“Why isn’t the sauce thickening?” I asked, nodding to the pot of Kraft macaroni and cheese on the stove in front of me.
“You mean the boxed macaroni?” My husband replied, with a hint of exhaustion in his voice. “It’s powdered cheese, Jen. It shouldn’t need to thicken.”
My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. I’ve never been a good cook. In fact, I have always been a terrible cook. Thankfully, James is a kind and patient man. He always says that he loves me more than he hates my cooking. He does his very best to hide his displeasure each time I slap a spoonful of overcooked rice or underdone pasta onto his plate but that doesn’t keep me from feeling disappointed in myself. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sat across from him at the dinner table and watched solemnly as he tried to disguise the involuntary twitch of disgust on his face at the first mouthful of whatever over-seasoned disaster I’d served him that evening. This evening was no different.
I begrudgingly handed James his dinner— overcooked chicken breast and watery boxed macaroni and cheese. He accepted it without complaint and took his place at the little wooden table in the corner of our small kitchen. “Thanks for cooking, Jen,” he said, smiling as he attempted, with great effort, to cut through his rubbery chicken breast. And I could tell he really was thankful despite the fact that he could probably find a more enticing meal in any back-alley dumpster. “Ah, al dente this evening” he quipped with a chuckle as he scooped up his second bite of macaroni. I didn’t deserve his kindness in this regard, although I appreciated it.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned in bed as I thought of ways to improve my cooking. I was becoming desperate. James has always been so supportive of me, the least I could do is learn how to cook him a meal that didn’t taste like dog food. I considered and dismissed a variety of potential solutions. My father always joked that my mother could burn water, so it would be pointless to ask her for advice. We can’t afford private cooking lessons. I’ve tried to watch tutorial videos online in the past but the meal still never turned out quite the way it was supposed to. After an hour or so of exhaustive consideration, I suddenly remembered Helga, an elderly Hungarian, or maybe Russian, woman who lived across the street. She was very old and somewhat reclusive. The kids on the street avoided her. They claimed she was a witch. I always thought it was mean of them to say that about her just because she was elderly and maybe a little odd. Nonetheless, she was old enough to be someone’s grandma. And grandmas know how to cook, right? Maybe she would have some old Eastern European family recipes to share with me. Satisfied with this thought, I resolved to visit her the next day and ask for her help.
I awoke the next morning well after James had already left for work. He usually makes his own breakfast and packs his own lunch, which is probably for the best. I laid in bed, well past my usual wake-up time, watching the sunbeams coming through the gap in the curtain move across the floor. It wasn’t laziness that kept me in bed, but nerves. For some reason, I felt intimidated by Helga and the thought of reaching out to her for help. As mean as they may be, the neighborhood children were correct in saying that she had a rather frightening presence. Summoning my courage, I rose from the bed and set about my morning routine— hair, makeup, a well-ironed dress. I wanted to make a good impression on Helga.
Once I felt satisfied with my appearance, I walked out the front door and started down the sidewalk to her house before I could change my mind. It was a very short walk. Her house stood only two down from my own and on the other side of the street. Standing on the pavement, I noted that the paint on the exterior of her house was chipping. The lawn, if you could call it that, was either dead or dying. I’d driven past her house countless times but never noticed that it was in a state of disarray befitting of its inhabitant.
I started up the stairs on her front porch, recoiling at the abundance of cobwebs surrounding the front door. Knocking lightly on the wood, I expected to wait a moment before receiving an answer. Instead, Helga opened the door immediately, as though she had been standing on the other side waiting for me to arrive. I had waved at her from a distance many times and even exchanged shouted pleasantries from across the street but I had never stood this close to her before. She had thick, light gray hair which was gathered in a bun atop her head. Her face was framed with deep wrinkles.
“Hello,” I started. “My name is—“
“Jen” she finished.
“Uhm… yes, I’m sorry to bother you. I just—“
“You need assistance” she interrupted, again.
This startled me. I found her foretelling to be a bit unnerving. But I’d come this far already.
“Yes. I’m not very good at, um. Well I, uh, need assistance with, um… cooking” I replied. “Please.”
I suppose she was satisfied with my stammered explanation because she fully opened the door and waved her long, too-thin arm toward the guts of her house, inviting me inside. I awkwardly shuffled past her in the doorway and headed toward the kitchen table that was visible at the other end of the hallway.
