Dare to Love My Grumpy Boss by Ellie Hall

5

Cora

Alittle buzz of excitement brings a smile to my face that just won’t quit. As I gently fold blueberries into the pancake mixture, my grin grows—it’s one of those amused kinds that I only realize I wear when my cheeks strain like I’m at the dentist for a cleaning and have been holding my mouth open for too long.

As I test the heat on the griddle, the upturn of my lips becomes irrepressible. Even as I overcook the first blueberry ricotta pancake with a hint of lemon, I just can’t wipe the smile off my face.

Do I feel like a dork? Yes, yes I do.

Am I ashamed? Not. At. All.

It’s been a while since I’ve worn a giddy smile.

Coming from the front door, Mila calls, “It smells delicious. I knew staying with you in this city with overpriced rent would have its benefits.”

I chuckle. Leases in Boston are wicked expensive, as they say here. Even though there are loads of restaurants, I don’t spend much on dining out or takeout, so I save money on overpriced food. Rather, every second of my spare time, I create recipes, photograph them, and post them on my blog and social media.

“I told you, you do not have to contribute,” I say.

The flat look Mila gives me is a reminder that we’ve already discussed the issue of her not having to contribute to rent at length. “I am not a freeloader.”

“I know, but—”

“Ooh, I see you got the expensive French cheese.” Mila tries pronouncing the name but butchers it, not that I could do much better.

“Paws off. I’m saving it for a recipe and before you ask, yes, I’ll save you some.”

“You know, I can pitch in for groceries since you practically feed me.”

The chocolate and cheese do add up. We don’t talk about redit-cay ills-bay.

“We’re even. You get an award for saving me from spiders,” I say.

I carefully take the second, and perfectly cooked, pancake off the heat and set it on a plate. I blow a stray hair from my face. “I always forget the first pancake is like a sacrifice to the pan. It never turns out quite right. The second one on the other hand...” I waggle my eyebrows at the disc-o-perfection.

Mila grabs the discarded one from another plate and tears into it. “Consider it a sacrifice to me. Goddess of good food. Omigoshthisissodelicious.”

“And that’s why you’re a terrible taste tester,” I tease as I finish up making the rest of the pancakes. “You tell me everything is delicious.”

“That’s because it’s true.”

I cock my head. “You’re aware I have an entire page on my website called ‘#FoodFails,’ right?”

She waves her hand like that’s neither here nor there.

“The souffle with the center like molten lava and the exterior of a basalt cliff? The rice brick? There was also the time I melted the cutting board to the heating element on the stovetop and had to replace it before the landlord found out. Oh, and the chocolate-covered frozen bananas of which we-shall-never-speak.”

“The real failure would be if I were in the apron. We’d starve to death, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll even eat your fails because they’re delish-ical.”

“Delish-ical? That’s a good one.”

Mila half-smiles. It’s rare to get a full one out of her. “A combo of delicious and radical.”

The made-up word carries me to the conversation with @PacManWizard. We Lol-ed about what foods should never be combined. I let him get away with spaghetti and ketchup because college was expensive and ketchup is technically in the same family as marinara sauce. Also, he vowed never to eat it again.

He also said he once had a hamburger with peanut butter on it, which actually inspired me to try making one with Thai peanut sauce, spicy peppers, and a few other toppings. He also suggested peanut butter and bacon, which, I’m not going to lie, doesn’t sound half bad. Bacon wins every time.

Then we went on a tangent—a cookie cheeseburger. You put a burger with cheese in between a pair of chocolate chip cookies instead of buns. That’s a misdemeanor in my book. But it seems like the guy likes his meat.

...And it seems as if maybe he likes me. I mean, he did say he would be lonely without me on the HUB when I was at the wedding. As they say, absence makes the heart grow...

Yes, he’s the source of my giddy grin, but I wipe the smile off my face because I’m supposed to be focusing on the griddle.

We also dared each other to try the grossest things we could think of. He’s going to report back with a pickle split—pickles in place of bananas on a sundae. And I got stuck with a pancake burger, which is what inspired today’s breakfast, sort of.

Speaking of dares...

No, I’m not going to think about @PacManWizard. Cooking is my rare and precious time when I force myself not to think or do anything digital—I even have old-fashioned brass scales for measuring ingredients.

“Yup, delish-ical,” Mila repeats around a bite.

“Like radical.”

She nods and takes another bite.

“So you’re bringing back eighties expressions?”

“Keepin’ it real,” Mila says.

“Isn’t that a nineties saying?”

She shoots the air with a pair of fingers guns at me like I got it right.

“In that case, likewise. I’m keepin’ it real, hence the #FoodFails page.” I jerk back to the stove because I don’t want these pancakes to end up in the blog graveyard.

After I successfully cook three more pancakes, I place a dollop of whipped ricotta on top of the short stack, top it with a few more blueberries, a twist of grated lemon zest, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a drizzle of honey. “We’re almost ready to try them.”

“I know, I know. You have to take pictures first,” Mila says, well-aware of the drill.

“The recipe is unconventional, but I think it’s a keeper, at least visually.”

