“Simon, my dear, wouldn’t it be wise for Natasha to delve into learning traditional recipes? It’s quite essential for a spouse to possess such knowledge,” Donna would often remark, her tone laden with insincere concern.
Simon consistently stood by me. “Mom, Natasha is an exceptional cook and a remarkable mother. We are content with our life as it is.”
Yet, Donna’s remarks left a sting. It seemed she had envisioned a different kind of partner for her son – certainly not one who favored digital design tools over culinary and domestic crafts.
One particular evening, she confronted me in the kitchen. “Natasha, perhaps you should consider enrolling in some culinary courses. It might just cure those frequent ‘mishaps’ of yours,” she suggested, her smirk thinly veiled.
I managed a courteous smile in response. “Thank you for the advice, Donna. I’ll give it some thought.”
Whenever we entertained guests, mysteriously, my renowned dishes would invariably fail—overly bitter, excessively salty, or strangely sweet. Despite my expertise in the kitchen, these culinary disasters seemed to occur only when we had company.
Initially, I attributed these mishaps to nerves or perhaps an overzealous desire to impress our guests. Yet, deep down, it felt as though a culinary hex was cast upon me whenever we hosted.
Following one particularly disappointing dinner party, as I was cleaning up, Simon entered the kitchen, his intuition alert to my dismay. “Everything alright, love?”
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