Kitchen Nightmare

Almost 2 months passed since the cooking party with M. No phone calls, email, text messages– the finality of an irreconcilable damage from the last encounter is officially in. I have done it, again, this time more drastic than ever.

Truth be told, it lasted longer than I had expected – 6 months to date - when all the elements for a healthy relationship were missing from the very beginning. In addition to the age difference (a good 2 decades), they were go-getters, fun loving and most importantly the idealistic parents that do all the right things. So how would this ever start? I would like to blame D for instigating the whole thing when he came home one October night with the invite: M, the Romanian professor in his department, had invited us to their football party. Feeling socialable and impulsive, I concurred on the motion, making me an equal guilty party in this whole crime. We went and had a surprisingly fun time at their small apartment right down the street from us.

So the party continued on: D’s birthday, Math Department Christmas party, followed by New Year’s eve. Our new-found friendship erupted in a whirlwind of frenzy. From our kitchen to their 2-bedroom apartment, we had shared many fun time eating and yes drinking together. The free-spirited, exciting M may be bossy, but she is also straight-forward with a big heart for both boys. Besides food and wine, we even exchanged tears and fears for our children.

It had been some time since I started this new page of my life, working full time with little room or energy left for anything else. “Relationship” would definitely fall on the bottom list of priorities for this social inept runaway. I have had hard time keeping the very few left, letting alone embarking on the new ones. Somehow, this one was an exception, or I thought.

The catastrophe started with a Friday grocery shopping – we went all over town for the ingredients we needed for the night’s cooking lesson. She had requested for some of my signature dishes. We invited Helen, Luke’s piano teacher, making it an international fair altogether (a Romanian, a Russian and an Asian). 6pm at my kitchen that same day, we started cooking up a storm, turning the kitchen upside down. The whole house smelled mighty festive with all that ginger, garlic and onion. The domineering Romanian and equally headstrong Taiwanese in the same kitchen made the whole affair at times almost comical as we collided on and off –in good humor still. The pattern went on like this – Romanian directed what to do (or not to do) while the Taiwanese objected and carried on. It wasn’t the first time we cooked together, so I had had plenty experience of her motherly imposition. It was after all my kitchen and my dishes, and I was within my right to stand my ground. 6 months into our relationship, I have learned enough that cultural difference plays only partially in my friend’s personality – 20 years of my junior, she quite often takes the senior role, scolding and correcting me whenever she saw fit.

At 7pm, Helen called to back out the party – she was having one of those mother-daughter drama back home. We managed to talk her into coming. After she arrived, we generously offered our listening ear and wise but less wanted counseling – that’s what girlfriends do for each other. While we sat about the kitchen island and engaged in this rescue mission, my eyes surveyed the mess of the kitchen and my hands started another much needed rescue, cleaning and putting things back to order. M, who clearly considered it bad manners, scolded me for the 2^nd time of the night. Decades of habits die hard, I couldn’t sit tight with the dishes piling up in the sink and mess scattering all over the counter. I am after all my mother’s daughter; her kitchen is miraculously clean as the last dish finishes. I sneaked backed in putting away another dish while listening to M’s sound advice of parenting. This time, my friend stopped me good. She caught me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes, rendering the ultimatum: “STOP, or we are leaving!”

The rebellious, prideful fallen creature we are! How hopeless and wretched we are! If there is anything this particular sinner is cursed with, among her many other faults, it would be the public humiliation of her crime. She could not bear being caught and, worst of all, told what she cannot do, because that’s exactly what she’d do. The alleged did stop, only to offer one of those “I am sorry, BUT”, not-so-sorry apology. In the courtroom, I delivered my defense: I had this hang-up (“just like you have your own”), AND I WAS listening despite of all, etc., etc.. Passionate and firm, the close argument was done and the defense rest. And just like that, the air that still smelled aromatic with spices and heat was suddenly chilled and dead – but not nearly as the judge’s eyes. The court adjourned - only without a fair trial. In less than half an hour, my party left. I was standing in the aftermath of a kitchen nightmare, abandoned and utterly unforgiven.

6 months of “bonding” – eating, drinking, laughing and sharing – and it took but 2 minutes to end it all. For someone with a track record of social disaster, I still marvel how quick and final this one went. Not a single word has returned, neither was there any effort for reconciliation. A repeated drop-out in relationship, I was expecting another one of those grieving cycle from denial, anger to the final self-tormenting lamentation. Strangely, it went straight to the acceptance without much sweat this time. Life has resumed its monotonous cycle with no plans, parties or fun outings. Week days or weekends, my calendar remains wide open and the house quiet and still. Cinderella is back to her rags from her before-midnight ball and somehow she feels nothing except for the shameful revelation of relief. I have to ask: Have I grown so accustomed to failures that I finally cease to care or feel? Maybe so, but the real truth is: I have not been honest all along. For months, I entertained the idea of being this fun-loving party animal, eating, drinking, going along with my new friend. While it lasted, it was exhausting. How does a self-absorbing scrooge morph into a socialite? She does not. In time the true color shows and she is ready to go home. In another courtroom for another trial, I am in fact guilty of many charges, the chief most being an imposter that forgets many ancient old principles: a trickling steam will outlast a stormy downpour; an early sun never yields a fair day, but most of all a kitchen with 2 mistresses always ends up a disaster.