Taking family favorites and comfort food then enhancing them is my thing—my “brand,” as they say in internet marketing, which is an aspect of my hobby that I’m still getting used to. My passion for cooking and sharing food comes from the heart, and it’s hard for me to think of it as a potential business. Yet, my social media and blog followers are hungry for more content and recipes—no pun intended. I took a photography course in college because I needed another credit. Who knew it would’ve paid off. I’m not a professional photographer or cook by any stretch, but I know my way around the kitchen and digital darkroom.

After I take the plate to the bathroom window because it has the best natural light in the apartment—not ideal and not something I’d tell my readership—we return to the kitchen and each take a bite from opposite ends of the pancake.

The distinct flavors come alive on my tongue and yet they meld together too, which is exactly what I hoped would happen when I combined the not-typically paired ingredients. Definitely a keeper.

Mila’s eyes are closed and she releases a little blissful sigh. I wait for her review, which is always favorable. My followers online often have positives, but the truth is I lack the confidence to take my food blogging talent to the next level—I’ve had loads of offers to be an influencer, be a guest at events, and teach what I know.

But I have that cheese and chocolate to pay for and my current job offers lots of benefits. Plus, it’s what I went to school for, so I don’t want those student loans to be a complete waste.

Mila opens her eyes. “Usually, at this point, you’re leaning in, holding your breath, as though worried that I’m going to spit out your masterpiece in disgust. It’s like you’re waiting for it to happen. It never will. You are a kitchen genius, Cora. But today...” Mila clicks her tongue. “Today, there is something different. Either you know these pancakes are the best you’ve ever made or...” She snaps her fingers. “Or you got another email from him.”

I bite my lip, trying to hold back that pesky smile that was fine when I was alone, but if she sees it...

She gasps. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I neither confirm nor deny that @PacManWizard messaged me. We haven’t moved onto email yet.” I’m playing it safe, slow, and smart when it comes to relationships after a bad breakup years ago. Yet another topic we shall not discuss. Hmm...maybe I should make a blog page called #LifeFails.

“I’m sorry for using the wrong technology terminology, Miss Tech Nerd. Messaged, emailed, whatever. It’s all the same to me. He sent you a digital love note, didn’t he?” Mila singsongs.

Just then, my phone pings with a notification.

Mila lunges for it. We scramble to look at the screen, not that she can guess my password.

“I’ll let you have the rest of the pancakes if you hand it over.”

She lets go instantly and grabs the fork, taking a gobbly bite.

I narrow my eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

“I claim innocence,” she says around a mouthful.

Maybe the pancakes are that good...or Mila is exceptionally hungry. She is a disaster in the kitchen, so I don’t think her standards are that high.

As I read the message, I actually feel the color drain from my face and imagine I now resemble what’s left of the whipped ricotta cheese. The excitement in my system at perfecting the pancake recipe and the earlier message from @PacManWizard disappears, replaced by dread.

“Is everything okay?” Mila asks.

My breath comes short when I start to answer. “The bad news. My company is merging with another. The good news is I didn’t lose my job, yet.”

“Is that really bad news? You’ve been talking about quitting your day job and becoming a full-time food blogger and photographer for ages.”

“You’ve been talking about that.”

She tilts her head. “Because you’re amazing and need a little nudge...or a shove. Either way.”

“Okay, fine, I’ve thought about it.” A lot. Not a day passes when I don’t consider stepping away from my job in the technology sector as a software tech engineer at AmTech. Yeah, it’s a lot of tech.

So much tech that sometimes when I’m going to sleep, I can still see the glow of the computer screen behind my eyes. (That’s why there’s no technology allowed in the kitchen. Well, except for my phone. Don’t want to miss those HUB notifications.)

So much tech that I developed carpal tunnel and a permanent kink in my neck.

So much tech that more than once, I thought about throwing my laptop out the window and then walking right out the door of the office.

It’s a high-pressure job that’s fast-paced and demanding. I work long hours and hardly have a social life, well, apart from the messages exchanged with @PacManWizard. Deep down, I wonder if he could be Mr. Right.

He’s funny and smart and thoughtful.

Doesn’t seem to mind if I look like a tro-gre—not that I do, but his comments suggest that looks aren’t everything. I wonder what he looks like, but his personality would make up for any odd features like a third eye, unibrow, or pasty skin—after all, Miranda finds Reed attractive.

We like the same kind of music, movies, and entertainment.

He seems adventurous and likes to travel.

That uncontrollable smile returns to my face.

“I know you’re thinking about job security and your 401K, but no way that smile on your lips is a result of future financial planning. I know you better than that.” Mila eyes my phone, knowing full-well it’s a result of my tie to @PacManWizard.

“Yes, I got another message from @PacManWizard earlier. But leaving my job?” The slow shake of my head returns. “It’s scary. I’m safe at AmTech with my 401k, health insurance, and gym membership.”

Mila wrinkles her nose. “Cora, you’ve never used it.”

“But I might someday, and you make me sound lazy.”

“Right, you go to barre class. Look at those guns.” Mila wiggles my arm to make me flex.

