A Husband's First Day In the Kitchen.... Characters (Daniyal,Sara,Ayan,Chef)

A HUSBAND'S FIRST DAY IN THE KITCHEN

Part 1 – The Sunday Surprise

Sunday mornings were sacre

d in Sara's house.

They were meant for sleeping without alarms, enjoying the luxury of doing absolutely nothing, and postponing household responsibilities until Monday—or preferably until someone else remembered them.

Sara was particularly devoted to this tradition.

Wrapped in her soft blanket, she was sleeping peacefully, one hand beneath her cheek and the other hanging dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Her hair was scattered across the pillow, and her phone was lying somewhere near her bedside table.

Downstairs, however, a historical event was taking place.

Daniyal was awake.

Not only awake, but unusually energetic.

He had been awake since seven in the morning, which was already suspicious because, on ordinary Sundays, even the sound of a thunderstorm failed to convince him to leave his bed before nine.

He stood in the kitchen, wearing a grey T-shirt, black trousers and an apron that said King of the Kitchen.

He had purchased it three months earlier as a joke.

Today, apparently, the joke had become a profession.

He glanced at the wall clock, rubbed his hands together and whispered, "Operation Sunday Surprise begins."

A moment later, his phone rang.

It was his friend, Bilal.

"Where are you, brother?"

"Home."

"Doing what?"

"Preparing breakfast."

Silence.

Then Bilal burst into laughter.

"Sorry, what?"

Daniyal frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing. I just remembered you once burned toast."

"That was an accident."

"You set off the smoke alarm."

"The toaster was defective."

"You put bread in a microwave."

Daniyal disconnected.

Some people simply couldn't appreciate ambition.

He placed his phone against a large jar of spices, opened YouTube and searched for Easy Sunday Breakfast for Beginners.

A cheerful man appeared on the screen.

"Assalam-o-Alaikum, everyone! Welcome back to my kitchen. I'm Chef Zubair, and today we're making a delicious breakfast for our loved ones."

Daniyal immediately smiled.

"Wa-Alaikum-Assalam, Chef. Finally, a man with vision."

Chef Zubair continued, "You don't need to be a professional to cook something special. All you need is patience, confidence and the right ingredients."

Daniyal nodded seriously.

"Exactly. That's what I've been telling people."

He paused the video, opened the refrigerator and began collecting ingredients.

Eggs, tomatoes, onions, green chillies, milk, cheese, bread and butter.

He arranged everything on the counter.

Then he looked at the collection.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."

He picked up an onion.

"Let's create history."

Upstairs, Sara's phone began vibrating.

She ignored it.

It vibrated again.

She shifted beneath her blanket.

A third call arrived.

Finally, she reached for the phone, opened one eye and answered.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, sleepyhead!"

Sara looked at the clock.

"Daniyal, it's Sunday."

"Exactly! A wonderful Sunday!"

"Then let me enjoy it."

He laughed.

"Have you had breakfast?"

"No."

"Perfect!"

She frowned.

"Why perfect?"

"Nothing. Just asking."

"Daniyal, have you ordered something?"

"No."

"Then why are you asking?"

"Can't a husband show concern for his wife's hunger?"

Sara smiled.

"Of course. Usually by shouting from downstairs, 'Sara, is there anything to eat?'"

"People change, madam."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Since when?"

"Since today."

Before she could investigate further, he disconnected.

Sara stared at her phone.

"Interesting."

Five minutes later, another call.

"Daniyal?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Why are you calling again?"

"Just checking whether you're awake."

"No. I'm answering in my dreams."

He chuckled.

"Listen, don't come downstairs yet."

Sara immediately sat upright.

"Why?"

"I have a surprise."

"What surprise?"

"Just trust me."

"Should I be worried?"

"Absolutely not."

"That answer makes me very worried."

He laughed and ended the call.

Sara placed the phone beside her pillow and stared at the ceiling.

She knew her husband.

She knew his habits, his excuses and his remarkable ability to turn simple situations into complicated adventures.

She also knew that whenever Daniyal said, Don't worry, there was usually something worth worrying about.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Daniyal had entered the most challenging stage of his culinary career.

Chef Zubair was explaining how to chop onions.

"First, remove the outer layer. Then cut the onion into small, even pieces."

Daniyal picked up his knife.

"Understood, Chef."

He began chopping.

Thirty seconds later, he was blinking rapidly.

One minute later, tears were running down his cheeks.

