to mention the sage green painted walls with white tile that contained painted green fern. I think my father meant to bring the outside in to this house.
I placed the plate of overly cooked food in front of Daniel. His eyes traveled from the folder to the olive colored stoneware plate. Half-heartedly, I expected him to grab his fork and dig in. With a little resistance, I held back the urge to ask if there was a problem, giving him a little time to adjust his view of the breakfast.
Daniel stared at the plate for a moment. Finally, he picked up his fork, while I waited patiently for his response. I think the moment he poked it with the fork was the moment I decided I would take it away from him. As I reached over to snatch the plate from him, he grabbed it with both hands.
“What are you doing?” he exclaimed in a little higher pitched voice.
“You‟re poking at it with your fork like it‟s not dead yet,” I seethed.
Daniel pulled the plate out of my hand. We both stared at the plate as red bloodlines dripped down onto the plate from the omelet.
“You were saying?” Daniel‟s lips twisted into a grin. “Did you actually cook the steak before you added it to the eggs?”
I stood there and glared at Daniel in disbelief. No one told me that you had to cook the meat before adding it to the omelet. Tears welled in my eyes. I knew that my career as a chef had ended before it began.
Daniel‟s humorous expression continued as he set the plate back down on the table.
He turned to me, wrapped his long arms lovingly around my waist and then pulled me closer to him.
“Sweetheart, it is okay. You did your best. Actually it smells really good.” He held me close to him as the tears streamed down my face. “I will eat it. Don‟t worry.”
The last thing I wanted was for Daniel to eat a half cooked meal. Even if the eggs were scorched a bit.
“No,” I sniffed. “I‟ll just toss it in the trash and try again.”
“Julie,” he began as he stood up. “Really, it is all right. I like my steak a little tartar anyway. Please just sit down.”
I pulled up a chair across from him and sat down. Daniel walked through the kitchen to the refrigerator. I couldn‟t imagine what he was looking for. The coffee creamer was sitting on the counter. I had already set his favorite jelly on the table to complement the burnt toast. Daniel raised his head and backed away from the refrigerator. Then I saw the revolting item in his hands. It added the absolute insult to injury for any cook. Ketchup. I watched as he proudly marched back to the table, seated himself and promptly opened the top and squirted the red goo on top of the omelet. I cringed at the sight of the ketchup as it piled high on the eggs.
I pushed myself away from the table and stood up. I refused to watch as he dug into the culinary disaster with a fork.
“You never put ketchup on anything your mother makes,” I mumbled as I headed out of the kitchen.
“That‟s not true!” he called out behind me.
“Like what?” I called back to him as I reached the living room.
“Meatloaf! I always put ketchup on her meatloaf!” he yelled back to me.
I let out a growl as I made my way through the living room to my father‟s office. If my memory served me correctly, Daniel never liked meatloaf! I inhaled a deep breath, fighting back my tears of rejection and plopped down behind my computer. At least I could try to put my focus on something other than this morning‟s breakfast debacle.
It only took moments for me get lost in balancing my accounts and transferring money. I was consumed with the thought of one day actually hiring an accountant to do these things, but for now, I still had the financial reports to review from the companies in which my father owned stock. This wasn‟t my favorite chore. From the looks of everything, the companies were still making money, and I was still collecting a sizeable return. The money was electronically posted into my account.
I placed the plate of overly cooked food in front of Daniel. His eyes traveled from the folder to the olive colored stoneware plate. Half-heartedly, I expected him to grab his fork and dig in. With a little resistance, I held back the urge to ask if there was a problem, giving him a little time to adjust his view of the breakfast.
Daniel stared at the plate for a moment. Finally, he picked up his fork, while I waited patiently for his response. I think the moment he poked it with the fork was the moment I decided I would take it away from him. As I reached over to snatch the plate from him, he grabbed it with both hands.
“What are you doing?” he exclaimed in a little higher pitched voice.
“You‟re poking at it with your fork like it‟s not dead yet,” I seethed.
Daniel pulled the plate out of my hand. We both stared at the plate as red bloodlines dripped down onto the plate from the omelet.
“You were saying?” Daniel‟s lips twisted into a grin. “Did you actually cook the steak before you added it to the eggs?”
I stood there and glared at Daniel in disbelief. No one told me that you had to cook the meat before adding it to the omelet. Tears welled in my eyes. I knew that my career as a chef had ended before it began.
Daniel‟s humorous expression continued as he set the plate back down on the table.
He turned to me, wrapped his long arms lovingly around my waist and then pulled me closer to him.
“Sweetheart, it is okay. You did your best. Actually it smells really good.” He held me close to him as the tears streamed down my face. “I will eat it. Don‟t worry.”
The last thing I wanted was for Daniel to eat a half cooked meal. Even if the eggs were scorched a bit.
“No,” I sniffed. “I‟ll just toss it in the trash and try again.”
“Julie,” he began as he stood up. “Really, it is all right. I like my steak a little tartar anyway. Please just sit down.”
I pulled up a chair across from him and sat down. Daniel walked through the kitchen to the refrigerator. I couldn‟t imagine what he was looking for. The coffee creamer was sitting on the counter. I had already set his favorite jelly on the table to complement the burnt toast. Daniel raised his head and backed away from the refrigerator. Then I saw the revolting item in his hands. It added the absolute insult to injury for any cook. Ketchup. I watched as he proudly marched back to the table, seated himself and promptly opened the top and squirted the red goo on top of the omelet. I cringed at the sight of the ketchup as it piled high on the eggs.
I pushed myself away from the table and stood up. I refused to watch as he dug into the culinary disaster with a fork.
“You never put ketchup on anything your mother makes,” I mumbled as I headed out of the kitchen.
“That‟s not true!” he called out behind me.
“Like what?” I called back to him as I reached the living room.
“Meatloaf! I always put ketchup on her meatloaf!” he yelled back to me.
I let out a growl as I made my way through the living room to my father‟s office. If my memory served me correctly, Daniel never liked meatloaf! I inhaled a deep breath, fighting back my tears of rejection and plopped down behind my computer. At least I could try to put my focus on something other than this morning‟s breakfast debacle.
It only took moments for me get lost in balancing my accounts and transferring money. I was consumed with the thought of one day actually hiring an accountant to do these things, but for now, I still had the financial reports to review from the companies in which my father owned stock. This wasn‟t my favorite chore. From the looks of everything, the companies were still making money, and I was still collecting a sizeable return. The money was electronically posted into my account.
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