Page 99 of The Lineman

I did not grab the salt.

I grabbed the sugar.

By the time I realized my mistake, my sauce tasted like ketchup made for toddlers who had never known sadness—or sleep.

I squinted at the pot. “Maybe it’s . . . gourmet? Did I just create something new and bougie? Will they feature this in magazines or on TV?”

No. No, it was not gourmet.

Fine. Whatever. Cheese fixed everything, right?

I started the béchamel sauce, feeling unstoppable. A king in his kitchen. A culinary icon.

“Gordon Fucking Ramsay!” I shouted like my face was painted blue and I stood on the set ofBraveheart.

Then, as I whisked the butter and flour together, I sneezed.

The flour billowed like the massive mushroom of a nuclear explosion. It drifted down in slow motion, coating my shirt, my face, and—somehow—the ceiling fan. How was that even possible?

Okay. No big deal. Flour is manageable.

Then I added the milk.

Too fast.

It sloshed out of the pan and onto the burner, creating a hissing, burning mess that smelled like fading dreams.

I groaned, stirring aggressively. “I am so bad at this.”

Then, the noodles.

“Why not?” I said to no one. “Everything else is going so well.”

Fun fact: Fresh pasta cooks faster than the boxed stuff.

Funner fact: I forgot that.

Eight minutes in, my noodles had melted into an unidentifiable blob that looked less like pasta and more like something that might start speaking in tongues if I prodded it.

I kept going, because quitting was for cowards.

I assembled the lasagna, layering the weirdly sweet tomato sauce, goopy béchamel, cheese that had been traumatized rather than aged, and noodles that had lost the will to exist, then shoved it into the oven and prayed to every god I could think of.

Homer whined at my feet.

“I know, buddy. Daddy’s cooking. I promise you’ll get your Farmer’s Dog.” Glancing down at my masterpiece, I added, “You okay if Daddy needs to share?”

He whimpered one last time, tucked his tail, and shuffled into the den.

Fifteen minutes later, the smell of burning cheese and undigestiblesomethingfilled my kitchen.

I ran from the bedroom into the kitchen.

Smoke was pouring out of the oven.

“Oh, come on!”

I grabbed an oven mitt and flung the door open.

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