by Kim Davis
“But I can’t! Don’t you see that? Your food’s too good to refuse.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“Yes!” I blurted out even though I knew my response was totally ridiculous.
Clay laughed. “You crack me up, Patrick.”
“I’m glad you can laugh at my pain.”
Clay rolled his eyes at that. “Do you want me to stop cooking for you?”
I shuddered at the thought of not being on the receiving end of Clay’s delicious meals. No more cakes, cookies, and casseroles from him would surely make me crazy. I didn’t want him to stop cooking entirely. I didn’t even want him to stop making the foods he knew I loved. I just needed him to stop making them so frequently.
“No, I don’t want you to stop cooking for me,” I said. “I just want you to ease up on the cakes and biscuits and mac and cheese.”
“All of the things you love?”
“Yes.”
“And what should I cook instead of cakes, biscuits, and mac and cheese? Kale, quinoa, and alfalfa sprouts?”
Of course Clay would pick three of the worst food items known to man to suggest as substitutes. “Well,” I told him, “let’s not go crazy here.”
He was quiet for a moment before suggesting, “You could cook for us sometimes.”
That made me laugh. I was a terrible cook, something I’d confided to Clay soon after we’d started seeing each other. Sure, I could cook to get by—boil rice, make a grilled cheese sandwich, fry a hamburger, pour a frozen stir fry entrée into a skillet, etc., but I couldn’t make a meal from scratch. I’d never baked a cake or made a casserole in my life nor did I have any desire to. I didn’t really enjoy cooking. To me, cooking was a necessary evil. I cooked to survive, not because I enjoyed it. I must have taken after my mother in the cooking department because she didn’t enjoy it either and the meals she’d prepared during my childhood showed her lack of enthusiasm for the task. But her feelings about cooking changed later in life, after she and my father divorced. She actually started to enjoy cooking and, as a result, her meals improved. When she remarried, she cooked for my stepfather, Wayne, all the time and he raved about her meals. She even enrolled in cooking classes on occasion.
Although I was a chunky kid, my parents weren’t to blame for this. They weren’t cooking up savory meals and delicious treats for me to nosh on at home. I found solace in food that came from outside sources. Fast food and store-bought sweets satisfied my childhood need for junk food. And, with my fairly decent allowance, I was able to buy all the crap I wanted. Growing up as an only child, I suspect my parents spoiled me which is why they rarely stepped in to intervene when I’d come home with candy bars jammed in my pockets even though they knew I needed to stop stuffing my face with food like that.
“You know I can’t cook for shit,” I told Clay. “Plus, I hate cooking.”
“You wouldn’t have to make anything extravagant, Patrick. Surely you can boil water and make spaghetti or something.”
“Yeah, but I doubt you’d like the food I cooked.”
“Because I’ve got such a refined palette, right?” he said with an eye roll. “I’m not exactly making filet mignon and coq au vin for us, you know. I like and eat regular meat and potatoes just like you do.”
“I know, but you clearly love to cook and it shows in the way you prepare each meal. You care about what you’re doing. When I cook, I’m only concerned with getting the food done so I can eat.”
“God, you’re such a defeatist. No wonder you’re hesitant to make a meal. You’ve already convinced yourself that you’ll fail at the task.” Clay sighed. “When we get together next Friday night, I’d like for you to make dinner for us. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Spaghetti or some other kind of pasta and a salad and I’ll bring a bottle of wine. How does that sound?”
Awful, I was tempted to answer, but didn’t because I wanted to show Clay I wasn’t the defeatist he claimed I was. “Sure,” I told him. “That sounds fine.”
“No store bought food either, Patrick,” he warned. “So don’t go to Mariano’s or Whole Foods and pick up some pre-made meal because I’ll know. I want something cooked by you and only you.”
“Okay,” I said even though in my mind, I repeated the mantra prepare to be disappointed.
* * * *
As the days passed following Clay’s cooking challenge, I grew more and more worried about Friday’s meal. Even though he’d given me a seemingly easy task, I was still worried I’d fuck things up. I never worried about my own cooking because I was usually the only one eating it. What did I care if my chicken was a little charred or my vegetables were overcooked? I ignored these flaws and ate the food anyway. But cooking for someone else, especially someone like Clay who truly put a good deal of time and thought into the meals he prepared, made me nervous. I knew my food would never be as good as his. Even his claim that he didn’t have a highfalutin palette didn’t reassure me because I knew I could mess up something as simple as spaghetti by overcooking the noodles and then drowning them in some thin, cheap, mass-produced sauce that I’d gotten on sale at the grocery store. I imagined Clay suffering through my meal and telling me it was “great” to try and make me feel better even though he truthfully hated it. To me, that was worse than him just admitting he didn’t like my cooking. I’d rather be given the cold, hard truth instead of a lie.
