The oil was hot I could hear

The oil was hot. I could hear

the small crackling sound. The fear

that I'd mess this up. The smell

of garlic and heat rose as well.

I was following a recipe

from a phone screen, trying to see

if this step came before that one.

Trying not to let something come undone.

No one was coming to take

over. No one would make

this meal for me. No one would say

let me handle it today.

I stood at the stove, learning

what survival tastes like. Burning

or perfect. I couldn't tell which.

I was standing in this ditch.

I stood in my own kitchen

knowing this was the mission:

stand in front of a hot pan

and know that if I can't, I can't.

If you mess this up, you don't eat.

If you fail, you face the heat.

This is what alone means.

This is what comes between.

When it was done, I plated it.

It looked like food. I ate it.

It tasted like necessity.

Like this is what I have to do now.