(no subject)
Mary Jane had never thought of herself as being much of a cook. Growing up, she'd had to do a lot of fending for herself where things like meals were concerned, big family dinners not being a typical occurrence in the Watson household, but that had all been on a simpler scale, things that were easy to throw together or that were ready after a few minutes in the microwave. It had been the same story when she'd lived on her own, too; that just hadn't been for nearly as long. In both cases, neither really constituted as cooking, and while on some level, she had always meant to change that, she had never gotten the opportunity to before showing up here. In the class she had taken during the last school term, she had found that it wasn't really all that difficult, and although the semester had ended, there was no reason not to keep working at it.
She'd gotten the idea from a cookbook the bookshelf had seemed fairly insistent on giving her. Mary Jane wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the notion of its being somehow sentient, but with this, she had to think that it was on purpose. Within it was a recipe for wheatcakes, what Peter had mentioned before were his favorite food, and it seemed simple enough that she was sure she could manage it. And so it might have been a little ridiculous and incredibly cliché to be the wife who cooked for her husband, but she didn't especially see that as any reason not to. Things had, quite frankly, sucked lately, and when basically handed an opportunity to do something nice for him, she decided to take it.
It had gone fairly well, too, the batter cooking over the stove giving her a moment to get a few things cleaned up and put away. At least, it had gone well up until she'd managed to get herself distracted. Perched on the edge of the counter beside the stovetop, it hadn't taken much for her mind to start wandering back towards the night in December Peter had made them both sandwiches, when they'd decided on friends, when, despite their circumstances, she had actually been in a situation similar to the one she was in now. No longer thinking about the food, it was only the distinct smell of something burning that pulled her from her thoughts, and she winced as she looked down at what was now little more than a burnt mess. "Shit," she swore under her breath, hopping back down to the floor and immediately turning the stove off, sighing as she carried the pan to the sink with a spatula to scrape out what was in it. Maybe she wasn't so good at this cooking thing yet after all.
[Timed to Saturday afternoon. ST/LT welcome, and as she is, despite appearances, in a pretty decent mood, it's a fine time to meet her.]
She'd gotten the idea from a cookbook the bookshelf had seemed fairly insistent on giving her. Mary Jane wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the notion of its being somehow sentient, but with this, she had to think that it was on purpose. Within it was a recipe for wheatcakes, what Peter had mentioned before were his favorite food, and it seemed simple enough that she was sure she could manage it. And so it might have been a little ridiculous and incredibly cliché to be the wife who cooked for her husband, but she didn't especially see that as any reason not to. Things had, quite frankly, sucked lately, and when basically handed an opportunity to do something nice for him, she decided to take it.
It had gone fairly well, too, the batter cooking over the stove giving her a moment to get a few things cleaned up and put away. At least, it had gone well up until she'd managed to get herself distracted. Perched on the edge of the counter beside the stovetop, it hadn't taken much for her mind to start wandering back towards the night in December Peter had made them both sandwiches, when they'd decided on friends, when, despite their circumstances, she had actually been in a situation similar to the one she was in now. No longer thinking about the food, it was only the distinct smell of something burning that pulled her from her thoughts, and she winced as she looked down at what was now little more than a burnt mess. "Shit," she swore under her breath, hopping back down to the floor and immediately turning the stove off, sighing as she carried the pan to the sink with a spatula to scrape out what was in it. Maybe she wasn't so good at this cooking thing yet after all.
[Timed to Saturday afternoon. ST/LT welcome, and as she is, despite appearances, in a pretty decent mood, it's a fine time to meet her.]