He stopped, looked at the onion and whispered, "What is your problem?"

Chef Zubair smiled at the camera.

"Don't worry if your eyes water. It's perfectly normal."

Daniyal looked at the phone.

"Chef, with all due respect, I'm trying to prepare breakfast, not attend an emotional therapy session."

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

Unfortunately, the sleeve already had flour on it.

Now his face had flour too.

He examined himself in the reflection of the microwave.

"Excellent. Very professional."

He returned to chopping.

The onion pieces were of several different sizes. Some were almost invisible, while others looked as if they had been cut for a family of elephants.

He placed them in a bowl.

"Presentation matters."

Next came the tomatoes.

Daniyal watched Chef Zubair demonstrate the technique.

"Hold the tomato firmly and slice gently."

Daniyal picked one up.

"Easy."

The tomato slipped.

He caught it.

It slipped again.

He caught it once more.

The third time, it landed on the floor.

He stared at it.

The tomato stared back, metaphorically speaking.

"Fine. You win."

He picked it up, washed it and placed it on the chopping board.

At that precise moment, little Ayan entered the kitchen, dragging his favourite teddy bear.

He was three years old, still had the sleepy expression of someone who had been interrupted in the middle of an important dream, and was wearing dinosaur-print pyjamas.

He looked at his father.

Then at the kitchen.

Then at the tomato on the floor.

"Papa?"

Daniyal turned.

"Good morning, champion!"

Ayan rubbed his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Making breakfast for Mama."

Ayan's face brightened.

"For me too?"

"Of course! You're my assistant."

The little boy looked delighted.

"Can I cook?"

Daniyal considered the request.

Then he handed him a plastic spoon.

"Your responsibility is very important. You must supervise."

Ayan nodded with extraordinary seriousness.

"Okay, Papa."

He looked around.

"Where is Mama?"

"Sleeping."

"Why?"

"Because Papa is making breakfast."

Ayan thought about this for a moment.

Then he whispered, "Papa, are you making a mess?"

Daniyal looked offended.

"Why would you say that?"

Ayan pointed towards the flour-covered counter.

"Because everything is white."

Daniyal looked at the counter.

Then at his son.

"That's called preparation."

Ayan nodded, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

Chef Zubair appeared again on the phone.

"Now, let's prepare the omelette mixture."

Daniyal turned towards the screen.

"Listen carefully, Ayan. This gentleman is Chef Zubair. He's going to teach us something very important."

Ayan leaned towards the phone.

"Hello, Uncle!"

Daniyal smiled.

"See? Good manners. Unlike some people."

He glanced at the phone as if Chef Zubair had personally offended him.

The chef instructed him to break two eggs into a bowl.

Daniyal picked up an egg.

"Watch and learn, son."

He tapped it against the edge of the bowl.

Nothing happened.

He tapped harder.

The shell cracked.

Unfortunately, so did his confidence when half the egg landed on the counter.

Ayan clapped.

"Papa! You broke it!"

"That's the idea."

He picked up another egg.

This time, he succeeded.

Then he picked up the third.

Chef Zubair's voice came from the phone.

"Two eggs are enough for one omelette."

Daniyal paused.

He looked at the three eggs already in the bowl.

Then at the screen.

"Chef, I believe in generosity."

He added another.

Ayan looked into the bowl.

"Papa, why are there so many?"

Daniyal smiled.

"Because we are a big family."

"We are three people."

"Exactly. Very intelligent observation."

By the time Daniyal had finished preparing the mixture, his shirt had a yellow stain, the counter had become a battlefield and one unfortunate egg had disappeared somewhere near the refrigerator.

Chef Zubair, meanwhile, was explaining the importance of using the correct amount of oil.

"Just a little butter in the pan."

Daniyal picked up the butter.

"Little. Understood."

He placed a generous piece in the frying pan.

The butter began melting.

Then smoking.

Then making a sound that suggested it had developed personal grievances.

Daniyal looked at it.

"Chef?"

The chef continued smiling.

"Once the pan is hot, gently pour in your egg mixture."

Daniyal poured.

The mixture landed in the pan with a dramatic hiss.

He smiled.

"See, Ayan? Professional technique."

Ayan watched the omelette.

"Papa, it's making noise."

"That's because it's happy."

A few seconds later, Daniyal attempted to flip it.

He raised the spatula.

The omelette rose.

For one beautiful moment, it appeared to be flying.

Then it landed.

Not in the pan.

