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Rey was generally quite pragmatic--that had been the key to her survival so far. Her practical nature and solid work ethic had served her well upon exiting the foster system and entering university. To finance her education, she’d stacked scholarships, grants, and work-study jobs on top of some terrifying loans. Rey was always overworked and overtired, but her caution and care paid off when she’d landed her dream job shortly after graduation. She’d now worked for the woman-owned architectural firm for a little over a year. Her bosses were impressed by her diligence and skill, and a few co-workers had become friends.
She made a good salary--enough to afford a cute apartment in a decent neighborhood, with no roommates of either the rent-paying or vermin variety. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to decide between food and other necessities. Bargain-hunting was still important, and Rey was still frugal, but the days of choosing whether to be cold or hungry or poorly-dressed or unprepared for class were long gone.
This security was still brand-new, and Rey remained cautious. She saved money like she could lose everything tomorrow--clipping coupons, shopping at outlets for work clothes, buying marked-down “ugly” produce, putting on sweaters instead of turning up the heat.
However, she’d surprised herself recently by making a few impulsive decisions. Rationally, she didn’t regret them, but the idea of carrying them out gave her a bit of anxiety.
Once winter began to chill the air, Rey was finally settling into herself. She’d made those choices one night, cozy on her IKEA couch, draped in a fleece throw, sipping tea and idly scrolling on the late-model tablet whose purchase she’d rationalized by convincing herself it could be useful for work. That had been a lie--thus far, the tablet hadn’t been used for anything besides near-endless scrolling of Pinterest and her group chat with her friends.
Maybe she was too relaxed, and maybe she’d seen too many Pinterest-perfect pictures--in fact, those factors would form the backbone of her insanity defense, should she ever need one.
In any event, she had, in a burst of sentimentality and goodwill, invited all her friends over for a festive holiday meal. It was so vivid in her mind-- her home would be gorgeously decorated and full of wonderful smells when she opened her door to Finn, Rose, Poe, and Kaydel. She adored the idea of welcoming her loved ones into her little apartment and seating them to a delicious meal, with dish after dish she brought from her kitchen and served with a smile.
Reality soon intruded on her fantasy, for one very good reason: Rey couldn’t cook.
She did manage to eat, of course; she knew that nightly takeout was an unconscionable waste of money. Weekly takeout, on the other hand, was a permissible treat. So, every Friday or Saturday, she’d change into pajamas and choose something from DoorDash to eat while she watched Netflix.
The burger or pizza or Chinese or Thai or Mexican delivery, though, was the food highlight of every week. The other days were given to boring, basic food. It was easy to boil pasta, then dump a jar of sauce over it. It took little effort to cook a chicken breast, season it, then cut it up over rice. It was nothing to make a sandwich of cold cuts and cheese from the deli. It took no skill to open a bagged salad, then add nuts, fruit, and bottled dressing.
Rey knew that this was not actual cooking.
Upon receiving enthusiastic RSVPs from all her friends, panic set in. There were only a few weeks until every living person she cared about would come to her door, expecting a tasty meal.
*******
Ben grumbled to himself on his way out of Hux’s office. Even as he muttered curses under his breath, he knew that the deal the obnoxious ginger lawyer had secured for him was very favorable.
It could have gone so much worse. Grabbing his timid sous-chef by the throat and shoving him up against the wall hadn’t been Ben’s best idea ever. The charges, though, had been a surprise. Apparently, little Mitaka had a bit of backbone after all.
But it made sense. Ben had, in fact, committed assault and battery before several witnesses in the kitchen--all because Mitaka had simply been the nearest person when Ben found out that the seafood delivery was wrong.
He knew he had only himself to blame, and he’d been quite lucky to get off with only a fine, a generous payment to Mitaka, and some community service hours.
How bad could it be to teach a weekly cooking class at the neighborhood center? At least he wouldn’t be one of those sad bums picking up trash on the roadside.
And he had figured out something to do with all that halibut, hadn’t he?
*******
Rey hummed as she grabbed her mail--bills, ads, and another flyer from the neighborhood center right around the corner. They always had so much going on; she’d been intending to enroll in a Zumba or basket-weaving or line-dancing or knitting class for ages .
Once inside her apartment, she flopped onto her couch to sort her mail. The bills would get paid during her designated weekly financial responsibility time. The ads were set aside to scour for the best specials to find while she shopped. She opened the mailer from the neighborhood center and was immediately glad.
There was a cooking class starting just this week!
*******
Ben’s first class hadn’t gone as dreadfully as he’d anticipated. Everyone was eager to learn, and the few who recognized his name were impressed. He found that speaking about his passion came easily, and he was shyly pleased when his pupils laughed at his lame food puns.
He was stacking his papers in his briefcase (he’d made a syllabus and some handouts--nobody could accuse him of half-assing this thing) when a soft “ahem” made him look up.
“Pardon me, Mr. Solo--er, ah, Chef Solo?” A woman stood before him, wringing his nice handouts between her nervous hands.
“Um, just Ben.” He wasn’t far enough gone to demand to be called “Chef” at all times.
