We moved from Karen's chaotic bedroom to the kitchen for her cooking lesson. The sprawling samurai mansion's kitchen was a beast—industrial-grade burners, gleaming counters, and enough space to feed an army. It felt more like a restaurant than a home.
"So, what're we cooking?" Karen asked, tying on an apron. Her red hair was pulled back, and her usual fiery glare softened slightly, maybe from the makeover high.
I'd brought my own apron from home, wrapping it around my waist. "Nothing too tough—you're a beginner. Let's start with simple bento sides."
I had three dishes in mind: karaage, Vienna sausages, and tamagoyaki. These were beginner-friendly, the holy trinity of bento boxes, and crowd-pleasers to boot.
Both Karen and Rika nodded, seeming to approve. Rika, bouncing with energy, clapped her hands. "What's first?"
"Vienna sausages," I said. Easiest of the bunch—just slice and fry.
Karen grabbed a kitchen knife, her grip confident. "You holding that looks… ominous," I teased.
"Wanna die, punk?" she snapped, twirling the knife like a kendo sword. Her red hair and wild eyes made her look like a gangster chef. Scary as hell.
Once she calmed down, I placed a red Vienna sausage on the cutting board and broke it down. "Cut about a third of the way through. Do it twice for four legs, four times for eight. Like octopus legs. Easy, right?"
"Hmph, child's play," Karen scoffed, diving in.
We worked together, and in no time, we'd prepped a whole pack. I decided to add a little flair. Grabbing black sesame seeds, I used a toothpick to poke them into the sausages as eyes.
"Sesame seeds?" Rika asked, peering over.
"For the octopus look," I said, smirking.
I heated a frying pan, waited for it to sizzle, and dumped in the sausages. Tssss! They curled outward as they cooked, transforming into tiny octopuses. Unlike Korea's brown Vienna sausages, Japan's are red on the outside—dyed casing—with a white, flour-heavy interior mixed with fish paste.
No fancy skills needed. I fried them until golden and plated them neatly. Karen, mimicking me, plated hers with a proud flourish. "Hah! This is nothing!"
Confidence in cooking's a good sign.
We handed our plates to Rika, the designated taste-tester. She stroked an imaginary beard, grabbed chopsticks, and dipped my sausage in mustard. Crunch! Her eyes lit up. "Tastes like… normal Vienna sausage?"
"Exactly. No tricks here," I said.
She tried Karen's next. "Hmm, a bit charred, but not bad."
I sampled one of Karen's. Chew, chew. "Fire control's off, but for a first try, it's a pass."
Karen's lips twitched into a smug grin, but the real challenges—tamagoyaki and karaage—loomed large.
Two hours later, the cooking lesson wrapped up, and Karen was a broken woman.
"Haa… cooking's this hard?" she groaned, slumping against the counter.
"You'll get better with practice!" Rika chirped, ever the optimist.
No one masters cooking overnight, but Karen? She was a disaster. Her obsession with high heat was her downfall. Who doesn't get that stoves have low and medium settings?
While I wasn't looking, she cranked the burner, impatient, and birthed a charred tamagoyaki and a twisted, hellish karaage. When she tasted her creations, her face contorted in a way words can't describe.
"Ugh… gag… haa!" She barely swallowed, tears in her eyes, then pointedly ate only my food. Hers went straight to the trash.
To curb her impulsiveness, I taught her to use a timer. For someone with her attention span, setting a clear endpoint helped. Time was short, so we stopped there, but I jotted down recipes and tips, urging her to practice.
Karen clutched the notes like they were sacred, hugging them to her chest.
"Let's eat dinner before it gets late," I said, eyeing the leftover ingredients. Time for my specialty: Chinese-style fried rice.
Whoosh! I poured oil into a massive wok, tossed in sliced green onions, and stirred with a ladle to infuse the oil with flavor. Most home stoves can't handle the high heat Chinese cooking demands, but this industrial setup? Perfect.
The oil sizzled, and I added beaten eggs and instant rice, mixing furiously. Clang! Clang! The wok rocked like a ship in a storm, golden waves of rice dancing with each flick of my wrist. A pinch of salt and pepper for seasoning, and I molded the rice in a bowl before flipping it onto a plate.
Five minutes later, a glistening dome of golden fried rice sat before us.
"Wooow!" Rika's eyes sparkled at the carb fest.
Karen wasn't far behind, practically drooling.
I handed them spoons, and they dug in like starved wolves. I'd saved a portion for myself, savoring it slowly, when Rika piped up. "Ryu-chan, when'd you get so good at cooking?"
I leaned back, memories flooding in. "Let's see…"
It started in my first year's second semester. Unlike middle school, when I lived near campus, high school meant leaving home by 7 a.m. to make it on time. My mom woke up at dawn to pack my bento, but her tired face gnawed at me. So, I decided to make my own.
My first attempt was a disaster. Up at 4 a.m., I botched everything and went hungry at lunch. The next day, I learned to crack eggs without breaking them, finishing by 7:30 a.m.—and was late to school.
Over time, I got faster. One day, I realized I could make a bento at 4 a.m. without seeing sunrise. Repetition honed my skills to a near-art form.
My dad, watching quietly, finally let me into the kitchen at Mikoya, our family's diner. It felt like being named heir to their legacy.
Rika, listening intently, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "Sniff! Making bentos to spare your mom? That's so touching!"
"Who makes yours?" I asked.
"My mama, with love, of course!" she said, beaming.
This fiery filial daughter.
Chatting over dinner, we polished off the rice. I asked for their plates to wash, despite Karen's protests that the maids could handle it. As a guest, leaving a mess felt rude, so I scrubbed everything spotless.
Karen offered a ride home, but the subway was still running, so we declined. As we headed to the station, she followed, hesitating before bowing deeply. "Thanks, both of you. I won't forget this."
Rika, grinning, suggested swapping emails. "See ya at school tomorrow!"
Looks like they bonded today. Just like that, they were friends.
Back in my dorm, I flopped onto my bed, exhausted but content. Teaching Karen was like wrangling a tornado, but her clinging to those recipes showed she cared. Rika, as always, was the spark—dragging me into this mess with her infectious energy. That girl's dangerous.
Karen's mansion was surreal. Yakuza bowing like she's royalty, that mismatched room—it's like she's half-warrior, half-teen. Her cooking's a lost cause for now, but with practice, she might pull off a decent bento for Ryuji.
Speaking of Ryuji, this whole thing's for him. Poor guy's got no clue what's coming. Karen's makeover and bento plan? He's toast. Maiya's probably fuming somewhere, ready to counterattack. Classic rom-com love triangle.
And me? I'm just the muscle-bound sidekick, cooking fried rice and dodging yakuza glares, all for a shot at Rika's dad's autograph. My life's a sitcom, and I'm the straight man.