resource: GERAS @ www.sxc.hu
PROSE:
If there was one word to describe my roommate, it would be determined. She was prideful and it got to the point of where she would never turn down a challenge. Fortunately for her, she was good at what she did most of the time...except preparing a meal. Ironically, her mother was a chef, but the genes never seemed to have passed to her as well.
It was her half year anniversary with her boyfriend the next day, and she was adamant about cooking for him. Looking back, I suppose this disaster wouldn’t have occurred if it hadn’t been for my prompting and general attitude of disbelief.
“You’re cooking? You may as well murder him and be done with it.”
She set off the next morning even before I was out of bed. Two hours later I was finally jarred awake by her fussing in the kitchen. Sure enough, she had food. (To be frank, I was a bit relieved to see that some of what she bought needed little preparation -- sausage rolls, chocolate croissants, chicken wings, and another cooked sausage and meatloaf. This however did nothing to prevent anything.)
“The tomato bologna looks good. On its own.”
I had no idea what kind of dinner she planned on making, nor did I want to ask after witnessing a concoction of fish stew, sardines, and gouda cheese. After ensuring that the contents of my stomach would stay put, I wisely chose to make other plans for that afternoon. If all else failed, she had a monkey boy vinyl statue and several stamp sets to make it up to him anyway.
I came back that evening to find two-thirds of the residents on our block of houses standing on their lawns staring at our house. At our kitchen window in particular. The one with a billow of grey smoke coming out of it. She too was standing grimly on our lawn, and I was horrified at her.
“Just stick with cooking with the microwave. Please.”
For once she had a comeback that left me speechless. “But I did,” said she.
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