Chapter 3 - THE COST OF HOSPITALITY
Friday evening was usually a time of bustling activity in the apartment.
Jenna would normally be returning from the market with bags of fresh herbs,
prime cuts of meat,
and bottles of expensive wine.
But tonight,
she came home with a single,
small bag containing a salad for one and a light piece of fish.
Scott was sitting at the dining table,
surrounded by grocery store circulars and a calculator.
His face was pale,
and he looked like he had been doing complex calculus for hours.
The prices of food had clearly shocked him.
He had never realized that the weekly dinners Jenna hosted cost upwards of four hundred dollars once you factored in the drinks and desserts.
Jenna walked past him,
her heels clicking on the hardwood,
and went straight to the kitchen to prepare her modest meal.
Scott followed her,
his voice hushed and desperate.
Jenna,
about tomorrow,
he started,
wringing his hands.
Mom and the kids are coming,
and I...
I didn't realize how much beef is per pound these days.
Jenna turned on the faucet,
the sound of the water masking her internal laughter.
It’s expensive to be a provider,
isn't it?
she asked,
glancing at him over her shoulder.
But you were so insistent on independence,
and I wouldn't want to insult you by offering a handout.
I'm sure you'll find a way to make it work,
she added,
patting his arm.
Maybe you can serve something more...
budget-friendly.
Pasta with store-brand sauce can be quite filling,
I hear.
Scott looked horrified at the suggestion.
My mother expects the roast,
Jenna!
She brings the containers for the leftovers!
Jenna shrugged,
turning back to her fish.
Then I suggest you head to the store now before they close,
she said.
I’ll be in the bedroom reading a book,
so the kitchen is all yours for the prep work.
Scott spent the next three hours in the kitchen,
a place he usually only visited to find a clean plate.
He struggled to chop onions,
his eyes tearing up in a way that wasn't entirely due to the vegetables.
He had bought a cheaper,
tougher cut of meat,
and he had no idea how to season it.
He realized they were out of olive oil—the expensive bottle he usually used was empty,
and Jenna hadn't replaced it.
He had to run back to the store,
grumbling about the five dollars it cost for a small,
greasy bottle of vegetable oil.
By midnight,
the kitchen was a disaster area,
and the smell coming from the oven was nothing like the heavenly aroma Jenna usually produced.
He was exhausted,
May you like
broke,
and terrified of the judgment that was coming at one o'clock the next day.