“Okay. Ben, then. Your lesson was great. Such a clear introduction to the elements of good cooking--I’d never thought of it that way.”
Ben couldn’t help his blush as he murmured his thanks, lowering his head while concentrating even harder on his papers.
“But I do have a bit of a problem. I invited my friends for a dinner party! I really need to learn to cook! Like, soon . . .” She trailed off helplessly.
“Ah, you do.” Ben watched her blush rise to match his.
“So, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind some, er, extra lessons? I’ll pay for your time, of course!”
Ben decided he wouldn’t mind much. But he refused to accept her money and simply asked her to stay after class, starting next week.
*******
Rey’s workdays were a whirlwind--she stayed late nearly every day, helping to close out the year.
Her next cooking class came quickly.
Ben had taught a lesson about combining flavors, and he even had several containers of tiny samples to illustrate his points.
When everyone else filed out of the room, chattering, Rey stayed in the hall, loitering near the door, checking her phone. Once the other students had gone, she went back into the classroom where Ben waited at one of the tables.
She pulled out a chair, breathed, and began. “These are the things I’d like to serve, but, of course, you know better than I do.”
*******
Rey-- he knew her name now --passed him a handwritten list of dishes. Most were components of a traditional American holiday meal. He was a little surprised, but decided he wouldn’t ask rude questions about her accent.
“This shouldn’t be too hard,” he said, pleased when he saw her tense shoulders lowering. “Now, you might need to spend a little more than you’d thought.” Her shoulders rose again, and Ben wanted to slap himself.
He hurried on. “What I mean is that there are a couple of things you’d be better off buying ready-made. In fact, it would cost more for you to do practice hams or turkeys than it would just to buy them. There’s a well-known chain that does a decent glazed ham and smoked turkey breast.”
She perked up. “Oh, brilliant! I’ve got a coupon! Honestly, I had looked into having the whole meal catered, but I thought the prices were a bit ridiculous.”
“They are,” Ben replied, “For most of the sides, there’s no reason to pay.restaurant prices when you can make them better yourself.”
Rey leaned in. “Okay, good.”
*******
She watched him make notes--his handwriting was beautiful; his big hand was a little hypnotic as it flew over the paper.
“So, we can do this. You’re going to make dressing, greens, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry relish, sweet potatoes, and some pies.” Ben sounded determined, and with him included in her “we,” Rey figured most things were possible.
“That sounds good!” Rey enthused. “So, what’s first?”
“Well, I hope you listened to what I said about flavors, because that’s the most important thing. But tonight, you’re gonna learn to cut.”
Bemused, Rey followed him into a knife skills lesson. He monitored her chopping until she had safely and flawlessly delivered an entire diced onion after nearly a whole bagful. She was pleased to get it right, but was concerned about waste. Ben assured her that the mishaps would flavor his homemade stock.
*******
Over the next few weeks, Rey truly felt she was learning as he showed her how to steam vegetables to non-mushy tenderness, taught her the secret to a flaky pie crust, and carefully oversaw her use of various kitchen tools.
They’d developed an easy rapport during their time together. As the blushes between them lessened, the comfort and humor increased. Several inside jokes were established, teasing evolved naturally, and phone numbers were exchanged.
Rey applied herself to cooking as determinedly as she did everything else, so she tried to put his techniques to use at home, then sent him pictures of her efforts. Ben’s responses were warm, sometimes critical, but always honest.
He enjoyed tasting the samples she brought, and she was happy to take notes on his comments. Rey’s improvements always seemed to delight him. His opinion had become nearly as important as her friends’ opinions would be as they sat at her table. She supposed that meant that he’d become a friend, too.
*******
Ben was a little sad when it came to the last of their private sessions before Rey’s dinner party. He had no doubt she was ready--he’d tasted enough of her practice to know.
“I’m proud of you,” he said when she re-entered the room after the main class ended.
After an absence of many weeks, Rey’s blush returned full-force at his praise. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I have no doubt that you’re ready to host a fine meal. You’ll do an excellent job.” He gave her one of his rare smiles.
“I’m excited now--I’m not really nervous.” Rey smiled back. “If nothing else, my decorations are solid and I’ve already checked that the good Chinese place will be open.”
“You won’t need that,” he reassured. “But it’s so like you to have a backup plan, Ms. Make-It-Work,” he teased her gently with his nickname for her.
Rey’s smile widened, warming him. “And will you be serving the ultimate holiday meal, Mr. Master Chef?”
“Ah, no.” Caught off-guard, he shoved a hand through his hair. “My family is, er, far away,” he muttered.
“Then, please consider yourself invited to mine,” declared Rey. He tried to demur, but she brooked no nonsense. “You’re my friend . My dinner is for my friends . I’m sending you a pin to my address.”
Well . . . Ben had done worse things than attend a holiday meal at a place as full of love and kindness as he was sure Rey’s would be.
Clearly, Rey saw victory. “Brilliant. I’ve asked everyone to come at five.”
What could he do? “I’ll see you then,” he replied.