Cooking Mama
Aradia had grown up on a planet heavily influenced by American culture, however, the Megido household was dominated by Japanese traditions. Rice was a culinary staple in their kitchen and was the first thing she learned to cook on her own. Granted, cooking rice was not entirely difficult, not when all you had to do was measure out the correct amount of grain and water to put into a rice cooker, but five year old Aradia had been very proud of herself, especially since her sister, seven at the time, hadn’t figured it out. Plus, a hot bowl of rice was much more satisfying for an empty stomachs then her elder sister’s attempts at a meal, which mainly consisted of burnt toast. Damara was not an especially good cook and that was if she was being kind about her sister’s abilities in the kitchen. Aradia, on the other hand, inherited her mother’s culinary skill, which were further fostered out of necessity. At one point, home cooked meals were the norm in the Megido home, but her mother’s drive to be a stereotypical good house wife waned.
Due to the circumstances, Aradia’s cooking skill set was entirely limited to Japanese cuisine. Their kitchen had mainly been stocked with staples for Japanese food and any cookbooks around the house were in her mother’s native tongue. For a while now, she had wanted to broaden her culinary repertoire, mainly for her own gain and also because two certain neighbors kept complaining about the lack of variety in her cooking. Eridan still turned his nose up at rice and Sollux would prefer to have a feeder bag of Doritos attached to his face. As much as she argued and called them jackasses, Aradia really did want to learn to cook more. So, when she had learned that a cooking class was being offered as a course at Crocker Institute, she jumped on the opportunity and enrolled.
Knowing the importance of keeping one’s hair out of the way while cooking, Aradia had attempted to tame her locks into a braid, which turned into a fiasco as the task was much more difficult than she had anticipated. Aradia had struggled for a good thirty minutes, cursing as she fumbled with her hair and grumbling over how easy Feferi made the task seem; however, she had eventually succeeded into weaving her hair into something presentable, although the tresses still looked rather unruly and wild. She was wearing a very old sweater, which had once been a deep maroon, but was now faded and wearing thin at the elbows. It was comfortable and Aradia could not be convinced to part with the knitted fabric. Double checking the number, she waltzed into the room and paused mid stride. The sight was glorious, the room gleamed, every piece of equipment looking new and pristine. “Wow,” she said, letting out a sharp whistle as she took in the room, everything was state of the art, leaving her utterly awed. Briefly, she wondered if the head mistress was so rich that she just had everything replaced after it was used.