I reluctantly tighten my biceps. “No more noodle arms for this computer geek,” I say in a self-deprecating tone. The barre class is mostly to gain strength and mobility for my computing marathons.

But cooking is my real passion. I love nothing more than taking family classics and comfort food then adding my own flare. Styling the food on the plate, photographing it, then sharing my recipes with followers on social media is a joy—someday, I’d like to share it with my family. Not my mom, dad, and siblings. They already know about my “hobby.” I mean like, a family of my own with a husband and kids. It’s what gets me out of bed, and the fact that I have to eat, but that’s beside the point. I look forward to cooking, styling, and chatting with other foodies. There’s even a cookbook offer I haven’t quite adulted. If I strike out on my own, what if I fail? But more to the point, what if I lose my job and can’t afford my fancy cheese and chocolate? That’s my one indulgence. Okay, two, but still. Panic knots my stomach at the news both good and bad.

“It is scary and it’s okay to be scared, but that’s no reason not to pursue your dream. To be happy.” Mila and the rest of the Fabulous Five have been giving me pep talks since high school.

“Thanks,” I say, but before I can add anything else, my phone beeps again. Hope flutters in my belly. Nope, it’s not from @PacManWizard. I could really use a distraction and chat with him—since we’re in the same industry, he’d probably have some good advice.

Instead, it’s another email from work. As I read the content, my jaw slowly drops.

“What is it?” Mila asks.

I read aloud, “Because of the merger between DigiPower and AmTech, it’s a message about both companies embarking on a corporate survival retreat. Next week.”

“A what? Where?”

“The Amazon.” I glance at the email again, not sure if this is a prank—sometimes the guys in the office can be real rascals. Nope, this is from, Simon, the head of the company, and no way they hacked his account—one of my first assignments on the job was to make sure of that. I’m not in cyber-security, but I realized later that it was a newbie test of sorts.

Mila leans over my shoulder and reads, “Selva Survival Camp.”

“That sounds like my worst nightmare.”

“No, me eating your favorite double-dark midnight chocolate with flaked sea salt would be your worst nightmare.”

“Fair point.” I set the phone on the table before it can slip from my slightly shaky hands. Despite growing up in northern New Hampshire and on a lake, I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type. That’s where the nightmare comes in. My interest in and ability to program and code wasn’t because I was a tomboy—more like the girl who could always be found with a book and later online reading fanfiction. And since I was already online, I got curious and wanted to learn how “online” was made.

“My boss always says business is a jungle. I never thought he meant it literally,” I mumble.

As though picking up on my trepidation, Mila says, “Maybe you can get out of it.”

I wince. “He couldn’t fire us for doing so, but um, there’s a comment at the bottom about being a team player.”

“You can make a tropical vacation out of it. Just think, you’ll lay on the beach and get a tan on someone else’s dime.” Her expression is a mixture of pity and optimism. Pit-imism?

I go on to read the entire description from the email. “Prepare for the experience of a lifetime. You will be placed in a situation where you will have to rely on your wits, outdoor skills, and strength to survive daily challenges.” I swallow thickly. “Sounds like a regular Wednesday in the office, but I’ll be the woman alone in the wilderness.”

Mila points to the screen. “No, look. Keep reading. It says you’ll be partnered with a new person from the other company to get to know them and form alliances.”

“Oh, great. Shrimp cocktail and ice breakers in the middle of nowhere. We’ll probably have to spear the shrimp ourselves.”

Mila laughs her husky laugh.

I’ve been to several corporate retreats in the past to build office culture and get everyone on the “same page” or to “think out of the box”. All I heard were buzz words so we could “circle back” so we’d “strategize and optimize” in order to create “synergy and impact.”

IMHO (in my humble opinion), our time would’ve been more productively spent on everyone doing their jobs instead of chatting around the water cooler. I’m not a stick in the mud, but events like that always felt forced. Never genuine. All I want are authentic connections with people—not employees performing the role they think they’re supposed to, so they're perceived as team players. Preferably if good food was involved. This company is different and more laid back. Once, in a meeting, someone used the term “optics” and had to spend the remaining twenty minutes of it blindfolded. It was funny and made a point. But if we merge, we might become one of those uptight, non-Taco-Tuesday types of offices.

“Maybe you’ll meet a guy. Your Marriage Match guy,” Mila says, taking another bite of the pancake.

“I did.” The warm fuzzies from the messages I received from @PacManWizard push against the trepidation over the retreat. “We’re very compatible.”

Mila rolls her eyes. “Ooh. But I’m not sure he counts. Unlike long-distance relationships, virtual marriages aren’t a thing.”

“It’s kind of like internet dating. -Ish. Sort of. I mean, maybe we’ll meet IRL someday.”

“English, please,” Mila reminds me to translate the online abbreviations.

“Oh, right. IRL. In real life.”

Mila grunts. “Come on, I’ll help you pack. You’ll have to bring your cutest swimwear and sundresses.”

“You sound like Blakely. There’s a suggested packing list attached to the email.”

I don’t bother reading it because apart from not being the outdoorsy type, it’ll also mean limited Wi-fi...so no messaging @PacManWizard, which leaves me feeling lonely already.