Over time, my cooking skills started to improve. The project of the day I started my painting in the remodeled den was karahi chicken. I poured in a tablespoon of oil and slowly sautéed green chilies and ginger. Next I added the diced tomatoes and chicken to the sizzling combo, feeling more confident by the minute. I turned around and nearly jumped when I saw Faizan standing there, arms crossed over his chest, looking at me intently.
“You look so beautiful when you are engrossed,” he remarked, glancing inside the pot and nodding his approval at the sight.
“You scared me.” I frowned at him, mildly irritated. He didn’t realize what an effort cooking was to me and how seriously I took it. I didn’t have lofty goals of perfection, only a desire to create edible meals. “Don’t you have anything
