There's Power in the Chicken
Rachel was having lunch with Quinn when they got the text from Brittany.
San having bad day. Surprise her 2nite?
"Uh-oh," Quinn said. "She probably had another run in with Professor McCrazy."
"I texted Britt back. Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
Quinn stopped in the middle of gathering her bag and half-finished tea. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"I think it would be nice to cook—"
"Let me stop you right there. Do you remember the last time we attempted to cook as a family?"
"We ended up with a perfectly edible dinner!"
"And some cut fingers, Brittany's singed eyebrows, and our edible dinner was only barely edible."
Rachel huffed. "We'll try an easy recipe this time. I think chicken with mustard-mascarpone Marsala sauce was a bit ambitious."
"A bit…" Quinn muttered.
"We are not attempting rabbit confit…"
"What kind of vegan are you? Suggesting rabbit…"
"If you're going to dip into the animal torture industry for the benefit of our girlfriend, do it in style."
"There's nothing wrong with chicken."
"There's power in the chicken, Rachel!" Brittany said.
Brittany looked at all of the ingredients on the counters when they got home. "I think I'll make the cupcakes."
Brittany ended up slicing the carrots, to save Rachel's fingers. Quinn did every other bit of the prep work, to save their apartment.
Rachel got to stir the cupcake batter.
"This is highly vexing," she grumbled.
"Use it," Quinn said, trying not to smile. "Put all of that vexed energy into making some seriously unlumpy batter."
"Very funny, Quinn."
"I'm perfectly capable of stirring the sauce while it's on the sto—AHH!" she yelped, jumping away when Brittany added the sherry. A column of flame shot up, catching a lock of her hair.
Quinn put it out with the oven mitts.
"Sorry, Rach," Brittany said.
"She'll be home in fifteen minutes. You don't have to keep asking me just so I'll have something to do," Rachel huffed from the table.
"We love you, Squish," Quinn said.
Rachel mumbled something that sounded like "None of you are getting laid tonight."
Santana walked into the apartment and stopped. There had been a cooking attempt. She knew this by three things.
One, the smell of food was in the air and she couldn't spot any delivery bags. Two, Rachel was currently in her time-pout (that's actually what they called it) spot on the couch. And three, Quinn was giving her the "They-wanted-to-cook-but-I-didn't-want-to-poison-you-so-I-cooked" smirk.
"Heard you were stressed, baby," she said. "So I cooked, Britt made cupcakes, and Rachel…picked a movie."
Rachel huffed from the couch.
"Sounds great," Santana said, smiling for the first time that day. She loved her crazy girls.