Prompt: Dinner
Lindsay could not cook. If it wasn't made of chocolate or cookie dough it was going to get burnt to a crisp or the flavor would be completely off. The woman couldn't even handle an egg without setting off the fire alarm or making someone ill.
It was sure fun to watch her try though.
She went about the whole process methodically. First, she put on the frilly apron that always had him wishing she were naked under it. Then she laid out her ingredients on the counter in the exact order she was going to need them. Finally, she read over her recipe two times—always two times, her lips forming the words as she silently read the words.
Then she'd get to the cooking. It started just fine, but inevitably, she'd add the wrong ingredients and suddenly the meatballs would taste like feet. Or she'd be so busy making the glaze for her ham that the actual ham would become dried out, burnt, and would only feed the incinerator.
Still, she kept trying and he kept eating the few creations that made it to the table. He'd smile and say nice things even when she spit her own food out.
And when the food did go ablaze, he'd be ready with a fire extinguisher.
And the number of the nearby pizza place.
