Tutoring My Peer (1)
“Do-young, get up. Time for breakfast.”
“Yaaawn… Breakfast?”
The night before, Mom had fallen asleep in my bed with me after coming back from abroad, but when I woke up in the morning, I was the only one left there.
“8:34… The alarm went off ages ago.”
Dad and I had agreed that I'd handle breakfast on Fridays and weekends. Normally, I'd set an alarm for around 8 and get up to prepare it, but since Mom was back and insisted on making breakfast herself, I must've slept right through the alarm.
“Good morning, my girl.”
“Yaaawn… Good morning, Mom.”
Sunlight poured through the kitchen window. Mom stood there in the glow, wearing a yellow chick apron as she prepared breakfast. The doentjang jjigae bubbled invitingly, and on the cutting board beside it sat a neatly rolled omelette—the first proper one I'd seen since possessing this body.
Finally, a real rolled omelette without any free vocation nonsense.
“Hey, Mom.”
“What is it?”
“You put something on your face?”
“No. I just woke up myself—no time to do my makeup.”
Maybe it was the bright sunlight streaming in, or perhaps the nutrients she'd squeezed out of Dad the night before, but Mom's skin looked exceptionally plump and dewy, practically shining. Her eyes were a bit puffy, but it gave her this oddly youthful charm that added a lively spark to her bare face.
“Sleep well? Lucky you, Ban Do-young. Mom made breakfast so you got to sleep in.”
“Hey, Dad. You're still alive, huh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dad had beaten me to the table, looking a tad paler than yesterday—or was that my imagination?
“Hungry? Come on, it’s all ready.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I plopped down at the table, heart swelling with anticipation. Dad and I—two cooking illiterates scraping by—had never had a proper home-cooked meal like this waiting for us.
“What the—?”
But despite the sizzling sounds and the fluffy aromas rising up, the table held nothing but the family photo we'd set out except… well, nothing else.
“Mom, the rice…?”
“It’s done. Two minutes left. Mind setting the table and pouring some water? I’m tied up with the stew.”
“…Sure.”
“Oh, once the rice cooker dings, grab the bowls and scoop some out. Half a bowl for me’s fine.”
“…”
“Ah, we’re out of tofu. Do-young, quick run to the convenience store for a firm block…!”
Yeah, pretty face or not, Mom’s Mom through and through.
…
“Phew, still hits the spot.”
It’d been ages since a real breakfast like this. Sure, mornings with Dad were tasty enough, but we usually just reheated last night’s leftovers. Microwave over gas stove was our reality. With everyone rushing around, breakfast was the hardest meal to fuss over.
“Man, your cooking hits different after so long, Jun-sook.”
“I’ll make a ton of side dishes before I go, so no starving. No delivery all the time, and if you do order, eat it at the office—not the shop, got it?”
“O-of course.”
“Do-young, any sides you want me to prep?”
“This.”
I speared a piece of Mom’s bright yellow rolled omelette with my chopsticks. No veggies like green onions, carrots, or onions to ruin it—just perfectly seasoned egg that made me reach for another bite right away. Especially that slightly undercooked center that got all gooey when chewed. Of all Mom’s sides, this was my favorite.
Yeah, rolled omelettes are meant to be pure egg. The pretty shape and color kept drawing my hand back. They say if it looks good, it tastes good—food or people.
Dad’s daily scrambled egg fails didn’t help his case; this neat round shape was a big part of why it won.
“Hehe, some tastes never change from kid days.”
“You used to throw fits if there was carrot in it back then too.”
“What? Just eat egg separate from carrot—why mix ’em and ruin it?”
“Remember how you said that as a kid… and still never ate the carrots?”
“…”
From their stories, it seemed the original Ban Do-young loved Mom’s rolled omelettes too. Makes sense—since I could use her body’s talents, maybe her tastes came with the package.
“Anyway, I love this. No greed—just make me 100 servings before you go.”
“Your breath’s gonna smell like a chicken coop, kid.”
“It’s great to eat, but rolled omelettes don’t keep long as a side. They spoil quick.”
“Tch… Mom, when’re you coming back next?”
“Let’s see, after Si-young’s international tournament—probably not till summer at least.”
“It’s March now?”
Oof. My head drooped in disappointment.
Damn that sister I’ve never even met. She gets this cooking every morning, huh.
“Any spots left in kendo study abroad?”
“Wha—you wanna go just for one omelette?”
For a second, I seriously considered tagging along with Mom for kendo abroad.
Ah, but then I couldn’t see the ending and return to my world. Bad guy Do Ha-min. Total bad guy.
“Fine, 10 servings then… three meals a day.”
“Hoo, haven’t seen you in ages and now you’re egg-obsessed, my girl. You liked ’em before, but not this much.”
“Guess ’cause you made it, Mom.”
“Flatter all you want—10’s still tough. Cooked eggs don’t last forever in the fridge.”
“Tch…”
She was right, sadly. Couldn’t eat fridge-stale chicken-coop omelettes.
“Or… wanna learn how to make rolled omelettes from me?”
“Huh?”
“You asked yesterday to teach you stuff besides kendo. Train hard today and tomorrow—bet you could whip some up.”
“Ooh, nice. Dad misses your sides when you’re gone. Delivery never tastes the same.”
“Hmm… but I’m no cook.”
This applied to me and original Ban Do-young. Unlike kendo, where her talent made me a natural despite being a total newbie, cooking gave no such vibes.
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t born knowing.”
“Really?”
“Yup. All practice.”
Mom, sitting beside me, beckoned lightly. Come closer. I leaned in toward her. Our chests bumped, blocking the way. Couldn’t get closer just leaning, so I swept back my left hair, exposing my ear, and held it near her.
“To hook a man good, master his tongue first.”
She winked, whispering her secret. Her soft, sultry breath tickled my ear—inaudible to Dad across the table—and my lips curled up involuntarily.
“Start light: ‘Tastes good…’ But over time, make him crave your cooking. Like how you wanna go kendo abroad for my omelette.”
“Ooh…”
“And finally, when he thinks ‘I only want her food’…? You’ve won.”
“You did that to Dad?”
“Obviously. That’s why I come back now and then—to keep the brainwashing fresh with sides.”
“Mom’s got opium-level charm.”
“Make it Yang Guifei, thanks.”
She chuckled at my joke and flicked my forehead with a cute knuckle-rap. Even light, her ex-national rep right hand left a red mark. It stung a bit, but woke me right up.
Best teaching tool in this world, hands down.
“What’re you two giggling about? Include me.”
“Nothing.”
“Dad doesn’t need to know.”
And so, Sunday afternoon was spent glued to the kitchen nearly all day.
…
Time flew. Monday after school, before evening study hall.
Do Ha-min showed up at our house right on time, as promised for kendo lessons. Sure enough, his right hand clutched a plastic bag with the agreed tuition: a can of Zero Lime.
“Heh, perfect timing, hero.”
“H-hi. You’re waiting out front today…?”
“Yeah, missed you. Waited forever.”
“Wh-what…?”
Do Ha-min flushed, flustered. I shoved a plate of charred lumps under his nose.
“Help me finish these.”
“Wh-what is this?”
“Rolled omelettes. Were.”