Embarrassed and scared, I stashed the burnt veggies into the dustbin and eyed the remaining stock. There wasn’t much left now after over-cooking the soup four times in a row. I had a shameful confession to make: I did not know how to cook. In my defence, my mother never bothered to teach me, or simply, I never wished to learn. I could do other chores though—washing, laundry, cleaning, mopping, or even repainting the whole house—but cooking? I couldn’t fix a sandwich to save my life.
And now, I was saving my life.
If this kept up, I hardly thought Judas would let me leave after emptying his fridge and ruining three of his pots.
Heaving a defeated sigh, I shook my head in frustration. Cook? What the hell did he want me to cook? Or better, why did he want me to cook? What games he was play