I took a seat at her table, which was covered in a very intricate lace tablecloth that resembled the cobwebs on her porch. She followed me into the dimly lit kitchen and sat across from me. A moment of silence hung in the air. I began to fidget in my chair.
“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “You’re a terrible cook.”
I was taken aback by her bluntness. I had never actually said I was a terrible cook. Although, I suppose she lived close enough that she may have been able to hear the smoke detectors in my kitchen going off every other day around dinner time.
I nodded in confirmation. “I want to learn how to cook a nice meal…. you know, something that actually tastes good” I explained, lowering my eyes in embarrassment.
“Ah. Your husband is giving you grief, is he?” she asked, clearly expecting an affirmative response. “Complaining about the meals you prepare. Is that it?”
“No, he would never! He is so sweet and tender. I just don’t want to disappoint him anymore” I clarified, surprised by the tears suddenly gathering in the corner of my eyes. Once again I sat in a heavy silence at the kitchen table, hoping for some sort of comfort from the old woman.
“Hmmm,” she hummed, seemingly indifferent to my emotional state. “Sweet and tender, you say?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, through sniffles.
She sat silently contemplating for a moment.
“Fine” she finally said, rising from the table. She patted me on the back a little too hard with her bony palm in what I interpreted as a poorly executed gesture of reassurance. “I suppose I could teach you one of my more practiced recipes.”
“Oh, thank you! Than—“
She silenced me with a wave of her palm.
I watched as she opened a cabinet above the inexplicably bubbling pot on her stove and began removing items in an attempt to locate something specific. Baking soda, baking powder, pasta, cans of carrots, beets, beans, and peas now sat on the counter alongside multiple canisters of herbs and spices. She continued pulling items from the cabinet until, finally, she came upon a very small jar of white powder. It could have passed for salt but I had the funny feeling it wasn’t.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass jar into my hand. “I will teach you another day. For tonight, sprinkle this in his food before you serve him. He will not be disappointed, I promise.” At that, she made an X motion above her heart with a long, yellowed fingernail and chuckled in a manner that I found to be somewhat unsettling.
Nevertheless, I gratefully accepted the jar and attempted to ignore the creeping feeling that I may have made a mistake asking for her help. I mean, sure she might be a bit strange but who am I to judge a lonely old woman. I graciously excused myself from her home with a wave, promising to return another day for a cooking lesson.
As soon as I stepped off her front porch onto the sidewalk I felt a sense of relief wash over me. Tension released from my shoulders as my muscles relaxed. Not only had I finally found a solution to my problem but I had made a new friend in the process. At least, I think I made a new friend. Helga was kind of difficult to read. I thought back to our encounter, trying to decipher how she may have felt about my visit. I mean, she agreed to help me so she mustn’t have been too annoyed at my intrusion. “He will not be disappointed. I promise.” I remembered her words and smiled at the thought of finally serving my husband a meal worth eating.
Before the sun had even set I stood by the stove fussing over a pot of boiled broccoli. My mind constantly drifted to the mysterious jar of spices nestled in the pocket of my apron. Or what I assumed to be spices, anyway. It could also be rat poison for all I know but I am just desperate enough to trust the old woman completely. Suddenly, the timer on the oven rang out, interrupting my thoughts and causing my heart to skip a beat. I laughed at my overreaction as I opened the oven door to collect a pan of medium-rare, or maybe well done, pork chops.
I carefully placed the largest pork chop on a dinner plate beside a generous pile of pale green broccoli. As usual, It didn’t really look appealing. I gingerly sprinkled a meager amount of the white powder from the small glass jar over the broccoli on my husbands’ plate. Glancing again at the sad assemblage in front of me I decided it might be best to just add it all. I dumped the entire contents of the jar onto the plate and mixed it into the broccoli until it was no longer visible. That should do it.
“Jaaaames” I called into the living room where my husband was watching old re-runs of some corny science fiction show from the 70s. “Dinner is ready!”
I already had both plates ready and waiting on the table by the time he ambled into the kitchen. I sat in front of my own pork chop and tried my best to suppress my excitement as he took his place across from me. “How does it look?” I asked.
