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I test the edge against my thumb. Still sharp enough to split a hair.

Deep breath. Focus.

The first cut splits a carrot. Too fast. The pieces scatter across the granite, uneven and ragged. Amateur hour.

I have to ease back into it, find my rhythm.

Another carrot. Slower this time. The knife catches, jerks. More chunks fly. These cuts would get me fired from any decent kitchen.

My hands shake. When did they start shaking?

The onion’s worse. The pieces come out thick on one end, paper-thin on the other. Nothing uniform, nothing precise. Nothing like what Mom taught me.

Take your time, cookie. Let the knife do the work.

But it feels wrong in my grip, as if it belongs to someone else. Someone who didn’t walk away. Someone who didn’t let their father’s words poison everything they loved.

The celery snaps instead of slices. My grip on the handle stiffens, and more green shards scatter like shrapnel across the counter.

Mom always said cooking was about love. But right now, all I taste is fear.

“What if I can’t make it taste like love anymore?”

I grab another stalk. Try again. The cuts are rushed, desperate.

“Shit. Shit. SHIT.”

The knife clatters against the counter, and I brace myself against the edge, knuckles white, breathing hard. The scattered vegetables paint a picture of failure.

Mom would be ashamed. Dad would say he told me so. And Elijah, fuck, what was I thinking, agreeing to cook for him?

This has to be perfect, to prove that I deserve my own restaurant, and that I’m not just playing chef while hiding from Dad’s legacy.

“Fuck it.” I sweep the mangled vegetables into a pile. Not perfect, but they’ll still taste the same.

Taste is what matters.

I grab a heavy-bottomed pan from the rack.

The vegetables go in first. Even butchered, they release that perfect sizzle against hot oil. This, at least, I haven’t forgotten.

With each stir, the aroma deepens, caramelized onions, earthy carrots softening, and bright celery melding into the mix.

A splash of wine deglazes the pan, the sizzle and steam rising like music.

“That’s more like it.” My hands are steady as I add thyme first, then rosemary, letting it sit.

Meanwhile, I pat the meat dry, seasoning it generously with salt and pepper, promising that perfect crust.

“Look at you,” I whisper as it simmers in a fresh pan, waiting for that telltale color change that signals it’s time to flip. “Fucking beautiful.”

That perfect sear, that’s what separates the amateurs from the pros.

I pull out my best plate, white porcelain, when it’s ready. Presentation is another important part. The vegetables create a bed, arranged just so, with a drizzle of sauce at the edge.

Now for the star of the show.

“Easy.” I lift the pan, tilting it just enough to let the meat slide toward the edge. My hands remember a move I used to do, a little flip that would position the meat perfectly centered.

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