Never Cook Again Novels & Stories

Doctor Mira asked. "It'll be nice to leave dad with some cookies made by you." Chief Onapuruagu added. Coco smiled, looking at her dad. "You know I can't cook." "Baking is not hard, come, I'll teach you." Doctor Mira said, leading Coco out of the room. "I made it clear, avoid close contact, long conversations and engaging in any activities with Coco." Chief Onapuruagu scolded in a low voice. "What is your problem?"

He winked at her. "What's wrong with you?" Nonetheless, a chuckle escaped from her lips. "But even love wouldn't save us from an upset stomach. Why don't I fix up something that's good for our health?" Ashlyn nodded. "I am never trying to cook again," she expressed. "You don't need to. You just have to be by my side when I cook and maybe tie up the apron for me," Elijah vocalized as he wore the apron.

“We're going to try this again. But this time, I want you to imagine that the pot is very fragile... I don't know, like a glass sculpture. And if you stir too hard, it shatters.” He stared at me. “That's the weirdest analogy I've ever heard.” “And yet, you're still stirring like a maniac. So clearly, it's not working.” He laughed. A real laugh, the kind that seemed to surprise even him. But still listened and did as told. I smiled. “There we go. See? Cooking isn't so bad.” “I'm not sure about that yet.” He glanced at the tomato-covered counter. “But it's not terrible.”

I have to cook. Dead. I am absolutely and unquestionably dead. I gulped and whispered to myself, "Oh goddess… I can't cook. I can't even fry an egg. I once burned water. WATER." But if I didn't cook right now, her parents would notice something was off. And then? Suspicious questions. Awkward explanations. And possibly being kicked out. I wasn't ready for that—not when all the pack members was out there waiting for me to come back and be humiliated.

Or at least that's what it looks like from my view. "Uh, no." He pushes the start button before turning back to me. "What do you mean, no?" I push past him, my OCD unable to let him ruin such an expensive entree. "Winter, what exactly are you doing?" I move over to the oven, still warm from reheating my pizza. I point my finger at him, trying to ignore the way his white tank perfectly fits his form. "You never microwave seafood. Ever. It's friggin blasphemy in the foodie world." I waggle said finger at him.

"Noted. I’ll clap before entering a room like a butler" " If anyone cooks, they must make enough for two. No revenge cooking. No matter when they are cooking or how many times they cook" "Yeahhh Eva, are you trying to turn me to your house help?" "Come to think of it, you should hire a cook" "I cook my dish myself. How many times should I tell you that it...." "Oh it helps you distress right?" Movies/TV volume stays low after 8pm. Kitchen is open to both parties. Clean your own mess.

"So, when cooking, the way you cook it doesn't make the food taste better. You should cook in peace and order in the future, and don't do those useless efforts." David, who was sitting in the seat, suddenly let out a small smile."What are you laughing at?" Sophia turned around. "It's nothing, I just think what you said is quite right." David replied softly, and then turned his eyes to the chef, "Did you hear that? From now on, cook carefully, Don't always think about tricks." After Sophia finished speaking, she turned around and walked to David's side: "Why don't we go back to eat instant noodles today."

� 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘧... 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'� � 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘥..

We can't play favorites. Dad and Grandma stared at her in confusion. Mom looked at Grandma with equal confusion, asking, "Mom, why are you here? Did you miss Ivy? Don't worry, I've been taking such good care of her. I kept all my promises to you." From above, I suddenly understood—Mom had lost her mind. But she still remembered what I'd said. I had told her I wanted mac and cheese, but she never made it for me, not once. Owen loved scrambled eggs with cheese, and that dish showed up on our table almost every day.

No wonder they punched each other. “MOMMYYY! MAX PUT HIS FOOT ON MY PILLOW!” “It’s not your pillow. It’s a public pillow!” “There are no public pillows in the kingdom!” I set my phone on the counter, rolled the sleeves of my robe up to my elbows, and opened the fridge. Cook. Good. I could cook. Cooking had rules. Heat, oil, salt, time. No Italian ex-boyfriend kissing someone in the middle of a criminal threat. No German man saying future wife in the rain. No tangled diagram with children in the middle and every adult pulling lines in different directions.