Overwritten

45 : Sweet Dreams

Given I'd already cooked today, I wanted to go with something easier.

When I had been little, my Mom always said the easiest dish to make was omelets. She told me it was one of those things that's fairly difficult to mess up. Jake had already lazily gone back to the sofa before collapsing on it again. I was slightly annoyed, but it was clear he needed the rest.

Little did I know how much he really would need it.

I cracked open four eggs, mixing it with four tablespoons of milk. I sprinkled in salt and pepper, although I feared putting in too much or too little. Once that was done, I moved onto cooking up some ingredients to include. I still wasn't entirely new to the apartment, my old one being fairly different layout. Of course, that was because they had a child. People with children move to a bigger apartment.

Eventually I managed to find some vegetables, as well as some ham which appeared to be more chemicals than meet. I paused for a moment, reading and rereading the packaging on it. There was certainly lots of long and complicated names in the list, which I tried to ignore as I cut it into tiny squares.

I found myself struggling a lot with finding the frying pan. Back home, Dad had always kept the frying pan with the pots. For him, it just made sense. But here, when I opened the cupboard filled with pots of all different sizes, but no pan. The sun was already setting just as I was about to give up.

Then I found it, in the pot cupboard, but wedged at the very far back. I had to practically crawl in order to reach it, making a lot of noise whilst I did so. Jake must have heard the ruckus as when I finally crawled back out, he was moving over to the kitchen.

"Need any help?" he asked groggily, staring at me with furrowed brows as I kneeled on the floor. I shook my head, slightly out of breath as I turned on the stove. There was a faint clicking sound as I did so.

"I couldn't find the pan," I said, completely worn out. He nodded slowly, leaning against the bench. I grabbed the egg mixture and chopped vegetables and ham and brought it over to the countertop beside the stove.

"Did you need help?" he asked, and I shook my head, gently tipping half of the mixture onto the frying pan. It made a sizzling sound, the smell of the egg already filling the apartment. Jake grabbed the box of ham which I had chopped up, turning it over to read the label.

"I didn't recognize half of those words," I said, motioning my head to the box as I sprinkled some ham and vegetables onto the sizzling omelet. Jake frowned, lazily tossing the box to the side.

"I think it costs extra credits to get real ham," Jake said, leaning down underneath the countertop. He took out two plates, bringing them over to where I was and placing them on the side, "Here I'll clean, make things a bit easier for you,"

I nodded, trying to focus on not burning the relatively simple dish. When I flipped over the omelet, I saw that it was perfectly cooked, and I felt a rush of pride once more fill me. I felt like a professional at this point. After cooking an omelet and baking some cookies, it was a wonder my career wasn't automatically switched to a chef.

By the time I had finished both omelets, I was beyond exhausted. I was grateful for Jake for cleaning the mess I had made, as it allowed me to just sit down and enjoy dinner. I took the slightly colder one, grabbing some forks, before moving over to the table and sitting across from Jake.

There was only light small talk, nothing of importance. Once we had finished dinner and cleaned our plates we sat down in front of the television to see what was new. The news had been on, broadcasting nothing in particular. Announcements following a new celebrity who was assigned on matching day.