I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. Something wriggled at the back of my mind, a dream demanding to be remembered but already lost to the resurgence of consciousness. I blinked a few times to fend off the disorientation. A new sort of pang appeared as I dragged myself upright, but at least this one I knew I could fight with a couple of Advil.

I trod into the kitchen on a hunt for coffee. There was a note scrawled on a pad by the fridge directing me to “help myself to anything.” I grimaced a little at the reminder of Rose’s generosity. While it was true that my reserves were at a low point, I wasn’t completely skint; I’d had enough to get me a plane ticket here, the budgeted amount for my monthly phone bill and student loan payment, and a modest savings account whose funds were allocated to the bachelorette party I’d be throwing in less than two months. But Allen’s commentary from the night before still rankled, because I knew it was, at least in part, true. I was living by the generosity of my friend.

But I could figure out other ways to contribute to the household besides rent. I took a closer look at my surroundings. I could certainly keep the place clean, although today didn’t seem like there would be much opportunity-- if Rose had eaten breakfast here before work she’d removed all evidence, as there wasn’t a dish to wash or crumb to clean. The living room was similarly tidy, and when I ventured upstairs I discovered that she’d even made her bed. I’d keep a weather eye for opportunities, but it seemed that home ownership had turned my old friend into something of a neat freak.

So what else was there? My stomach grumbled, and I returned to the kitchen reminded of my need for breakfast-- or, lunch, I realized as I finally glanced at the time. I made myself a sandwich and as I munched away I surveyed the kitchen, trying to brainstorm. On the shelf over the sink was a line of well-used cookbooks. Rose loved to cook, and one of my great joys of our previous roommate-ship was that she was always experimenting in the kitchen, always in need of a taste tester.

It would be poetic, I thought, if I turned the tables and cooked for her for a change.

I glanced at the selection of cookbooks. Mastering the art of any cooking wasn’t really what I was anticipating for a first go, and I pulled down and flipped through a few titles that I could tell at a glance were way above my expertise. Finally I landed on one that promised joy. Since that was what I was hoping to inspire in Rose, clearly it had to be the right choice. I flipped through the entrees, stopping when I hit chicken-- a nice, easy, approachable meat. Even gas stations sold chicken. I would be able to cook chicken well enough, and I could get some vegetables and make a salad. And I’d pick something simple from the dessert section to go with it. Rose would be coming home to a full-fledged feast and Allen could shove it!

***

As it turned out, I was the one who was going to have to shove the proverbial “it,” and right into the trash. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed to blacken the outside of the chicken while leaving it raw in the middle, but I absolutely had. After I opened the porch door to let the smoke out, I decided to try to cut the burned bits off and begin again-- it had been a twenty minute walk each way to get to the tiny town grocery store, and I didn’t have time to get there and back before Rose returned home. Plus, I still had the cookies in the oven.

I still had the cookies in the oven...

I turned slowly from where I was mangling my chicken breasts, a dawning horror when I realized I hadn’t heard the timer beep. I crept closer and saw that the oven timer I’d set for fifteen minutes was stuck on 13:57. I was still staring at it in confusion when the time changed to 13:56 and I realized with a wave of dread that the timer was counting down in hours.

I opened the oven door and was immediately hit with a wall of regret as a searing wave of heat slapped my face. It was followed by a cloud of acrid smoke that I tried, without much success, to wave away from my lungs. One oven-mitted hand covered my face while the other reached into the smoky abyss, withdrawing the sheet of cookie-shaped briquettes. I coughed on the smoke, my eyes watering from the heat. And then the smoke alarm went off.

I had tried, with no success, to locate the kitchen fan when I had fucked up the chicken. A second search, under greater duress, did not improve my fortune. Cursing vividly I grabbed the cookie tray and ran it to the back door, depositing the whole thing unceremoniously outside, to be dealt with later. I dragged a dining room chair under the smoke alarm, jabbing it repeatedly until the damn thing finally quieted. I took a deep, calming breath. It was time to get back to the chicken.

I had scrapped off the black bits and cut my breasts into smaller strips, so the heat would make it all the way through. I’d added fresh oil to the pan and it was crackling merrily as I added the chicken strips. Now to wash and cut the vegetables for the salad, which even I couldn’t possibly fuck up.

I did indeed have a cheerful looking salad bowl in the works when the too familiar smell of burning returned to my nose. Turning I saw the chicken that I’d forgotten to flip-- white and sort of edible looking on the upside, black and stuck to the pan on the other.

“I give up!” I said to the universe, turning off the stove. I began to scrape the chicken bits into the trash. In my frustration I knocked into the salad bowl, sending my beautifully washed and assembled first course tumbling half into the trash, the rest on the floor.

I took several more deep breaths. I contemplated the odds that this tiny town had any kind of delivery service. And then came a knock at the door.