“It looks like broccoli” he joked in response. He scanned the plate again before picking up his fork and stabbing a soggy stalk of broccoli. I scooted forward in my seat, eager to witness his reaction to the new ingredient. I could feel myself holding my breath as he chewed his first bite. He swallowed. And paused, looking a bit surprised.
“Wow. Jen. How did you make this broccoli? Did you find a recipe online? It’s delicious!”
Delicious. The word reverberated through my head like a song. Happiness radiated through my body, sending a warm feeling through my stomach. I wanted to jump from the table and dance through the kitchen. Instead, I concealed my overwhelming excitement and acted as normally as I could possibly manage. I watched gleefully as James continued shoveling stalks of broccoli and bits of pork chop into his mouth.
“Awe, thank you, James. I actually—“
My words caught in my throat as I noticed his hair was steadily beginning to change color. His thick, light brown hair was suddenly turning white, starting at the roots and moving quickly towards his scalp. I sat mouth agape, staring at his head which was now entirely covered in nearly translucent white hair.
“You actually what, Jen?” James prodded, entirely unaware that his appearance had just drastically changed in a matter of seconds.
“Your hair….” I replied, ignoring his original question.
“What? Is it messy?” he asked, attempting to smooth down any stray locks with his fluffy white fingers.
“No! No, it’s not messy. It’s— oh my god! James!” I yelled, interrupted once again by a sudden change in appearance. He didn’t seem to notice that he had sprouted ten long, wiry whiskers. Five on each furry cheek.
My heart started to pound in my chest. The beating rang in my ears like a gong. I stood quickly from the table, bracing myself with a hand on the back of a wooden chair as my knees buckled beneath me. “JAMES!” I yelled, again. There was no response. He had suddenly disappeared from my view.
“James?” I squeaked, edging myself around the side of the table to the seat where he had been visible only moments ago. Again, there was no response. I stood in front of his empty chair, gripping the lip of the table with such force that my knuckles turned white. I hesitated for a moment before slowly pulling the blue table cloth back. My stomach twisted into knots as the lifted table cloth revealed a large white rabbit sitting on the floor in between the legs of the dinner table. I felt bile rise in my throat.
I collapsed onto the floor beside the rabbit, suppressing the urge to vomit. Hot tears streamed down my face as I stared at this unexpected creature. He stared back with empty black eyes. His cheeks twitched beneath his small, pink nose as he investigated his surroundings, sniffing a small piece of broccoli that had fallen to the floor in the commotion. If I didn’t know for certain that this rabbit had been my husband only moments ago, I really would have found him quite cute and exceedingly ordinary.
“I am so sorry” I sobbed, pulling the rabbit into my lap. “I am so sorry” I repeated again and again while patting the rabbit, my husband, on his soft, furry head. I continued sobbing, wailing really, on the kitchen floor for what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more than thirty or fourty minutes. After a while, I managed to calm myself down enough that the tears stopped flowing. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and sat numbly watching my husband hop around the kitchen floor on his disproportionately large back feet. Hearing him thump, thump, thump about the tile was starting to make me nauseous. Again, I felt the urge to vomit.
My thoughts spun in circles as I desperately tried to come up with some solution to get us out of this mess— to get my sweet, loving, normal, human, husband back. My mind immediately turned to Helga. That wicked, vile, evil old woman. That witch. She did this to him. I don’t know why, I definitely don’t know how, but I know that she did. Anger bubbled up inside me. I felt my face grow hot and my stomach boil with rage.
I grabbed James off the floor and held his small body against my chest as I marched out the front door to face the old woman again. My heart began to race as I stepped onto her dreary looking porch. It somehow looked even less inviting after the sun went down. I raised my shaking fist to knock on the front door when it suddenly opened before I could complete the task.
“Ah, back so soon?” the woman asked in a cheery, condescending tone. The sly smile on her face confirmed my suspicion that she was to blame for this. Not that I really had any doubts before. I wordlessly motioned to the rabbit nestled in the crook of my elbow, afraid I might start sobbing again if I opened my mouth to speak. I tried to look tough although I’m sure she could tell I was only seconds away from melting into a puddle on her doorstep.
“What?” she asked, feigning ignorance as if this was all just one big game to her. “You asked me to teach you how to make a tasty meal, didn’t you?”
I nodded, tightening my arms around James and pulling him closer to my rapidly beating heart.
“Well, rabbit stew is my favorite”