No wonder it was an odd cream color. “Dude! Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“I was wondering why they weren’t melting into mashed potatoes like the first batch,” he mused, leaning against the counter now and stroking his chin. “There were so many lumps I switched from a fork to the whisk, and when that didn’t help, I dumped more in and still couldn’t get it to thicken up.”
“Why wouldn’t you label the canisters?”
“I don’t know, I think the better question would be why did I have coconut flakes in the first place,” Rebel said, scratching his head. “I can’t think of a single thing I’d use them in.”
“Well, you had to have bought them at some point,” I said. “Otherwise, you have coconut manifesting cupboards and might want to do something about that before there are more coconut flakes than sand around here.”
He just laughed and reached for the pot, peered inside, and laughed harder before pulling out his phone and taking a picture of the mess.
“The guys will get a kick out of that,” he said. “What should we title it?”
“A hot mess,” I offered.
“Hey guys,” he muttered aloud as he typed. “I just invented an all-natural alternative to wallpaper paste.”
It didn’t take long before his phone started blipping, then mine vibrated, alerting me to a concerned text from Johnny asking if I needed him to send Door Dash my way.
It was followed a few seconds later by a text from Dash. “Dude, do not eat that! I’m just getting used to you.”
Snorting, I text back, “Ditto.”
Sometime between when we’d entered the studio and when the final track was laid down, it clicked for me that I was truly a part of the band, with all the snark and brotherhood that went along with it.
A one-word text from Ozzy simply saidrun.
“Dash asked what the hell it was,” Rebel said and showed me the giant puke emoji Dash had sent after Rebel told him. “It’s honestly not that bad. I mean, it tastes like potato, just a little on the sweet and nutty side.”
“Just like you,” I replied, shaking my head at him. “Now throw that shit away.”
“Fine…” Rebel grumbled, muttering something about creative vision and how we could have been on the verge of starting a whole new trend in instant potatoes.
He was just scraping the mess into the trash and having a hell of a time doing it now that it had started to solidify when Steel emerged, took one look at what was taking place, and chuckled.
“Do I want to ask?”
“Probably not,” Rebel said as he finally got the last of it out of the pot.
I crossed the kitchen to the grocery list Rebel had clipped tothe fridge and addedlabelsright undergrape juice.
“Apparently potato flakes and coconut flakes look exactly alike,” I explained.
“No worries,” Steel said, crossing the kitchen to the container that was still sitting on the counter. “There’s still plenty of potato flakes left. I’ll whip us up a new batch.”
“No, you won’t,” I said, snickering and nudging the canister out of his grasp. “Those are the coconut flakes.”
“And that is vindication!” Rebel declared.
Groaning, I just smacked my hand over my eyes while Rebel tapped a message into his phone, no doubt telling the rest of the band what had just happened.
“Don’t they sell mashed potatoes at the gas station down the road?” Steel asked. “I swear I saw some in there the other day.”
“Yeah, in their take-and-bake section,” Rebel replied, still typing away.
“Perfect. I’m going to go get some; you just stay here and refrain from putting coconut flakes in anything else,” Steel said, before turning to look at me. “You can hogtie him if you need to, just no more coconut-flake abominations.”
“Sorry, I’m fresh out of rope,” Rebel declared, smirking at me.