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Despite Arlecchino's best efforts, it had come to her beloved's attention that Arlecchino did not have much cooking experience. Like the loving partner that you are, you aim to correct that. After all, cooking is an essential life-skill that even children need to learn. How Arlecchino has yet to learn, you're not certain, but you suppose better now then never for Arlecchino.
For your sanity, maybe never was better.
Your husband is, archons bless her, talented in a number of fields. But archon, you will never allow her to set foot in the kitchen again.
It was clear that Arlecchino didn't just not have cooking experience, but she didn't have any experience, period. Neither did she have any cooking intuition, or the bare necessity, common sense. With how abysmal her skills are, you no longer find her fondness of raw meat all that surprising.
For the day, you banned the kitchen from the rest of the House of the Hearth; it was reserved for you and Arlecchino only.
You first started off with Fontainian Onion Soup. Easy enough, you naively thought.
“Okay, Arlecchino. First step is to ‘peel and thinly slice onions from–” You begin reading out, but before you can finish the instructions, a flash of black and red flies past your sight and then a crisp, wet, crunch that makes you cringe. You glance up from the book and to your utter horror, a gruesome murder scene lies in front of you on the cutting board.
You couldn't fathom what the onions did to deserve such a fate. Instead of the thinly sliced peel you're supposed to see suggested by the book, there is the sick, disgusting scene of the maimed remains of the once fresh onions. It’s like the onions are crying for death after that assault. Arlecchino stands besides you, unaware of the atrocity she commited on your counter. The knife next to you remains untouched.
“Arlecchino,” you say, as composed as one can be, though you already feel like you're about to cry–and it's not because of the onions. “You're supposed to use the knife to cut.”
Arlecchino looks at her claws for a beat of silence. “Thank you for the clarification, my love.”
She awkwardly picks up the knife, as if never having picked up a cooking tool before. Her entire fists grips around the handle, as if she continues to torture the already tormented onions. You set aside the mangled onions, and place the unharmed ones in front of her.
“Don't hold it like you're going to stab them,” you sigh, correcting her finger placement so that she was properly holding the knife. The poor onions had enough, you think to yourself. Your husband seems confused, but adjusts to the new position.
You raise the book to her eye level, pointing at the picture. “Okay, it's supposed to look like this. Cut it like that, yeah?”
Arlecchino nods, and attempts her best. Though not proportional, at least the cuts were straight. Improvement, right? The process is slow, her fingers keep returning to a stabbing position before you correct her again, reminding her that the onions do not feel pain.
Finally, she has sliced the last one, as terrible looking as all the others, but you give her some slack. You glance up at her expression, wanting to see how she felt now that she had completed the first step of the recipe.
Her face is wet. More specifically. She's crying.
“Arlecchino. You're crying.”
Arlecchino hastily wipes her eyes with her sleeves. “No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Crying is a display of weakness.”
“So onions are your weakness?”
You don't stop cackling for a good while, imagining how the Knave, the Fourth Fatui Harbinger, being defeated by cut onions. Maybe the next time Arlecchino decides to have a duel with her children, you'll inform them to bring some onions and chuck them at her.
“You speak of this to no one.”
Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet would benefit from this information. No, even better, this can act as blackmail. Oh, you need to engrain this into your mind. “Of course.”
You decide that you can't trust her enough to mince the garlic cloves.
The next step was caramelizing the onions in the pan.
“Arlecchino.”
“Yes?”
“What is the color of caramel?”
“It is brown, why do you ask?”
“Look at your onions, and tell me what color they are.”
Arlecchino looks down at the pan in her hand. She frowns. “They appear black.”
“And why is that?”
“Perhaps they are cursed like I am.”
“Arlecchino, no–”
You drag Arlecchino to the nearest market for more onions as a punishment for wasting your hard-earned money. Once you've returned, you impel her to cut and cook the onions again.
“Stir occasionally, okay? Don’t forget the oil and butter.”
This time, the onions aren’t turned to ashes, and you think, maybe Arlecchino isn't so hopeless. The next few steps are just adding the rest of the ingredients for the soup, and you make sure that even she can't mess that up. Wine, then the stock and herbs, and you get something that vaguely reminds you of puke.
Next comes the Fontainian bread. Nice crispy, cheesy bread is great with soup. This is the last step. Baking is easy. Just put things in the oven, and it'll be done.
“Take a pinch of the cheese and sprinkle it on the bread–no, Arlecchiono, that is not a pinch, that is a handful and a half. Put that back.”
“But you like cheese.”
“I like my bread with cheese, not cheese with bread.”
“They are the same thing.”
“No, one is bread with cheese, and one is a mountain of cheese suffocating the bread as if it was demanding its money back. I like being able to taste bread.”
Arlecchino pauses, likely confused by your comparison. “But you like cheese,” she repeats again, so sweet and so, oh confused. Archons, she's pouting.
“Arlecchino. I don't need this much cheese,” you quietly confess. “Put it back.”
“But–”
“Arlecchino, I love you, and I will always ask you to get me a fistful of shredded cheese when I want to. But it is not now. Put it back.”
Sometimes, you wonder how this woman, this beautiful, sexy, hot woman of your husband was a Snezynayan diplomat. This is one of those times.
“Why do we have to wait for this long, when I can just use my vision?”
“Because you will burn them, now can you please set down the tray so we don't char our bread. The bakeries are already closed, and burnt bread does not taste good.”
Arlecchino sighs and places down the cheesy breads, sparing them from their painful fate.
“I'm sure charred bread tastes acceptable. Charred meat has excellent flavor.”
That explains so many things and it makes you want to cry.
After the bread is toasted, without the assistance of Arlecchino, you serve her the homemade soup and bread, the creation taking from noon to evening. Although you're starving, watching your husband’s eyes light up upon eating her creation makes all the hair pulling and teeth gritting moments worth it. In these moments, you forget that this hopeless, loving husband was anything but just that; not the Knave, not the Fourth Harbinger, just yours. You can forgive her for the slaughtered onions and the nearly burnt bread if it meant more domestic moments like these.
In the middle of her meal, however, she stops and comments something.
“This would benefit from raw beef.”
You don't have the strength in you to deny her otherwise.