Arash was lounging on the living room sofa, scrolling through his phone, when his mother’s voice pierced the air like a dagger.
“Arash, come to the kitchen. Now.”
Her tone was one he’d learned to fear—it wasn’t angry, but it was firm, the kind that brooked no argument.
He groaned, dragging himself off the couch. “What did I do now?”
“You’re sixteen,” his mother declared as he entered the kitchen, hands on her hips. “You’re old enough to learn how to cook.”
Arash blinked at her. “Cook? Me?”
“Yes, you,” she replied, already pulling out pots and pans. “One day, you’ll need this skill. What if you’re hungry and there’s no one to cook for you?”
“Mom, that’s what restaurants are for. Or instant noodles.”
Her glare was enough to silence him. “No son of mine is going to rely on instant noodles. You’re learning to cook. End of discussion.”
She handed him an apron, which he stared at like it was an alien artifact.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Arash muttered, tying the apron around his waist. It felt strange, like he was breaking some unspoken rule about what boys should or shouldn’t do.
“First, we’re making rice,” his mother said, placing a bag of basmati on the counter. “It’s simple. Wash it, measure the water, and let it cook.”
“How hard could that be?” Arash mumbled, grabbing the bag.
Step One: Washing the Rice
Arash dumped an indiscriminate amount of rice into a pot and held it under the tap. Water sloshed over the sides as he swirled it around, but instead of rinsing the rice, he ended up with a soggy clump that stuck to the pot like glue.
“Stop manhandling it!” his mother exclaimed, grabbing the pot from him. “You’re rinsing rice, not kneading dough.”
“I don’t see the difference,” Arash muttered, earning another glare.
Step Two: Measuring Water
“Two cups of water for every cup of rice,” his mother instructed.
Arash grabbed a measuring cup, squinting at it like it was a math test. “How am I supposed to know how much rice I just used?”
“You didn’t measure the rice first?”
“Was I supposed to?”
His mother sighed the deep, weary sigh of someone questioning their life choices. “Just eyeball it.”
Arash, emboldened by this sudden permission, poured water into the pot with reckless abandon. “There. Perfect.”
His mother peered into the pot, lips pursed. “You just made soup.”
“It’s rice soup,” Arash said with a grin. “Fusion cuisine!”
Her response was a muttered prayer under her breath.
Step Three: Turning on the Stove
“Now, put it on the stove and let it cook,” she said.
Arash turned the knob, and nothing happened. He turned it again, and again, before realizing he hadn’t lit the burner.
“Mom, the stove’s broken.”
“It’s not broken,” she said, reaching over to light it herself. “You just didn’t turn it on properly.”
The flame roared to life, and Arash jumped back like it was a wild animal.
“It’s fire!” he yelped.
“It’s supposed to be fire!” his mother shot back. “How do you think cooking works?”
The Results
Twenty minutes later, the rice was… technically cooked, though it resembled more of a sticky paste than anything edible.
“Congratulations,” his mother said dryly, poking at the mush with a spoon. “You’ve invented rice glue.”
“I think it’s artistic,” Arash said, holding up a spoonful. “I could market this as eco-friendly adhesive.”
His mother gave him a look that could curdle milk.
Round Two: The Omelette Fiasco
Determined to salvage the lesson, his mother decided to move on to something “easier”—an omelette.
“Crack the eggs into a bowl,” she instructed.
Arash grabbed an egg and tapped it against the edge of the bowl. Nothing happened. He tapped harder. Still nothing. Finally, he smashed it with such force that the shell shattered, spilling yolk and shell fragments everywhere.
“Arash!”
“What? It cracked!”
“Half the shell is in the bowl!”
He tried to scoop out the pieces with his fingers, only to drop even more shell in.
“Why don’t we just call it a crunchy omelette?” he suggested, earning another glare.
Eventually, his mother took over, and within minutes, the kitchen smelled of perfectly cooked eggs. Arash, defeated but hungry, dug in.
The Aftermath
As he sat at the table, chomping on the omelette, his mother joined him, shaking her head.
“Cooking isn’t just about making food,” she said. “It’s about being independent. Boys should learn these things too.”
Arash nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much time and effort went into something he’d always taken for granted.
Later that night, as he lay in bed replaying the day’s disasters, he couldn’t help but laugh. The stereotypes about boys not cooking weren’t just absurd—they were downright impractical. If he couldn’t even boil rice without setting the kitchen on fire, how was he supposed to survive on his own one day?
“Guess I’ll have to keep practicing,” he muttered to himself. “But no more rice glue.”
And with that, he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a future where boys and girls alike could cook, laugh, and maybe even share a meal without any of the baggage.