Time to make Mama proud, Zoe thinks, in the way one thinks of a dry joke.
It isn't entirely dry in the sarcastic sense.
That isn't, however, to say that it isn't sarcastic at all; while she had of course been called on to lend Mama a hand in the kitchen growin' up, whether as a little girl being allowed to stir the gumbo to feel helpful, or as an adult simply lendin' a hand in making sure that the herbs don't burn in the bottom of the pot while vegetables are chopped or being there to take the pan off the heat at the right time while a phone call is answered, she had never been kitchen-y. Hell, she had stood by and taken down the notes on the odd day that Mama had explicitly walked her through every bit of home recipes she'd learned from her mama - "so you can keep the tradition goin' when you've got a family of your own!" had, of course, been the merrily-delivered reason.
And had, none too surprisingly, not been thinking that far ahead. Not only bein' nowhere near thinking of whatever kinda domesticity Mama'd been thinking about, but not even really knowing viscerally what carrying on a tradition was.
Doin' it out of simple respect. A want to see Mama happy.
In retrospect, she doesn't know how much she really did learn - she says, now out of a desire to uphold tradition. To do the same thing, in spirit: show a respect for the idea of makin' Mama happy.
Make Mama proud, she thinks to herself again, the faintest ache careening in a few of her ribs.
The ache bends harder once the sauteeing's done and she scoffs at herself, half-amused, stomach hollowing, when she thinks for what she realizes now is the second time that the rice isn't long-grain; it hadn't mattered while she'd been doing the shopping and now it very much did, a little voice in her head telling her that that's a laugh.
She stirs in red spices and she feels more restful than she has in so many months, enveloped in something old and familiar as the air around her warms; flicks at the edges of her senses, in the very back of her nose and in the roof of her mouth and in the vapor off the pot microscopically beading on her brow, with the cheeky edge of flame.
And then her stomach begins eating itself as, with memories bleeding and trickling together, the smell becomes bitter and damp and the restfulness is now that of resting in some sort of corrosive base, and the vapor leaves her feeling clammy, and the back of her tongue tastes bitter. When she takes the lid back off the pot and stirs, the meat looks a bloodier, darker red than it had when the lid had come on, as does the tinting of the spices; her vision blurs and swims for a moment, her guts twist around themselves until they're taut and stretching and wrenching everywhere, and in a screaming-white flare of panic, she turns to retch into the sink, shoulders shaking and eyes overwatering, a gurgle deep in her stomach yet nothing but saliva spat up.
She coughs, forced, one more time for good measure.
Jess calls to ask if she's okay.
She shuts her eyes - brows lowering with a weight over 'em. Presses her lips closed and sizzles a breath out of her nostrils, sucks a colder one in, and says that she's fine, too-drawn over a distinctive creak, as she remembers why she's still so thin.
She wishes she'd just used shrimp, in the clunking aftermath in which she regathers herself, but then -
- scoffs again, eyes still-closed, breath puffing, a bitter smile twitching itself onto her face, sincere enough, nonetheless, to show some tooth.
...She hadn't bought any shrimp, either. Wrong rice, missing a meat, 'n she was missing an herb, too.
She sucks in a deep breath, deliberately unfocuses her vision as she stirs the jambalaya up, takin' shallow sips of the scent enough to keep it thrumming in her system just-warm, and feels the weight of judgin' celestial eyes snap down on her as she brings the pot off the heat - and, at that, o' the contents, such that the saucepan almost swings in her grip - and grabs the wooden spoon to begin dishin' it out without tasting it.
Doesn't wanna gamble till she's sure her stomach has settled, and plus she doesn't wanna feel called, by herself, upon tasting the difference.
Just lets herself think, more weakly and dryly than ever, make Mama proud, make Mama proud, make Mama proud...
Less a mantra than deliberate attempt to further desensitize herself to her own joke.
She steps outta the kitchen with her head held high enough, a bowl in each hand. A single low chuckle in her throat as she heads to the couch. "...Could have been a nightmare seein' as I haven't ever cooked much, let alone anytime lately," she says, "but you be the judge as to whether or not my ancestors' spirits were smilin' down on me tonight...!'
Still over a hint of that croak.
Petering out thin - a wisp of smoke dissolving as it dances.
Jess seems to like how it turned out.
Zoe smiles wryly, if fondly, eyes half-lidded on the TV screen she's watchin' like a person listens to radio chatter. 'Course she would - city girl. Wrong rice. No shrimp. Missing a whole herb. Wait 'til I get it right.
The air throughout the apartment remains warm, and humid, and with candle- and lighter-like flames flicking hot but painlessly at invisible edges and tinting things an imaginary glow of orange-red.
She doesn't eat a bite.