Recipe for disaster

I’m starting to think getting a place for myself and living alone for the first time in my twenty years of living, miles away from home is exactly what my parents called it.

A disaster.

School starts in a few days and I’ve already managed to bring someone else’s sofa up to my own apartment, only to discover mine sitting under the rain a few hours later. I returned the beige sofa to the original owner with a million apologies, then dragged my own soaking-wet sofa upstairs.

It took up most of my tiny balcony, where I spent hours trying to dry it with a hand dryer because I didn’t want my parents seeing another withdrawal on the card.

There’s still a damp smell in the apartment.

But at least I survived.

   I had no idea how much had to be done to keep a house afloat. Remembering to run the dryer, take my clothes out, bring them in before the rain, shut the windows. And the one I’m struggling with the most?

 Food.

I’ve never known how to cook. The chefs back home handled that. Neither of my sisters can cook either.

So I ordered in.

It went well for the first few days.

Then I got food poisoning for the first time in my life. I saw my life flash before my eyes, and honestly there wasn’t much really. Mostly memories of the farm back home, my sisters, and school.

Not exactly the grand finale I imagined for my life.

 My last thought before everything went black was–

“I can’t believe I’m going to die a virgin.”

Miraculously, I opened my eyes to the world again. I nearly sobbed once air flowed into my lungs, hospital air, and I was grateful for it.

“Emery Bennett?” A woman with kind eyes and laugh lines around her eyes, in a doctor white coat and a nose mask, asks.

“That is me.” I answer, my voice a little raspy from disuse.

“How do you feel?”

Like I’d never touch food from a restaurant ever again. My insides feel like they’ve been poured out and filled with granite.

Ms. Kind Doctor smiles with compassion.

“Did you eat something bad?”

I don’t even remember what it was. One minute I was clearing up yet another stack of dishes– there’s nothing as annoying as washing dishes everyday by the way– and the next, I sprawled on the floor clutching my stomach, throwing up the contents of my stomach as pain ate it’s way through me. That’s how it felt. Like a monster was eating away at me.

“I ordered in.”

She winces, “I’ll suggest you start making your own food henceforth. Wash your ingredients thoroughly. Boil your meat or fish on high heat to kill any lingering bacteria.”

I shudder at how easy it is to die. Just like that. I’d never see the mushroom farm I helped grow, ever again. I’d never see Sonia and Sophia again. My parents.

“I don’t know how to cook.” I admit, shame heating my cheeks.

She gives me a pitying look but doesn’t ask about my parents. They were both surprised about my choice to come all the way out to Newcastle. I don’t want them to think I’ve failed already.

“You kids learn everything on the internet right? Your phones have everything. There has to be videos on the internet that can help.”

I make a sound of agreement. She doesn’t need to know that I don’t know my way around the internet. It’s as foreign to me as cooking since I spent all of my time on the farm.

She checks my vitals, and tells me to rest for a few more hours before heading out. Before she leaves, she stops be the door.

“There’s an app for recipes.” she sucks on a breath, tilting her head to the side as if trying to recall the name of the app.

Apps I can handle, I think. You just have to fill in required information. Even a baby can handle that.

“I lost the name. But it has all the recipes you could ever think of. Just look up recipe, it’ll pop up and you go from there.”

I thank her profusely. She has no idea what she’s done for me. Even if she’s just pointed me in the direction of the app, it’s more than I’ve done for myself.

Maybe I can handle this whole adult thing and I can live on my own without getting overwhelmed by everything.

“And Emery,” she calls when I’m leaving the hospital later.  

I turn to her, and she tells me,

“Please don’t die.”

I nod firmly. I will d******d the app and learn to cook and never end up needing emergency services again.

On the way home, I stop by the mall to get basic cooking utensils. I may not make a gourmet meal immediately but hopefully I get there one day.

  My legs are way too weak to clean, and so I lay down for a bit. Thank goodness I had a bit of sense to call emergency services right before I blacked out.

A shudder passes through me at the thought of the food that caused this harm.

Determined to put it behind me, I find my phone. Turns out there are numerous apps with recipe in the title. I scroll through all of them, but it only hurts my head with all the information I’m bombarded with.

My thumb hovers above one that reads RECIPE FOR DISASTER. I snort. My parents often used that word in relation to me and my life navigating skills.

I pause.

Maybe this is what I need. Maybe this is the cooking app for absolute beginners with no prior knowledge on the sacred art of cooking.

I click the d******d button. It doesn’t take time to d******d the app. The display is black and pink ribbon. RECIPE FOR DISASTER is emboldened in a hot pink.

The words, ‘Welcome, new user?’ greets me. I click ‘yes’ and it leads me to put in my basic info. It asks for a username, and it doesn’t take much to think up one.

“WalkingDisaster.” Because it’s true.

They ask if I’m over eighteen. I wonder what it has to do with cooking, but click yes anyway. The next questions are equally puzzling, but I go with it.  

Experience? My fingers fly all over the keyboard.

“Very little, but eager to learn.”

Preferences?

“Open minded. Willing to try almost anything.” Because I’ve set fire to the kitchen once trying to make toast.

Interests?

“Exploring new flavors, experimenting with ingredients, discovering new techniques.”

The app asks the strangest question next,

“Who are looking to match with?”

It gives me a pause. I guess we match with others that can cook. That’s a very neat idea. I like the idea of someone confident in their ability telling me what to do.

“Someone patient enough to guide me through everything.”

Two dots dance on top of my screen for a while before pinging,

“You have a match! BigDom is ready to chat now!”