Instant Potato Mix

I’ve never learned the art of a reliable recipe, only the art of guessing who might eat it. I will learn what you love, the way you take your coffee, that you’d rather have mustard on your sandwich, that you prefer your toothpaste tastes like fruit instead of mint. You see, I try too hard. My food can’t be one flavor— that would be boring. I stir, and stir, and stir, adding more until the dish is heavy, uneven. And when you eat it, you’ll taste the coffee grounds, the mustard, the toothpaste. It’s not because I think it belongs— I couldn't stop myself kept reaching for anything with your name on it, hoping the thought of the meal would soften the sour taste. I serve the same dish to everyone, each batch a strange new mix of flavors I don’t even like— and I wonder what keeps them here: do they hunger for filling, or for something truly mine? I’m not sure I’ll ever know. So I will watch you chew, watch the fork sink to the side of your plate, waiting for the scrape of truth— for you to push the dish away. I’ve left the recipe wrong on purpose, hoping you’ll taste the absence, and ask what I might make if I cooked with my own hands.