The meal was supposed to burn.
I learned from a young age how to make myself consumable; softer on the palette, smoother on the tongue. I became something you could taste without flinching. Fluent in moderation: a spoonful of longing, a pinch of restraint, everything measured, never spilled.
I turned my love into something warm and bubbling, stewing gently on the hob, never truly allowed to overflow. My anger, red hot and searing, was mashed into something good enough to serve. Grief reduced down to silence, thick and sticky but easy to ignore. Apathy rationed, a drizzle rather than a pour.
There is no room for dignity when desperation exists so wholly within me. I have spent years perfecting the recipe, learning where to salt, who to sweeten, what to bury under the broth. So much of my muchness, left unspoken. A pot left to simmer.
But even the most careful hands slip. The heat gets away from you. Something burns - sharp and bitter, impossible to disguise; not in a blaze, but in a slow, silent undoing. Something separates. Timing falters. Somewhere, something has curled and soured. We start again, convinced that next time we’ll get it right. Some flavours can’t be saved once they’ve touched the flame.
Perhaps the meal was supposed to burn. Perhaps that was the point.