Makayla, The Cook

The house was positively clouding with the aroma of delicious food. With an apron thrown on, hair pulled up into a bun and a spatula in hand, I was totally rocking the image of a cook-book lady. I could hear loud footsteps sound down the hallway and without delay, dad’s head popped into the kitchen for the billionth time today.

“Smells good, May,” he commented, sniffing the air. “Looks good too,” he said, gesturing at the kitchen counter where I’d already set the completed cranberry sauce, and green peas salad. I gave him a stern glare and raised my hands up in the air, flicking my palms back and forth in shooing motions.

“I told you you can’t come into the kitchen until I’m done cooking!”

Dad let out his booming, hearty laugh and stepped in, brown eyes twinkling happily at the sight of his daughter cooking up a Thanksgiving meal. “You’ve been in here for hours now. Are you sure you don’t need a helping hand?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrow raised. “Really?”

“Positive. Now go.” I started to push him out of the kitchen, hearing him chuckle ‘alright, alright’.

“I’ll be in here, watching the game, not spying on your cooking.”

The disadvantage of having an open kitchen that connected to the dining and living room was that anyone could see what I was preparing. I wanted the meal to be a surprise to dad but I could tell from the head popping up and disappearing behind the couch that he didn’t want a surprise. I bet his nose told him more than his eyes ever could.

The clock on the microwave read a quarter past four which gave me another 45 minutes to get everything ready. Determined, I turned back to the task at hand and continued to work on finishing the rest of the cooking.

The End

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