“The thing is, I’ll never know if you really like my cooking.” I was standing over the stove, slowly stirring a pot of marinara sauce.
“I do. I’ve said I do.” Miranda was sitting on the counter next to me, swinging her legs forward and letting them hit the dishwasher lightly before swinging them again. I wasn’t fond of that noise, and I was concerned about the dishwasher getting dented, but I was trying to focus on the cooking.
“I know you have. But what I’m trying to explain to you is that I’ll never really know, you know?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
I sighed. This was so hard to explain. I tried another tack: “Words mean things, sure, and words are used to communicate thoughts, but I can’t really know what you’re truly thinking, and you can’t really know what I’m truly thinking. Words can be misleading.”
I held the wooden spoon out to her. She tasted it, considered for a second, and said, “A little more oregano.”
I tasted it, then nodded. “Sure.” I wasn’t sure, though, and that was another thought for me to mull around in my head.
“See?” Miranda tipped her head a little bit towards the pot. “I gave you honest feedback. I didn’t just lie and say it was perfect.”
And objectively, that made sense. Objectively, it was difficult to argue with that. There are so many times I wish my brain would just settle down and let things be.
“I get it,” I said, but it felt like a lie. She was looking at my face; I was looking at the wall behind the stove.
She put her hand on my arm in a way that, for a moment, I felt like she understood. And maybe, just a little bit, she did.
04.05.25