In which I cook chicken

"Well, you pretty much cook it like a bistecca," the secretary tells me, explaining about the chicken breast I am meant to cook for the children (hers and the boss') after I pick them up from school and walk them home.

I stare blankly into space for a moment, contemplating this.

"Well, the thing is... I've never cooked a steak before, either," I finally explain.

"Oh... well... um... so, you take a pan, right?" she makes a pan-shaped sort of gesture with her hands. "And then you put some olive oil in it. You know? Olive oil?"

I do know.

"And then you... cook it. You know?"

I suppose.

She hands me the package of what presumably contains chicken breast. It feels remarkably heavy for being meant for only three small-ish children. I shift it gingerly to my left hand and grab my keys.

"So, when it's done, the meat should be... white on the inside? Not pink?" I turn back to ask - just to double check, you know. The last thing I need to do is poison the boss' kid.

"That's right," she nods encouragingly, "pink if it were steak, but white for the chicken."

Grande.

The children recount the day's adventures to me on the way home (and then, Manu's mom brought their pet dog into our class!), and also sing a traditional African folk song that they have apparently just learned at the top of their lungs, earning us more than one puzzled stare as we walk up the Via Emilia.

When we get home, I turn on the stove (ha! I've got you all figured out, you silly stove, even though you caused me all kinds of grief when I first started having to use you: hold down the button for a while to make the gas stay lit). The children are occupied with torturing the boss' cat. I take a moment to hope it won't scratch them before turning to the package of chicken.

I open it. It is raw. I mean, obviously, but... ew. Raw. It's all slimey and gooey and stuff, but I bravely pick it up and plop it into a pan with some oil. Actually, a lot of oil, because, fact: oil and fried-ness generally makes everything taste delicious, so maybe the olive-y deliciousness will be able to cancel out whatever other horrible flavors I manage to create. (If you're thinking 'it's just chicken - what can possibly go wrong?', you don't know me very well.) The oil splatters. Never mind the children being scratched by the cat: probably the injury of the day is that I'm going to get hot oil in my eye and be blind. Sigh.

For the next five minutes, I alternate between staring intently at the clock on my phone and staring intently at the chicken in the pan. I time the five minutes very precisely. Flip. Another five minutes. Sizzle. Flip to check for doneness. Well, I can't see the meat on the inside, but it looks okay from here. I cut it open to check and it's white. Not much else I can do, right?

Two more pieces later, I am holding my breath as the children eye the chicken (I wonder if they know I am a horrible cook or if they are in the habit of staring down their food before they eat it because they are children or if they are wondering why it is cut in half down the middle - because I didn't want to poison you, kids, that's all!).

"So?" I ask the one who speaks English. I figure I can get one opinion before opening up the polls to the other two. She shrugs noncommittally. I chew nervously on my bottom lip. Okay, self, I think, as long as none of them actually gets sick, it's okay. I mean, I was hired to be a teacher, right? No one said anything about knowing how to cook. I am still pondering my defense in the event of cries of "ew, your chicken sucks" when the littlest one pokes me.

"C'e n'e' ancora?" she asks. (Is there any more?) This takes me a moment to process.

"Does anyone else... want more?" I ask cautiously.

Three little heads nod enthusiastically. I smile as I take their plates and head back to the stove and I don't even mind that raw chicken is icky.