Little Steps
“Does this seem squishy to you?”
“What?” Don had just walked into the kitchen to see his roommate bent to study some mostly solid mass at eye level while poking it with a stick. At lease the stick was a chopstick, or else the situation would have been really weird. Against his subconsciously better judgment, Don leaned over to see just what Ben was prodding.
“Ben, that’s a chicken breast.”
Ben made a face and poked at the slab of meat with a little more force this time. “I know it’s a chicken breast, that’s not what I asked. I asked if it looks squishy to you.”
“It’s meat. Shouldn’t it be squishy?” Don knew he shouldn’t be perpetuating this conversation. Just go to the fridge and grab his soda, leave the madness behind. Somehow, though, Ben managed to make him have these conversations whether he thought it was a good idea or not.
“Yeah but, if it’s properly cooked it shouldn’t be..squishing, right? It should be firm and…meaty. Yeah.” Ben nodded to himself as if coming to a conclusion and poked the lump of white meat several times with a renewed sense of purpose.
“Well actually, it should squish a little. Otherwise the meat’s dry which means you overcooked it.”
Ben’s face fell at those words, distress clouding his eyes. “But, but, then how do I know if it’s properly cooked and properly squishy or undercooked and too squishy? I mean, look at this,” he said, voice almost a whine, and positively stabbed the piece of meat, spearing it on the end of the chopstick, “look at all these juices! How do I know if they’re good juices or bad? How?! Oh for the love of God, tell me!”
Don buried his face in his hand, trying not to think about the juices Ben was caterwauling about and smearing all over the counter tops as he flailed their dinner about. Why did he always have to flail?
A moment later the dramatics ceased and there was precious silence in which Ben stared at what he had just done and Don tried to piece himself back together.
“Hrm, hey look. Doesn’t that oil smear look like Japan?”
“You know, if you really didn’t want to fix dinner, you could have called for take out.”
“What?” Don had just walked into the kitchen to see his roommate bent to study some mostly solid mass at eye level while poking it with a stick. At lease the stick was a chopstick, or else the situation would have been really weird. Against his subconsciously better judgment, Don leaned over to see just what Ben was prodding.
“Ben, that’s a chicken breast.”
Ben made a face and poked at the slab of meat with a little more force this time. “I know it’s a chicken breast, that’s not what I asked. I asked if it looks squishy to you.”
“It’s meat. Shouldn’t it be squishy?” Don knew he shouldn’t be perpetuating this conversation. Just go to the fridge and grab his soda, leave the madness behind. Somehow, though, Ben managed to make him have these conversations whether he thought it was a good idea or not.
“Yeah but, if it’s properly cooked it shouldn’t be..squishing, right? It should be firm and…meaty. Yeah.” Ben nodded to himself as if coming to a conclusion and poked the lump of white meat several times with a renewed sense of purpose.
“Well actually, it should squish a little. Otherwise the meat’s dry which means you overcooked it.”
Ben’s face fell at those words, distress clouding his eyes. “But, but, then how do I know if it’s properly cooked and properly squishy or undercooked and too squishy? I mean, look at this,” he said, voice almost a whine, and positively stabbed the piece of meat, spearing it on the end of the chopstick, “look at all these juices! How do I know if they’re good juices or bad? How?! Oh for the love of God, tell me!”
Don buried his face in his hand, trying not to think about the juices Ben was caterwauling about and smearing all over the counter tops as he flailed their dinner about. Why did he always have to flail?
A moment later the dramatics ceased and there was precious silence in which Ben stared at what he had just done and Don tried to piece himself back together.
“Hrm, hey look. Doesn’t that oil smear look like Japan?”
“You know, if you really didn’t want to fix dinner, you could have called for take out.”