Not on the plate.

On the floor.

Silence.

Daniyal stared at it.

Ayan stared at it.

Chef Zubair continued talking.

"And now your omelette is ready to serve!"

Daniyal slowly turned towards the phone.

"Chef Zubair..."

He took a deep breath.

"...we need to discuss your definition of ready."

Ayan began laughing.

Daniyal picked up the fallen omelette, looked at it with disappointment and sighed.

"First attempt. A little technical difficulty."

Then, with the confidence of a man who refused to accept defeat, he began preparing another.

Upstairs, Sara finally decided she had had enough of the mysterious calls.

She threw aside her blanket, tied her untidy hair into a loose knot, slipped into her slippers and opened the bedroom door.

"Daniyal?"

No answer.

She walked towards the staircase.

"Daniyal!"

Still nothing.

Then came a loud metallic sound.

CLANG!

She stopped.

Another sound followed.

CRASH!

And then a familiar voice.

"Oh, no! Not again!"

Sara frowned.

"What is he doing?"

She descended the stairs, crossed the living room and followed the noise.

But when she reached the kitchen entrance, Daniyal wasn't inside.

He was standing outside, near the garden doorway, holding a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other.

His sleeves were rolled up.

His apron was crooked.

There was flour on his cheek, a small stain on his shirt and a proud smile on his face.

Ayan stood beside him, holding his teddy bear and looking equally pleased with himself.

Sara stopped.

Her sleepy expression slowly changed.

"Daniyal?"

He turned.

His entire face brightened.

"Good morning, Your Highness!"

She looked at his apron.

Then the spatula.

Then his face.

"Are you... cooking?"

Daniyal straightened his shoulders.

"Not just cooking. Preparing a royal Sunday breakfast."

Sara's eyes widened.

"Really?"

"Really."

For a moment, she simply looked at him.

Then a genuine smile spread across her face.

"Oh, Daniyal!"

She stepped forward and hugged him.

"That's so sweet! You actually did this for me?"

Daniyal smiled proudly.

"Of course. I wanted my wife to wake up feeling special."

She pulled away, touched his cheek and noticed the flour.

"What's this?"

He glanced at her finger.

"Kitchen decoration."

Sara laughed.

"You're impossible."

"Thank you. I try."

He stepped aside with a dramatic gesture.

"Now, madam, please have a look at my masterpiece."

Sara turned towards the kitchen.

Her smile remained for exactly two seconds.

Then it disappeared.

Her eyes moved from the counter to the floor.

From the floor to the stove.

From the stove to the refrigerator.

Then towards the open cupboards.

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Her lips parted.

The kitchen looked as if a flour factory had exploded during a spice festival.

Flour covered the floor, the counter and one side of the refrigerator. Onion peels were scattered everywhere. A saucepan was sitting in the sink, a wooden spoon was resting on the windowsill, and something suspiciously brown was sticking to the bottom of a frying pan.

A kitchen towel was hanging from a cupboard handle.

Another was lying inside the fruit basket.

Sara slowly turned her head towards Daniyal.

He was still smiling.

"Daniyal..."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"What happened here?"

He glanced around.

"Cooking."

She pointed towards the floor.

"Is that flour?"

"Yes."

"Why is it on the floor?"

He considered the question.

"Gravity?"

Sara stared at him.

Then she pointed towards the frying pan.

"And what's that?"

Daniyal looked at it.

A brief silence followed.

"An experimental omelette."

"Experimental?"

"Yes. Chef Zubair says experimentation is important."

Sara looked at the phone.

Chef Zubair was still smiling.

She looked back at Daniyal.

"Even Chef Zubair looks more successful than you."

Daniyal placed one hand on his chest.

"Please don't insult the chef. He's my mentor."

Ayan raised his little hand.

"Papa, I helped!"

Sara looked at her son.

"Oh, really? What did you do?"

"I supervised."

Daniyal nodded.

"Excellent supervision, actually."

Sara looked at the kitchen again and covered her mouth.

She was trying very hard not to laugh.

Daniyal noticed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

"You're laughing."

"I'm not."

"Your shoulders are shaking."

"That's because I'm emotionally overwhelmed."

He grinned.

"Exactly. I knew you'd be proud."

Sara finally burst into laughter.

And Daniyal, despite the state of his kitchen, looked like a man who had just received an international award.

He raised the spatula.

"Now, enough criticism. Breakfast is waiting!"

To be continued in Part 2...