True Story, pt. 49
“Oh, this is random,” she says, using her favorite introductory phrase. “I really want to make cookies tonight.”
Uh, sure, I say, secretly relieved. I’ve learned that “This is random” could mean any number of things, from a mundane question about the dirt in my car to the preface to an hours-long conversation that emotionally unhinges me for days afterward. I sigh with relief, inwardly. Besides, I’m never one to turn down free cookies.
She unfolds a piece of paper completely covered in scratchy, miniscule writing. “I wrote down some ideas—”
Wait, I interrupt. Is that all one recipe?
“No, I wrote down six or seven. I mean, I want to have my bases covered.”
She walks to my cupboards and starts rummaging through my dry goods. She rattles off a list of ingredients, none of which I have.
“Jeez, Dave, do you have anything?”
Kristen, how often do I bake?
“Um, never?”
Exactly. And besides, I don’t need to, with you around. I cook; you bake. Works out all right, don’t you think?
“Yeah, but what are you going to do if I’m not around anymore?”
Do you need a hand? I ask.
“No, I got it” she says, her hands kneading a not-quite brown glob of improvised cookie dough. “I don’t know,” she says, using her second-favorite phrase. “I don’t know how this will turn out. I kind of made it up as I went, and I think I might have messed this up.”
Only one way to find out, I say. We’ll know if it’s any good soon enough.
I take a couple photos of the table: the ingredients, the mixing bowl, empty packages, her recipe sheet—
Abruptly—”Did you just take a photo of my recipe?”
Maybe. Yeah. Was I not supposed to?
“Gosh, Dave,” she sighs. She walks over, grabs the sheet.
Kris, what’s wrong wi—
“I don’t like my handwriting,” she says, folding the paper back up.
Seriously? I laugh.
“Really!”
Kristen, your handwriting. Your handwriting!
“Well, I mean [*her third favorite phrase], it’s my paper,” she answers, stuffing the paper back in her pocket and smiling broadly. “Write your own recipes!”
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