the_supervisor tender_square “how many cloves of garlic do you need?” “uh…” she looked up from chopping carrots to the recipe she'd taped to the cupboard for them. “it says two.” “these are kind of small; i’m going to get another.” the cloves he chose were the size of her pinky fingernail. “i would grab a fourth, these are really small.” he tried to peel the skins off beside her. “i’m trying to get these ready for you, to help.” “what would help me is if you knew how to mince garlic. want me to show you again?” she got a small cutting board out of the drawer for him and a large knife. “if you use the heel of your hand against the knife,” she pounded the blade against the clove, “it’s easier to remove the skins that way. i like to wait until i’ve smashed them all before i start to mince.” she left him to work while she continued slicing the carrots lengthwise for roasting. “my pieces of garlic are so big!” she stopped what she was working on and went over to assist. “yeah, but if you make smaller knife cuts as you’re working through each clove,” she took the knife and demonstrated, “then chopping up the pile together, it’ll be fine.” the oven timer chimed as she finished mixing the carrots with olive oil, pepper, and salt on a cookie sheet. he emptied the box of pasta into the boiling water on the stovetop as she closed the oven’s hot mouth. she put together the food processor puzzle and grabbed additional ingredients from the fridge and cupboard, while he looked on, unsure and moving to get out of her way. the pasta finished cooking before the carrots did, and he grabbed the oven mitts and emptied the pot of water into the strainer, placed it on the countertop near the sink. she added a bit of oil to the bottom of the pot so the cooked pasta wouldn’t stick before the pesto was ready, poured the cooked and steaming pasta back inside. when the oven chimed, he pulled the tray of carrots out and arranged it on the counter for her. she grabbed a pair of tongs and began transferring the limp and slippery carrots to the food processor. he leaned on his elbows, hovering. “when you watch me like this, i feel like you’re putting pressure on me.” she had already dropped several pieces on the floor, which he made no move to help her with. “nah,” he said. he watched her as she pulsed the pesto, as she unplugged the processor and began dismantling from the base it to distribute the sauce to the pot. he stood beside her once more, leaning and observing as she carefully mixed the pesto and pasta with a serving spoon. her aggravation was rising: he could put away the oven mitts he left out. he could throw away the dirty parchment paper and rinse the cookie tray. he could rinse out the pesto from the processor so it didn’t harden as they ate. he could load the dishwasher with the strainer, the tongs, the mixing cups. instead, he grabbed two bowls from the cupboard, pulled the parmesan from the fridge and began scooping his helping before leaving for the living room. she put the oven mitts back in the drawer. she rinsed each piece of the food processor, loaded the parts that could go in the dishwasher along with the tools that were no longer needed. she tossed the parchment paper into the trash and rinsed the cookie sheet, turning it upside down to dry in the empty sink. then she scooped her own helping and walked into the living room, where he sat waiting to dig in. 220210 what's it to you? who go blather from