Nobody likes my cooking.
It may seem like quite a trivial matter, but to me it's hurtful.
I pour blood, sweat and tears into my cooking (not literally though, or it would be understandable why my cooking is so hated with those ingredients) – I do my best to cook up something wonderful so that we can all sit around the table and jovially dine together.
I hope for us all to joke and laugh between mouthfuls, and at the end of the meal someone, if not all of them, would say "Thank you for the meal", and they wouldn't just be saying that out of politeness – it'd be genuine.
I often find myself smiling at these thoughts whilst cooking, and I admittedly get carried away with said thoughts sometimes and end up burning some food. At least I got distracted for a good reason though (the imagination is a wonderful thing)!
However, whenever I bring my best efforts to the table, suddenly they have somewhere to be or there would be an urgent call from their bosses out of nowhere or they'd feel sick and need to go home all of a sudden. There was a time I believed all this, and smiled and brushed it off and said, "More for me then!" Now I realise the absurdity of their excuses. I cried at first, once I realised they were lying to me, but now I just try to have fun and see what silly excuses they come up with next.
Despite knowing this will happen, I continue to cook for them. Maybe one day I won't get distracted and burn something; maybe after cooking so much I'll get better, what with that 'practice makes perfect'. Alas, I cannot tell if I am getting any better if nobody will care to savour the food. Perhaps that's why I keep trying. Although, in my desperation to see the results of my determination, I'm starting to get upset by their excuses all over again.
As usual, this time is no different. I made a soup this time, and although it's rather thick and dark-coloured I think I haven't done too bad. However, as soon as it is placed on the table, as soon as they've all given it a good, long look of disgust, the excuses begin.
"I already ate before coming here, aru."
"I've got dinner waiting at home, mon ami."
"I just got a call from my boss when you were in the kitchen, da? My boss needs to see me right away."
I plaster a fake smile to my face and try to stand tall, "Oh, really? That's a shame. Well, never mind, chaps. As always, more for me, right?"
As always.
I feel tears welling in my eyes, and I try to casually brush them away, but I'm not subtle enough.
"Hmm? Are you crying, Angleterre?"
"No way! Crying is for children, aru!"
"I-I'm fine!" I lie, "If you've got no business here then you're excused. Maybe next time, lads."
Nobody said anything more as I grabbed the bowl of soup and pelted out of the dining room, back to the kitchen from whence I made this damned meal that nobody likes.
Nobody will ever smile and laugh and joke between mouthfuls. Nobody will ever dine jovially. Nobody will ever thank me for the meal, genuinely, after eating. Nobody will even try my efforts.
I know it's childish, but as soon as I heard their footsteps retreating down the hall and the front door opening and closing, I set my dejected soup on the messy kitchen counter, plonked myself down on a chair, and cried. I hadn't cried about my cooking in a while, but all the feelings of being rejected and put down had been building up, and I couldn't stop myself from openly weeping.
It wasn't fair! I did my best. I studied recipes closely and measured ingredients out perfectly. I chopped vegetables finely and I brewed, stewed and sizzled them to the best of my abilities. Sometimes I missed or added a step in a recipe; sometimes I went a gram or two over in my measuring; sometimes my chopping was a little wonky; a lot of the time I burnt my concoctions, sure! But the thing is I tried my best, and nobody even cares.
Damn their refined taste buds! Damn their cooking which is better than mine! Damn their stubbornness when it comes to insisting that my food is terrible! Damn their excuses!
They always, always joke and laugh about how terrible my cooking is! Always! But none of them give me one damn chance to prove them wrong! None of them give me one damn chance to make them think otherwise! None of them give me one damn chance to silence their laughter!
I put my head in my hands and wailed, because 'better out than in', it was time to release the tears. Maybe after I had a good cry I would stop feeling so negative and could go back to pretending their lies and excuses didn't hurt me and make my heart ache so.
Despite my wails, I managed to hear a shuffling noise. I quietened, sharpish, and pulled my tear-streaked face from my hands to look up at the kitchen doorway. I hoped that the shuffling was my imagination, and nobody had heard me. I hoped that it was just my cat come to be fed (perhaps my cat would eat the soup?). Alas, fate wasn't on my side, and he came through the doorway, blue eyes full of concern.
"Arthur?" he murmured upon seeing me, "Are you okay?"
I scoffed. I had a wet face and had been wailing like a banshee. Did he think I was okay? Nevertheless, I lied, just like how they had all done to me.
"Absolutely fine. I don't need your concern. Just leave with the others."
"But I thought soup was on, man."
