proper time. The itemized checklist in himself ticked down with the clock: six more minutes until the roux could be stirred into the soup, four more minutes until the ham could be removed and basted. He poured tarragon into his onion mixture, Michelle's favorite.

The process became automatic as the memory flashed, the afterimage burned into his skull like cooking wine caught alight.

"But I don't want to go to Madrid. You promised me that we would-" She had been cooking that night, her hodgepodge use of mushrooms and garlic impossibly good. He had never gotten it right in all this time, not even now as the pots bubbled.

"Please, this means so much to me." He had held up his hands in prayer, like offering alms to divinity. She loved that. It had been how they met, that fateful Sunday first uniting them in grief, and later; love. She had lost a sibling in a tragic accident, and he had lost a parent. Together, they nursed their familial tragedy over food and drink, with music, and lovemaking.

This time though, the prayers were not working. She stood with her back to his, the low lying stove forcing her to crouch slightly, her jet black hair dreadfully close to the pan. "Please, I have an itinerary planned, we can explore the city, the contest will take only a day-"

"It always takes a day. Then a week. Then meetings, social events, moving-"

"I'm so close! It won't be like that this time."

"Close?" She had said, and set the food to simmer on the back burner.

That was where the fight had truly started. Had it been the word? The way he was talking about the contest? Or had it been silently stewing in them both without realizing?

The bitterness of the words exchanged could poison a well, could strip the feathers from a chicken. The exact wording was lost in the avalanche of misery, but he remembered how it ended. "You can't live your life like this! Not with me! I refuse to live like my life is on a timer, like I have to squeeze it like a fucking lemon, until I'm-I'm a husk for the compost!"

"Enough with these hysterics, my god!" He had screamed, the prayers becoming pleading. "I thought you'd be happy for me! Most people get to only dream of achieving these things, let alone traveling the world!"

"I was happy! I was happy when you won the first contest, I was happy when you opened your own restaurant, I was even happy when you had to spend every minute away from me! But now? Our life is good, we don't have to work so much, we don't have to torture ourselves over-"

"Torture?" He scoffed, almost laughing.

"Yes James, torture! You aren't-" She struggled, the boulder of the words coming free at last. "-You aren't passionate about this. I've seen you James. Cooking isn't you! It's just something to fill time with so you don't lose your mind and kill yourself!"

The whistle of the pot sent his mind tumbling back into the moment. He was off-step. Something was wrong, he'd forgotten something. He did not panic. He went through the checklist inside again, then again. He had everything correctly, he wasn't missing anything. Yet still, the feeling only strengthened. He checked again. On the fourth check, he missed the mark for the chicken. It went unnoticed in the pressure cooker as he searched cabinets for the grater, the grater to carrots already prepared and added. The ham began to caramelize too quickly, drying out like jerky in the sun.

"How dare she. How dare she!" The whole basis, that beginning moment of their love, spoiled and ruined in one moment. He wasn't trying to run, he was embracing life! His father had spent all those afternoons wastefully, unwilling to move in his own sadness until the noose had tightened him like a meat hook; he hadn't been like James. He'd taken more from his absent mother than he ever had that poor man. Always moving, always perfecting.

The soup began to burn. The aromatic spices began to turn in the air, the uninitiated to the kitchen unable to tell the of the gathering storm. The other contestants and judges took notice, but were woefully unaware of what was about to happen.

James checked his list again. He was getting everything wrong. He had put too much on his plate, but worse still, what he had said in return had been beyond them both.

"No wonder your brother was such a drunk, if not to drown out your whining. You just can't be supportive of me? After everything I've done for you, for us? Oh, woe is you, dragged to the most beautiful places on Earth to eat the finest foods and drink the finest champagnes!-" He continued on the tirade, planning out an apology later already, but she'd simply endured it. In the morning, all that was left of her was the smell of her cooking and a note. "Better to relax together then burn alone. Goodbye James Ailing."

Now he was here, in Madrid, alone. No staff, no fiancee', no distractions. He checked the list again. There was the smell of garlic, though no of his dishes used it. He could not stand it after that morning. He aggressively checked each dish, attempting to save some while moving to others. The list...the list! "Goddamn it, what was I forgetting!?" He hissed under his breath. Finally, it came to him. he remembered, twelve minutes ago he was supposed to alter the heat of the pressure cooker. He did so now, wholly focused on salvaging at least one part of this disaster.

The cooker clacked. Then it hissed. Then-

The pot doubled over its mix, The gas burners setting the now burning slurry ablaze as the explosion rocked the stage. The crowd screamed, the judges falling over their chairs as the rube-goldburg of kitchen disasters began. The oven element melted through as the ham caught alight, the burning pig flesh cracking the glass panel. The cabinets caught fire, the choking, overpowering smoke smearing the air; a wide stroke of oil paint over the face. The wok began to melt, the cast iron heating to melting point as more and more fires sprang up. The MC stepped up to try and contain the blaze with an extinguisher, but there was so much fire so quickly as seven courses completed their journey to Hell. Ailing was placed in the center of the station, a ritual circle with himself as the sacrifice, and the final piece was ready. The pressure cooker, red with rage as grease, olive oil and lard overpowered his skin with heavy welts, exploded.

Everything went dark and quiet.

He would not die here. No, even though he should have, by all rights. He was spared an ignoble end among the wreckage of his tainted ambition and rushed to the emergency room, where his hands underwent reconstructive surgery. He had held them up to block the blast and they had suffered for it, they were the most nerve damaged of him. The second-degree burns on his chest and torso were not as bad as the third-degree on his legs, the scarring and grafts like a quilt over his now wheelchair bound body. He couldn't cook, he couldn't prepare, he could only sit. To relax.

And the tears that he cried could not soothe the burns that he inflicted upon himself, for all his days.