Autobiography

Quiche Sans Homme

Two nights ago I was exhausted. It would have been a great night to go get some McDo. But I’m so over fast food it’s not even funny. I decided to go ahead and make quichettes.

An important part of this story is that I take fluoxetine. It helps immensely with my mood swings and anger flashes.

I’ve been off of my fluoxetine for few weeks since we’ve been moving. I haven’t had time to go to the pharmacy.

Back to quiche.

My boyfriend and I have been cooking together for years. Many years. Almost a decade but I don’t even want to realize I’m that old years. We both know how to cook.

But I was so tired, I asked him to help me with the quichettes.

I asked him to do the eggs. 8 eggs total. Four whites and four whole.

“Do the eggs need to be separate,” he asked.
“No,” I replied.

I watched him separate the whites and crack the four whole eggs. Then I went about searching for muffin cups.

He handed me the egg batter and right away I began filling my quichettes. It seemed though, there was not enough batter. My anger bubbled. That’s the sort of thing that doesn’t bother me when I’m on my meds. I said aloud that there wasn’t really enough batter, and I assumed it was just the cheese I had omitted… Not making a recipe perfectly agitates me. Imperfection frustrates me.

Not being listened to frustrates me as well and he had been trying to stuff eggshells down the sink drain when I asked him to put them in a bag instead.

Then I assembled the spinach filling.
Then I put on the turkey bacon.
The first pan went into the oven.

“What are the egg whites for,” my boyfriend asked.
I turned to see half the egg batter, what had been missing, in a red bowl behind me.

At that point I went and laid myself in the bed.

In his defense he tried to fix it. He emptied the muffin cups back in a bowl and dumped the missing whites in. But it was too late, the batter was an ugly brown mess that cooked up even uglier.

I cried. I yelled. He yelled. I tried to sleep on the floor in the living room… He went to bed without supper.

He didn’t kiss me goodbye the next morning, though he said he just forgot.

There is no moral to this story. I made quichettes tonight without him in the kitchen and they came out great and we are happy again.

the end.

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