by Amber Garner
Before making dinner I decided to kick Tad out of the kitchen. You really believe you can do that? I taught you how to make a mirepoix, Tad said to me. “Fuck you, Tad,” I retorted. Since dating Tad last winter he had infiltrated every aspect of my domestic life, making it difficult for me to spend any amount of time over a stove or cutting board without at least one passing thought of him.
He had left for New York last month, our ties at that point being (almost) completely severed. Until last June the farthest place I had travelled was the southern tip of California, or maybe Phoenix – nothing to write home about. But I took off for Europe to escape Tad’s presence, or his absence, I guess. Upon coming home I found it rather simple to move beyond the ordeal of our relationship, and yet, in my kitchen he lingered.
His family was obsessed with food, it was what they did together, it was all they talked about. I loved that about him. I grew up with Shake n’ Bake, frozen peas and Hostess for dessert in front of bad television. He had candlelit dinners every night as a family. It was alluring, to say the least, because despite my upbringing I had developed a passion for food – as well as an intense dread of its preparation.
Why is it again that you never learned to cook? He asked me. “I hate failing. I would rather not try than deal with the lack of accomplishment,” I replied, sheepishly. I hated how this had been the truth, but it was the truth, which is why I admitted to it. I always told him the truth, another thing I loved about him.
I began slicing the onion. Dinner for one? He said with cheek. “It’s always dinner for one, you know that,” I said. “And besides, nobody in this house eats what I cook, anyway.” That was true, too. After returning from Europe my home had become the den in my grandparent’s house. They, like my parents, had their own ideas about what ‘good’ food was, and our opinions didn’t usually align (unless of course I was making sweets).
What will you have tonight, Miss Elliot? He asked. “Have I ever told you that I hate it when you call me that?” I said, bitingly. Sighing, I turned the heat on to warm the skillet, peeled bare the garlic. I didn’t like how he brought out the snark in me, but it was irritating, having him here, when I should be in a peaceful, calm place. I had become fond of making myself meals, but only after our ending. For the most part the kitchen was a retreat, where I could relax and have a rewarding sensual experience (outside of the bedroom, where with him I had gotten used to having the same).
Anodyne, he offered. “On my end,” I mumbled. I removed the green sprig from the clove. On second thought, “My life isn’t the opening sequence of L’avventura, Tad.”
Why do you hate me so much? He asked, seemingly sincere. I chopped vigorously. I wanted to yell at him for being present, but what good would that do besides making me feel nutters? “I don’t hate you, necessarily. I still love you, kind of. It’s only, well, I’m exhausted. I feel like this” – meaning he and I – “is complete, yet, here you are, hovering over me, watching the way I slice or pour or… perform, monitoring my progress.”
I had asked him to teach me how to cook and he had agreed. We had agreed to start me on the basics. I trimmed the fat from a chicken; I blanched Kale; I made a mirepoix. With him I put my anxiety on hold, allowing his familiarity to guide my inexperienced hand. There were things that I was familiar with, too, you know. Though with him it never felt that way. He was one of those people who ended up being good at everything, and as a result I felt awe for him… at first.
Do you still feel that way? He asked, posture perfect, his legs crossed. “Of course not. You just learned early on to mix your interests with discipline, to not waste time,” I said. Like I had. So much of it, actually. The only thing I had spent my time on was trying to be in love. As if doing so would satisfy some intrinsic yearning. I know better… now. But I was good at loving: I was well practiced. He was not. It was the only thing I could hold over him.
I really had no idea that you were miserable, he said, upright. “I know you didn’t, Tad, because I wouldn’t let you,” I replied, looking at his navy crew-neck sweater, the gingham-checked cornflower blue and white collar popping from underneath. (He could dress.) I couldn’t stand the idea of him thinking I wasn’t bright and cheery about everything, about how he would be leaving me, about my tacit inferiority.
I added some olive oil to the pan. Let the pan heat then add the oil; let the oil heat then add the ingredients. That was the proper way to do it, he had instructed. Everything about Tad was proper, planned, predetermined. Faultless.
That isn’t true, he responded with little conviction. He liked being perfect. “It is true, Tad, it is,” I was angry. I put the onion in the pan; it sizzled. “You live your life like you’re sitting at a loom.” He cocked his head to the side, wrapping his large hands around his knee (as he often did when about to process something formidable, or when the occasion for discourse arose).
I’m not sure I see any thing wrong with that. Explain, he demanded. With Tad it was about what you could defend, what you could provide, and most importantly what you could prove. “You have all your strings, all your thread,” my voice was elevating, “and every fiber is falling in to place, as if you were some grand god-like weaver.” I stirred the now translucent onion, red-faced. Why was I so upset?
Because I wouldn’t love you? He said, ornery, defiant. Maybe. I dropped the garlic in the pan, stirring with the wood spoon he had made for me. “No, I knew you loved me, I never doubted that,” I said, my voice tense, higher-pitched than usual. I turned the temperature up. “You’re just so controlling! I know you loved me, but I was never going to be presentable enough for you, I was never going to fit into your preconceived notion of what love was supposed to look like, of what your ideal lover was supposed to be, woven in as per Tad’s design!” I was screaming. “And you and your stupid designing, your obsessive determining, your Archival Clothing rucksack and Le Creuset kitchenware, your Coho bicycle and nokogiri and Ivy League education… and your calculating every last detail – it makes me nauseous!”
Nauseated, he informed. “Oh my god, seriously?!” I was livid. “You are a selfish, arrogant, classist peacock!” Flushed, radiating, I turned from him to the mirepoix. I wasn’t normally so vicious. The garlic was blackening at its edges. I quickly removed the pan from the burner.
What are you more upset about, that you think I am these things or that you think your admiration of me allowed you to indulge them? He asked earnestly. I stared at the pieces of burnt garlic then slowly proceeded with lifting the bitter bits out of the pan, tossing them in the wastebasket. “Obviously…” I began but stopped. Something had occurred to me. “I’m mad because I loved you like an extension,” I closed my eyes and took in a deep, slow breath, “but you only loved me like an accessory.”
He looked at me from behind his glasses, imploringly, searching me for his forgiveness. He was reminding me of his doting, of the charming notes, the handmade gifts, the many times he brought me lunch or coffee, the tenderness, the affection.
I wasn’t that bad, was I? He asked quietly, sincerely. I studied him, his soft umber eyes, his innocent, beautiful mouth, and his utterly unknowing, childlike expression. “No, Tad. You did right by me, as best you could. I’m the only one guilty of making me feel I wasn’t good enough.” And that was when Tad got up, kissed me sweetly on the forehead, and left my kitchen.