The timer goes off, so I grab my kitchen towel and open the oven. The vegetables look juicy and caramelised in the pan and the chicken looks crispy and golden roasted. Using the towel, I grab the pan at both ends and remove it from the oven, but as I carry it to the counter, the towel slips off the edge and I feel the pan searing my hand.
“s**t! Ow! Motherfuck!” I resist the urge to toss the pan and quickly place it down on a cooling rack, move to the sink and place my hand under cold running water.
Before I even register the shift in the room, the burning of my hand is replaced by a soothing burn as Jartre appears out of nowhere, pulling my hand out from under the faucet, his touch immediately easing the stinging burn of my hand.
“You’re hurt,” he frets, examining my hand with a furrow
