Cooking Fails Novels & Stories

“What, you want me to cook?” “Now, that's an idea,” he nodded solemnly like he’d just proposed world peace. I snorted. “I can’t cook, Misha. Like, at all. Last time I tried to boil eggs, the kitchen alarm went off and Sebastian thought I started a fire.” “Good. You’re due for redemption.” “You want your wounded ass to be my cooking coach?” “I’ve survived wars, bullet wounds, and a bear trap once. I think I can survive your cooking.”

I concentrated on prepping the beef. A few minutes later, a flight of laughter reached my eardrums. I turned and Gavin was completely surrounded by the other participants. A sharp blossomed in my chest. “Maybe Gavin isn't as bad as I thought," I said to myself as I approached him, but what I saw left me speechless. The veggies were scattered all over— unevenly sliced into ugly slices. He messed up everything. I looked at him, and he slowly lowered his head. That was when it clicked, he was hesitating cause I couldn't cook.

"Do you know? I'm afraid of failing to make a new dish but I want to keep trying. Is it wrong or okay?" What the girl said made Betta smile, she gave her opinion. "It's not about wrong or not, I don't think our boss is someone who is suitable for the test of your new cooking, you better cook food that you can make and it tastes good." What her friend said was true because Baby had failed because she tried a new menu whose recipe she got from the internet. "Well it looks like I'll make a meal that I can make and tastes good, of course I have to use a variety so the boss doesn't get bored."

I asked, looking at his empty hands. He cleared his throat. "No. I'll just, uh, make something here." He went to the kitchen. Soon, the unmistakable smell of failure drifted out—a sharp, acrid scent of burning. Damon was a decent cook when he put his mind to it, but tonight, nothing worked. He tried toasting bread for a quick snack and set off the smoke detector. He tried to boil water for tea and forgot it until the kettle was rattling ominously. The man who usually moved with such confident ease was suddenly clumsy, irritated, and hungry.

Pizza was disastrous. Roast chicken was not appropriately seasoned. Macaroni and Cheese turned out to be entirely different from how it should be, and now, the Stir-Fried rice Orla served on the plate in front of Callan looked like a death warrant. After two weeks of taking cooking lessons from Callan and she was still this horrible, Callan was convinced that cooking was not her thing and she might never be good at it. He had taken out time to coach her after office work everyday, and sometimes when he worked from home, they spent most of the hours of the day in the kitchen, but she always prepared poison whenever he left her to practice.

The view feels unfamiliar without him beside me, commanding, controlling. He brings the food. Burnt edges. Undercooked center. The attempt is visible. The failure is real. "I don't cook," he says. "Never learned. I always had people." "Why attempt it?" "Because you asked. Failure is honest." I taste it. The food is bad. The attempt is clear. The uncertainty of what I'm eating matches the uncertainty of what we're becoming. "Tell me," I say. "Something true. Something you've never told anyone."

I would do everything I could. It still failed especially when I looked at the clock it was already 6 pm. Only 1 hour left but I had not even cooked a single dish yet. My face was wet because I cried while cooking. I haphazardly did everything even to make my body very tired. I fell because I slipped. The flour I was carrying spilled. I cried because it was all over. I wouldn't be able to cook anything tonight and I was sure I would crumble in Vera's grasp.

I tell her. “Tell me why you think so, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong,” she says, taking my hands and holding my gaze. My mother’s wolf, Alessia pushes forward. Keena pushes forward as well, wanting her mother to know that she agrees with my assessment of our failure. “I can’t cook,” I say, lowering my head in shame at confessing my weakness to my mother. There’s a moment where nothing happens, then she puts her finger under my chin and lifts my head to look at her.

The food looked average, but the plating was nice. “Mabes, you have no idea. Blair failed five times in frying an egg. When cooking a simple vegetable dish, he overcooked it once and added too much salt the other time. “The only thing he didn’t fail too many times making was the prawns. Look, he even peeled them for you…” Aunt Grace said from the side, “Sir also burned his hand while cooking. However, he didn’t care about putting medicine on it and went to deliver the food to you.”

I should have known it was a bad idea to ask for an invitation to Maya and Jessica’s house party. *Baking*–failed! Blew almost half of my savings on pastries even stray cats won’t eat. *Cooking*–failed! For the same reason as baking.