I took Friday afternoon off from work so I’d have enough time to get dinner together before Clay showed up at seven. I’d spent more than a little time surfing the internet for recipes before finally deciding on baked ziti, a pasta dish I thought would be simple enough for me to make without fucking it up. Although I’d assured Clay I’d cook dinner myself and not buy something already prepared, I did break down and get a pre-made salad from the deli section at the grocery store. But, in my defense, I only did it because I wanted to make sure I’d have enough time to devote to the main meal. I didn’t want to have to spend time chopping lettuce, carrots, and whatever else was going into the salad. I also picked up some gelato for dessert before heading home. Since I’d specifically asked Clay not to provide any dessert, I decided to provide something myself that wasn’t as calorie-laden as his delicious cakes.
I’d just finished pouring the salad from its store-bought container into a salad bowl when Clay arrived at my condo a little before seven. He was carrying a bottle of wine, as promised, and wearing khakis and a blue polo shirt.
“Well, it certainly smells good in here,” he said as I took the bottle from him. “That’s a promising sign, right?”
I nodded. “Right.”
“So everything went okay?”
“Everything went fine.”
“I’m glad. I was afraid I’d come here and find you with your head in the oven or something.”
I was afraid of that, too, I thought.
We had some wine and then sat down for dinner. As much as I tried not to watch Clay and read his reaction to the food, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to be able to tell if he liked something or not. At one point during dinner, he put his fork down and said, “Stop watching me, Patrick.”
“I’m not!” I lied.
“Yes, you are and it’s making me nervous. The food is fine. I like it. No complaints, okay?”
“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
“No. Believe me, if I didn’t like it, I’d tell you, okay?”
I started to relax. “Okay.”
* * * *
After the success of my baked ziti, I felt more confident about making an occasional meal for me and Clay to enjoy. He still did the majority of the cooking when we got together, but I contributed sometimes. I stuck to pasta dishes initially, but decided one night to try something more daring. Knowing Clay liked crab cakes, I got a recipe from the internet, purchased the needed ingredients, and got to work on making some. Since I wasn’t a fan of seafood, I decided to make a burger for myself.
The meal was uneventful.
Clay said the crab cakes were “a little soggy” but okay and he thanked me for making the effort. Maybe an hour after we’d eaten while I was loading the dishwasher, Clay told me he didn’t feel well.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Everything,” he said vaguely. “I’m going to bed.”
Figuring he was just exhausted from work, I finished loading the dishwasher and cleaning up the kitchen. I was about to take the garbage out when the sound of retching suddenly filled the room. I left the kitchen and found Clay in the bathroom on his knees barfing into the toilet. A flood of emotions swelled inside of me. I feared that my “soggy” crab cakes had sickened him. Seeing Clay upchucking his dinner into the toilet disgusted me and I was ashamed of my disgust. I also felt helpless because I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I managed to open my mouth and say something.
“Are you okay?” As soon as I’d asked the question, I regretted it.
Clay stopped retching long enough to look at me and say, “No, I’m not.” He heaved again and spat before flushing the toilet and groaning. “Fuck. It’s about to start coming out the other end.”
He waved me out of the room then and I closed the door behind me before retreating to the living room. I called my mother. As a nurse, I figured she’d know what to do. After I explained everything that had happened, she asked some questions. Did Clay have both vomiting and diarrhea? Yes. Had he tried to take any medication or drink any fluids since the illness started? I didn’t think so.
“He needs to stay hydrated,” she told me. “Even if he can’t keep anything down now, as soon as he’s able, he needs to start taking in liquids.” She suggested water, Gatorade, and Pedialyte.
“Do you think the crab cakes did this to him?” I asked her. “He said they were a little soggy. Maybe I didn’t cook them long enough.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with these stomach things. It could have been the crab cakes or something he ate earlier.”
“I’d hate to think I made him sick, Mom.”
“I’m sure he won’t blame you. How are you feeling? Are you sick, too?”
“No. I didn’t eat the crab cakes. You know I’m not crazy about seafood.”
“Then why did you make crab cakes for him?”
“Because he likes them and I wanted to cook something he liked for dinner.”
“I’ve never known you to be someone who cooked, Patrick. You hate cooking and, don’t get upset, but you’re not very good at it either.”
“I realize that, Mom.”
“I just don’t understand why you’d cook a meal for your boyfriend when you hate cooking and don’t cook very well. It makes no sense to me.”
“Because Clay usually does the cooking for us and I wanted to make a good meal for him. But now I’ve poisoned him and he probably hates me and I really don’t blame him if he does.”
“Oh, Patrick, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”
“I feel terrible, Mom.”
When I heard the bathroom door open, I told my mother I’d talk to her later and hung up. I got up and found Clay in the bedroom sprawled across the bed. He looked terrible. His white shirt was stained with vomit, his pants were undone, and his face was red and sweaty. I sat down beside him on the bed and asked how he felt.
“Like shit, pun intended,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“You ought to be. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were trying to kill me.”
My heart sank. “What a terrible thing to say. Jesus, Clay, don’t you think I feel bad enough already?”
“I’m sure you don’t feel half as bad as I do. I’m the one who’s been cramped over the toilet for the last half hour.” He sat up and looked at me. “Don’t ever cook for me again.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do mean it.”
My mood went from sorrow to anger in mere seconds. “How do you even know the food I cooked made you sick? It could have been something you ate earlier.”
He shook his head. “It was those crab cakes.”
