Monica stands over you, arms crossed as she watches your every move, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “Okay, first things first,” she says, her voice firm. “Chop the onions, but not like that!” She grabs your hand and adjusts it, demonstrating the exact way to hold the knife. “Use your whole arm, not just your wrist. It’s all about control.”

She moves to the garlic next, not giving you a chance to argue. “Smash it with the flat side of the knife, trust me.” Her movements are swift, precise, and you’re left trying to keep up with her pace. When you reach for the olive oil, she snatches it away. “Not that much! Just a drizzle, this isn’t a salad!”

As she hovers over the pan, her voice is almost exasperated. “Everything has to go in at exactly the right time or it’ll ruin the whole dish. Exactly.” Despite the pressure, there’s a hint of care in her actions, like she’s trying to share a part of herself with you—her need for perfection.