INT – Fire's Apartment – Kitchen Island – Sunday Morning
After minutes of washing, drying, and prepping, I was now sitting on one of the dining chairs at the kitchen island. Meanwhile, Ice was standing like a professor—no, worse, a private tutor—ready to torture me with vegetables and shame.
"Why do we have to cook anyway? I just wanted to learn this stuff for the written exam!" I complained, gripping a knife and cutting board like they were a sad replacement for my usual notebook and pen.
"You are not going to remember it even if I repeated it a million times—vocally or in writing," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, like he was citing a scientific law.
"How can you say that?!"
"Because," he stressed, staring at me like I was a hopeless case, "this term, we already did some of these techniques in the lab and you still don't remember the names." He emphasized names like I was a goldfish trying to take the SATs.
Ugh. It's called selective learning, thank you very much.
But I had no comeback. My face already gave me away.
"You have to know how it's done," he continued. "If you know how to do it, no matter how it's described, you'll get it."
"I already know!" I dared.
Very, very bad move.
"Try me," I added.
Disastrous move.
Ice sighed like my existence drained him. He always reminded me he didn't want to be here, yet here he was, tormenting me out of reluctant duty.
"Okay." He looked at me like the textbook behind him was optional—because apparently, he was the textbook.
"Large dice," he said, gesturing toward a carrot.
I smiled smugly. Basic. I chopped the carrot into big cubes with confidence, like a cooking show contestant who finally knew one thing.
But the glint in Ice's eye... oh no. I realized too late—he was just warming up.
"Next."
I readied my knife, confident again.
"Batonnet."
"Eh?"
"Fine Julienne."
"Who's that?!"
He didn't even blink. "Chiffonade," he said, throwing a stack of leafy greens onto my board like he was casting a spell.
I stared at the greens, brain completely blank. A blue-screened computer. Force quit. Reboot required.
"After that—Brunoise."
"Okay, STOP, stop stop stop!" I threw my hands up. "I get it! I don't know what you're talking about."
He was just about to cast another spell—probably to mock me even more—but I mouthed the incantation first, quick and desperate:
"I surrender!"
White flag, raised. Dignity? Crushed. Ego? Diced into Brunoise.
I caught the tiniest smirk on his face.
I swear. He was enjoying this!
Two hours had passed—and the tables had turned. Ha!
I wasn't the one being stressed by Ice anymore. I was the one stressing him out.
My face? Confused. My heart? Giggling.
His face? Legendary. There are no words to describe the sheer limit of patience I was pushing him to.
"I said Julienne, not murder," Ice muttered, staring in disbelief at the orange remains of what once were carrots.
"It was the knife!" I pointed dramatically at the poor culprit.
"I just sharpened that knife. Stop pointing fingers."
He looked like he wanted to throw me out the window—but gently. Maybe.
"Just mince them."
"Mince, mince..." I repeated, digging through my mental drawer of kitchen terms. I was sure I did that earlier... somehow.
"Just cut them smaller," he snapped, voice raised slightly.
To anyone else, it might've sounded scary. To me? Standard Ice.
At his command, I chopped faster—way too fast—and sent a tiny carrot cube flying across the counter.
...My bad.
I mean, if Ice gave his instructions a little more soft, I'm sure I'd get it right. You know, like those sweet cooking scenes in dramas, where the guy gently takes the girl's hand and teaches her with a soft smile.
Instead, I got Ice. The actual iceberg. Melting? Not even close.
"Can you be a little more delicate?" he sighed, so deeply it sounded like it came from the Earth's core.
I wanted to sass back with, Can you be a little more gentle? But of course I didn't.
Not when I was currently butchering—literally butchering—a poor chicken. It looked tragic.
This would've been a beautiful romantic scene if someone else were teaching me… anyone just a tad kinder than this glacial storm of a human being.
I take it back. Ice being "a little kinder" still isn't kind enough. I want the total opposite of him!
Apparently, "butchering" meant preparing meat for cooking, not wild chopping with a giant knife like I assumed.
"What do you call this knife again?" I raised it in question.
"Cleaver," Ice replied, eyes narrowed and sigh sharp enough to cut through bone.
He told me for deboning chicken, I needed a different knife.
Seriously? Cooking had different knives for different things too?
Can I just cook the chicken in random pieces?
"My mom doesn't even measure anything when she cooks!" I protested, imagining a long line of proud Asian ancestors nodding behind me.
"She's good. You're not," Ice replied, now seated on a stool, judging me while I tried my best to decimate a helpless bird.
Oof. Second time today I had no comeback.
"Try that when you're good enough," he added.
Rude.