Page 21 of Wild About You
I vaguely register Burke’s explanation to Finn that anything that could help the team member doing the cooking, even if phrased as a question, counts as a save. But I’m more focused on making this save count for something. A fruitless effort, as far as I can tell. When I lift the pot to check, the burner is completely uncovered, though I can see a metal flap that could presumably slide over the flames to reduce the heat. Otherwise, I find nothing that would keep the stove from heating up the water as fast as it can.
Maybe, I think optimistically, this will teach Finn to shut his damn mouth for a minute and let me do my thing.
Maybe, I decide ten minutes later, after he’s used both remaining saves to offer suggestions as unnecessary as his first, I can use my mushrooms and noodles to spell out HELP ME on Seb’s plate, and he’ll whisk me away from this nightmare. Back to civilization and a Finn-free future and, if I’m lucky, Seb’s kitchen, where he’ll feed me consolation desserts.
It’s a lovely vision, one I latch onto to keep myself from falling into complete despair as I mindlessly stir the pasta. Finn apparently needed to take a lap, after unintentionally using his last save to shout “Why are you cutting up the mushrooms?” He didn’t even talk back to Burke this time, just silently stormed off to the other side of the clearing. Screw Natalie and any questions she needs answered from the recipe, I guess!
“How’s it hanging over there?” Harper asks, and I look over to see her waiting for her noodles to boil, offering me a small, sympathetic smile.
“By a thread, basically,” I call back. “You?”
“We’re good.” She glances at Evan, who has even more pity in their eyes when they give me two thumbs up. “So are you! You got this. And if he doesn’t come back, maybe we can be the first Wild Adventures throuple.”
That makes me laugh and helps bring my blood pressure down even more than a hot chef daydream. I’m not losing it. I haven’t set anything on fire or poisoned anyone, and people who are not my partner still like me, dammit.
By the time I try a noodle and decide they’re done boiling, Finn has returned, looking marginally less unraveled than when he walked away.
“Okay, so I probably drain the water out of the pot now, right?” I ask, welcoming him back with an opportunity to (a) correct me if I’m wrong, while (b) not breaking and rules or (c) making me feel like draining said water directly over his head. When he opens his mouth, I add, just in case, “Yes or no!”
His lips form a flat line, eyes narrowing for a moment before he nods. “Yes.”
He can stay mad, but I’m not letting us get disqualified with a fourth save I don’t need.
For the remainder of the cooking process, I pretend I’m Reese in one of her Friends of Flavor videos. I narrate everything I’m doing, rambling a bunch of nonsense to the camera about my favorite ways to prepare mushrooms when, in fact, I’ve never prepared mushrooms in my life. I confirm each step with Finn, who has finally gotten the hang of this yes-or-no-answer concept, but still has no poker face.
“What, is this not when I add the eggs?” I ask, holding the bowl I just cracked a bunch of eggs into frozen in mid-air when I catch his wince.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I purse my lips, considering my stove station. “Do I…add the cheese first?”
He rolls his lips between his teeth and shakes his head again, brow furrowed so intensely I worry it might get stuck that way if I don’t figure this out quickly. When I’m about to throw my hands up and dump the eggs in the pot anyway, Evan’s voice rings out, louder than it’s been in a while.
“Harp, you’re going to want to turn the heat down so your noodles don’t burn and the egg mixture doesn’t cook too fast.”
I don’t know how everyone else is playing this thing, but I’ve had a hard enough time with managing my own station and communicating with Finn; I can’t imagine how confusing it would’ve been to try to follow other teams’ exchanges and snag any tips, even if that’s a smart way to play the game. But something about Evan’s slightly robotic delivery feels like it was meant for me to hear.
This suspicion is confirmed when I look to Harper’s station, and see she’s nearly ready to plate her carbonara, clearly having passed the step of adding eggs a while ago. My eyes dart between her and Evan, both of whom seem to deliberately avoid my gaze. Fine, be that way, I think as a swell of confused emotion rises in my chest and I lift my pot of noodles from the burner and slide the metal piece over it halfway to lower the heat. But good luck avoiding my hug attacks of gratitude when this challenge is through!
Though it seemed impossible for a while there, I finally end up with a pasta dish that appears edible and probably nontoxic. I do the best I can to plate it nicely on our collapsible camping dishes, swirling the fettuccine noodles to make a little circular pasta pile on each, dotted with the mushrooms I might or might not have needed to chop into smaller pieces. I garnish both plates with parsley, because there was parsley in my bear canister, and I haven’t used it for anything else, so…
“This looks gourmet as fuck,” I say reverently when I’m done, pointing with my tongs at the steaming plate-bowls. Then I remember my surroundings and grimace toward the closest camera. “Shit, sorry! I mean—oh, bleep me as you must, whoever eventually edits this. I’m just too excited.”
When I chance a look at Finn, who’s been quiet for a while, I’m surprised to find the ghost of a smile on his face.
When time runs out, Burke clearly relishes his chance to act like the host of an entirely different reality TV genre. “And time…is…UP, people! Step away from your stoves, utensils down, no more fiddling with the food!”
Live out those dreams, Burkey.
Finn and I each hold a plate of pasta while we stand with the other teams in the Signature Semicircle of Wild Co-EdVenturers around the folding table that’s been set up for judging, covered by a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. As Burke calls teams up one at a time to have their mushroom carbonaras tasted and critiqued by him and Seb, my palms start to sweat so much, I worry the plate might slip out of my hands. I can barely hear their feedback over the sound of my own heartbeat thumping in my ears, and my mouth has gone dry.
And for what? I ask myself, as if I’ve ever been able to reason with this bitch. This isn’t even an elimination yet! Worst-case scenario, you can tap into your inner track star and sprint to the checkpoint tomorrow!
Finn has to nudge me with his elbow when it’s our turn, because I don’t immediately start toward the table with him. When I do, it’s on wobbly legs that I hope get cropped out of the final footage.
“This looks delicious,” Seb says.
Want to get married? I say back in my mind.