Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Cooking Fiascos

Rose shuffled into the kitchen, mouth wide open in a yawn as she tugged on one earlobe. “G’mornin’,” she mumbled as she scratched her head.

“Afternoon’s more the word, Rosie Rose,” John replied, tweaking her nose.

“Seriously?” She stared at the wall clock incredulously. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

“Firstly, because it’s Sunday. Sundays are officially lie-in days; doing otherwise is pretty much against the law. Also, you sleep like you’re dead.”

“I do not!”

“I’ve seen cadavers that offer better response than sleeping you. And you’re a nightmare when I try to wake you up.”

Rose smirked. “You’re just sore,” she teased.

“You kicked me in the chin!”

“You were bouncing up and down on the bed!”

“I was trying to wake you up!”

“I don’t like being woken up rudely,” she replied in a prim tone.

“You’re a violent woman. Sally called whilst you were snoring away.”

“Shut up, I don’t snore. What did she want?”

“She wanted to talk,” he replied simply. “She sounded halfway between teary-faced and flaming temper.”

“Good, she finally broke up with Rick then.”

“You mean, he broke up with her.”

“Nah, she’s been planning to dump him for ages.”

“’The A-Team’ tonight says that he left her,” John challenged.

“’Moulin Rouge’ says the other way around. You’re on. Is there any coffee?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis. “We’re all out; have to go buy more.”

Rose stared at John with an expression of abject dismay, her voice a tortured whisper. “We have no coffee?”

“Nope,” he repeated.

Rose still stared at him as if he had trampled on her pet cat. “My morning caffeine…” she whimpered.

“Hush, madwoman,” he chided, ruffling the darkening top of her blonde head. “Anyways, no coffee in the afternoon, missy. You’re going straight for lunch.”

“I want my coffee,” she pouted. “I get grumpy if I don’t have my coffee in the morning.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “the morning is long gone and you’re cute when you sulk.” He pinched her cheek teasingly and moved over to the hob to add freshly chopped peppers into the pot.

“Sadistic bastard,” she muttered at him. Strolling forward, she leaned over the bubbling concoction in the pot, giving it a suspicious sniff. “Exactly what kind of stew is this?” she asked.

“This, Rosie Rose, is an old family recipe,” replied John loftily, sprinkling salt over it and turning up the heat on the hob. “I could tell you what has gone into it, but then,” he sighed dramatically, “I would have to kill you.”

“Nah, you won’t,” she quipped. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Sadly, I’m caught in a situation where I must agree with you.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” she sighed sarcastically.

“Indeed.  Nice pajamas, by the way.”

Rose looked down at her black and white Mickey Mouse pajama pants. “You got them for me, if I remember right.”

“Yes. And we nearly broke up because of the T shirt,” he recalled.

Rose snorted. “We made up properly afterwards,” she pointed out.

His smirk stretched across his face. “Yes, we did. A proper game of Beauty and the Beast.”

“I get to be the Beast next time.”

“Oh, I look forward to it.”

“And Iron Man could kick Captain America’s ass any day and you know it.”

“Let’s not start that again, yeah?” he suggested. “You were up late last night on that project of yours which would have gone doubly fast if you had just let me help you…”

“I told you I want to try doing it myself! I won’t learn anything if you keeping doing it all for me!”

“Your loss,” he groused. “Bloody useless. You date a right veritable genius and don’t even let him help you in the teensiest little way…”

“Your modesty blinds me.”

“Anyway,” he continued, changing tack, “you lost all of today’s lovely morning slumbering into your pillow, missed my famous chocolate chip waffles and you’re finally awake in time for me to make you a wee bit of lunch. So let’s keep things nice, eh?”

Her mouth quirked in a sideways smile as he tapped her on the head with his ladle and pecked her on the nose. “Fine, no Avengers debates,” she agreed, “for now.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, the compromises of a relationship with a nerdy twit.”

“Takes one to know one, love,” she said sweetly, approaching the hob. “But really, what’s in here?”

“Can’t say,” he said simply. “Top secret. You’d have a whole highland clan on your heels with torches and pitchforks if I even breathed as much as a word.”

“Oh, come off it,” she snorted.

“Don’t mess with family, Rose,” said John gravely. “We Highlanders take our secrets very seriously.”

“Highlanders, Lowlanders, come on, we’re all Scots here! You’re seriously fussing because I’m Glaswegian and you’re neighbors with Nessie?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m fussing because it’s a family recipe and unless you marry me, you’re not allowed to know.”

Rose’s head jerked up to stare at him in mute question. He merely smiled airily and hummed an odd tune as he stirred the bubbling contents of the pot. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t need you to tell me anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what’s gone in here.” She peered closely into the pot on the hob, squinting as steam floated around her face. “Potatoes, chicken squares, peppers, mozzarella shreds, basil, oregano….” Her expression shifted into one of horror. “Oh my God, is that a…”

“No peeking.” John dragged Rose away from the pot by one of her pigtails. “If you want to help the chef, run along and grab some plates. Put a good movie on and wait for him to complete his masterpiece. Make up a few songs about how wonderful his stew will be, and if that’s too difficult for you, just do what the apron says.”

Rose threw a sardonic look at his purple ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron before trying to elbow past him to get back to the hob.

“You’re mad!” she squawked as John’s arms grabbed around her midriff to keep her away from his precious stew. “You’re completely bloody barking mad! No idiot in hell would put…”

“It’s the whole flavor!” he grunted as Rose tried to bat away his hands with a soup ladle. “I told you: it’s a family recipe and that means you’re not allowed to argue with it!”

Rose fell limp in his grasp and changed course, moving for the spice rack instead. She rooted through the bottles, muttering to herself, before grabbing one with a triumphant exclamation.

“At least add a bit of this in there!” she pleaded, shoving the bottle in his face. “It’ll alleviate the flavor!”

He wrinkled his nose as he read the label, his eyes crossing from the proximity. “Not a chance,” he snorted. “Now shoo! Go watch ‘The Lion King’ or something. Call me when the songs come on.”

“I am not eating that nosh unless you fix it!” Rose darted under his arm towards the hob.

“There’s nothing to fix!” he argued, pulling her away by the waist.

“Let go of me, you oaf! I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t need help! Give it to me!”

“I’m never marrying you if you don’t fix it!”

“You love me too much to not! Give me that!”

Rose squeaked as he tried to tickle her to make her drop the spice. She ducked under his arm, scampering out of the kitchen, bottle still in hand. He pursued her into the living room, chasing her around the furniture as they both tried to avoid bumping into the TV. He blocked her path as she tried to slip back into the kitchen and vaulted over the coffee table, pinning her to the couch. The spice bottle slipped out of her hand in the midst of the scuffle, flew out the balcony and down three floors. Silence fell between them as they stared at the spot in the sky where the spice bottle had been for a fleeting moment. 

“Well, that’s that.” Rose threw a dirty look at John’s smug smile. “Rubbish spice anyways. I don’t even know why we had it. Bad luck, Rosie Rose!” he sang.

His triumphant cackle morphed into a horrified yell as he entered the kitchen. Rose poked her head in to see him switching off the hob and batting madly at the air where the pot had started to spew smoke. He threw a mug of water over it before the alarms could go off and staggered back, staring despondently at the thick charred sludge that had once been his stew. Rose sidled up next to him, rocking back on the heels of her bare feet.

“Pizza?” she chirped, beaming at him with the sunniest expression she could muster.

He grimaced at the ruin in his stew pot before exhaling in a defeated sigh. “Pizza,” he agreed.