As the days passed following Clay’s cooking challenge, I grew more and more worried about Friday’s meal. Even though he’d given me a seemingly easy task, I was still worried I’d f**k things up. I never worried about my own cooking because I was usually the only one eating it. What did I care if my chicken was a little charred or my vegetables were overcooked? I ignored these flaws and ate the food anyway. But cooking for someone else, especially someone like Clay who truly put a good deal of time and thought into the meals he prepared, made me nervous. I knew my food would never be as good as his. Even his claim that he didn’t have a highfalutin palette didn’t reassure me because I knew I could mess up something as simple as spaghetti by overcooking the noodles and then drowning them in so