I was about to try again to defend myself against his allegations, but he groaned and dragged himself back to the bathroom before I had the chance.
While Clay was locked in the bathroom, I told him I was going to the drug store to pick up some Gatorade and medicine for him. His only response was to flush the toilet.
When I returned about half an hour later with Gatorade and diarrhea medication, I was surprised to find the bathroom cleaned and empty. The toilet had been scrubbed, the floor had been mopped, and the shower had been used and cleaned afterward also. The smell of soap and disinfectant filled the room rather than vomit and shit. When I went to the bedroom, Clay was in bed with the covers half on and half off. He’d showered and changed into a clean T-shirt and pajama pants. Since Clay and I had started seeing each other regularly, he kept some clothing and toiletries at my place rather than schlepping a bag back and forth between his apartment and mine and I did the same when staying at his place.
I looked at Clay as I sat down beside him on the bed. His hair was still damp and, although he still looked like hell, he smelled great, like soap and shampoo.
“I brought you some Gatorade and Imodium,” I told him as I put the items on the night stand next to him.
“Thank you,” he said.
He took the medicine and drank some of the Gatorade before pulling the covers up under his chin. “I think the worst is over now,” he said.
“That’s good.”
“I cleaned the bathroom.”
“I noticed. Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh, yes I did. It was starting to look and smell like a men’s room at the bus station.”
Clay’s eyes kept opening and closing and I could tell he was struggling to stay awake. All of that barfing, shitting, and cleaning must have exhausted him. I was about to leave him and go camp out on the living room sofa when he grabbed my arm. “Don’t go.”
“You need to rest. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“No,” he said. “Stay here with me. I’m sorry I snapped at you, Patrick. Illness tends to make me act like a jerk.”
“I’m sorry, too. I hate to think that I made you sick.”
“You might not have. Maybe it was something I ate earlier and the crab cakes were just the final nail in the coffin. Who knows?”
“I’m still sorry. I didn’t mean for our evening together to go like this.”
“Neither did I, but here we are.”
I hesitated before asking Clay, “Did you mean what you said about me never cooking for you again?”
He smiled and closed his eyes before answering, “Yes.”
* * * *
I didn’t cook for Clay again after that night. Well, that’s not entirely true. I cooked, but only while he was there to supervise. We made meals together, but he ran the show. He’d tell me what to do (season the meat, bake the bread, whatever) and I did it, but I never cooked another full meal for him and he stopped eating crab cakes all together. He claimed the mere sight of them made him ill.
When my birthday rolled around about a month or so after the crab cake debacle, Clay told me he wanted to take me out for dinner to celebrate the occasion. We met for drinks and then had dinner at a restaurant downtown. After dinner, we were going to his apartment where I expected both sex and cake, though not necessarily in that order. Throughout dinner, I’d been thinking about what kind of birthday cake Clay would present me with. A traditional yellow cake with chocolate frosting or something entirely different like a rum cake? Clay had said nothing about cake during dinner and when the waiter asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu, I declined, telling him that we were having cake later. Clay didn’t dispute what I’d said, but after the waiter left, he asked me, “Would you be upset if I told you I didn’t make a cake for your birthday?”
I stared at him across the table. Was this some kind of joke?
“What kind of question is
that?” I asked. “You know I’d be upset. I’ve been looking forward to having cake all day.”
Clay frowned. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to make a cake for your birthday,” he said. Then he explained how he’d been really busy at work and just couldn’t “get it together” to make a cake for me. He spoke with such sincerity that I almost believed him…almost.
“You’re lying,” I told him. “I know you made a cake.”
“Are you sure you don’t want something for dessert here at the restaurant? They have an excellent caramel pie.”
“I don’t want their caramel pie. I want cake…your cake.”
Clay’s lips formed into a tight, closed smile for a moment before he spoke. “I told you, there is no cake.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. There’s always cake with you.”
After dinner, Clay and I hopped a cab back to his place and I immediately noticed there was no scent of cake in the air. His apartment smelled of cleaning products, not food.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked after hanging our jackets in the coat closet.
“No. I want some cake. My birthday cake.”
“There’s no cake, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll make one for you tomorrow.”
“But my birthday is today.” I knew I sounded like a spoiled brat, but I just failed to believe Clay hadn’t made a cake for my birthday. I figured he was joking with me. I went to the kitchen and checked for cake. There was no cake on the cake plate on the counter, no cake in or on top of the fridge, no cake in the freezer, no cake in the cabinets.
“Are you finished looking for cake that isn’t there?” Clay asked.
I looked at him leaning in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. He looked so hot and sexy I almost let the whole birthday cake thing go…almost.
“Where’s the cake, Clay?”
“There is no cake. I’m sorry. I really didn’t think it would be that big of a deal for you.” He sighed. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
And, with that, I gave up and went to bed with Clay. We had sex that was great, but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed over the cake, or lack thereof. Clay made cakes for no reason: it was Friday, he felt like it, the sun was shining, whatever, but he couldn’t make a cake for my birthday? Maybe I’d been spoiled. Maybe he figured he’d made enough cakes for me already and the whole thing had lost its luster.