"Well it's not!" I hissed. As always. I felt more tears welling then, and retreated my head back to my hands, sniffling, "It never is."
I waited patiently for him to get the message – for him to turn and shuffle towards the front door. Instead, he strode further into the kitchen. Still, I did not look up. Perhaps if I failed to acknowledge him then he would go away.
But then I heard the clatter of cutlery, and I couldn't help but look up to be greeted by the sight of him getting out a couple of bowls and spoons.
"No, Alfred." I protested, "Don't do that. You might get ill eating that shit."
He blinked at me then, "Who says it's shit?"
I snarled at the ignorant buffoon, "You! All of you!"
He appeared shocked by my snarling at first, but then he shrugged and went back to filling the bowls with the dark, thick soup, "Yeah, but I haven't tried it in a while. Who knows, I mean, you might have gotten better."
The tears stopped welling, and I could do nought but stare, wide-eyed, at him as he finished filling the bowls and came to join me at the small kitchen table, placing the bowls before both of us and taking the opposite chair.
I watched intently as he dug the spoon into the soup (with some effort) and pulled out a spoonful of the half-liquid, half-solid food. It looked disgusting. I expected for Alfred to put down the spoon, push the bowl away, and get up to leave. Instead, I stifled a gasp as he stuck that spoon into his mouth and ate that stuff.
What was more, he seemed to be going in for another bite. "Do you want some water with that?" I asked. He shook his head and tried to speak, but it was all gibberish due to the food in his mouth. I would have normally scolded him for not acting like a gentleman and having no table manners, but I was too shocked and even happy to do so. So I just picked up the spoon he had laid out for me and dug into my own bowl, and I imitated him by not acting like a gentleman.
It was nice sometimes to forget etiquette, and I was glad to be able to do it around Alfred. He was the only one I could eat like a pig around, because he didn't care. I suppose, although I often complained about it, I liked his care-free attitude.
We didn't smile or laugh or joke between mouthfuls, but I wiped the tears from my cheeks and cheered up considerably. And when he was finished, I looked up at him with a cleaner, calmer face and asked him for his critique.
"Tasted like shit." he replied, bluntly. Although I was glad he didn't lie to me, I still felt my brows creasing and my shoulders drooping. And then he said, "I want seconds."
I watched him, astounded, as he got up and went to get more. And he didn't get one or two spoonfuls, no. He piled the stuff on! His bowl was overflowing when he returned to the table and began to eat again. I abandoned my own food to watch him eat, wondering if perhaps he really was a pig in the guise of a human, because nobody ate food that they dubbed as shit. Nobody!
I was still staring, dumfounded, at him when he had finished that bowl, and he looked up at me and asked, "Are you gonna finish that?"
I shook my head and pushed my unfinished bowl towards him, and he took it almost gratefully (almost, because I don't believe he could ever truly be grateful for it) and practically inhaled the contents! I didn't even care to request a pardon when he sat back and belched loudly. I was just too shocked.
"So, you stopped crying now?" he asked. I nodded and rubbed at my eyes for any excess tears, and I even managed a weak smile; wonderfully enough though, I didn't have to plaster this one on. He gave me a lopsided grin and got up from the table, "Well that's great then! I don't like seeing the people I care about crying."
My cheeks exploded with a tinge of pink. He cared about me? I didn't really get it, but it brought me joy anyway. "Thanks for eating it." I said, fiddling nervously with my fingers.
He laughed jovially, "No problem, Artie! Anytime! You know I'm a guy with a big appetite. I was hungry, you put food in front of me, so what else could I do but eat it?"
I nodded, smiling wider, "Right." I got up with him then and escorted him to the front door, holding it open for him. I was almost sad to see him go, but how could I welcome the feeling of sadness when somebody had eaten the food I had worked so hard to make?
When out on the porch, he turned back to the door to face me, with his stubborn cowlick swaying in the evening breeze, and my heart flittered and fluttered and soared when he said, "Thanks for the food!" And he meant it genuinely.
He gave me one last wave before turning and heading down the pathway to my picket fence, and though he couldn't see me I waved lightly at his back, grinning daintily. I was elated; absolutely elated. Nothing could bring me down from my cloud. My heart palpitated, eager for the next meet-up, in hopes that Alfred would come and eat my food when no one else did. As always.
Author's notes: I was inspired to make this after realising that Alfred is the only one sweet enough to cheer Arthur up and suffer through his cooking. Alfred, you sweetie~ Sorry if Arthur turned out rather sissy, but hey, he's highly offended. Let him be. Disclaimer: The Allies belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!
Thank you and enjoy!
AnorexicWalrus~