Part 56 (1/2)
He turned the scowl on her. ”Since I qualify as a moron in this area, I should be able to handle it.”
”Great. Mind if I get a gla.s.s of wine?”
”Go ahead. You can pour me one, too. In a freaking tumbler.”
Though she found cooking relaxing, she understood the frustrations of the novice or very sometimes cook. ”What inspired this domestic bliss?” she asked as she got out gla.s.ses-winegla.s.ses, despite his comment.
His eyes narrowed as she slipped into the butler's pantry for the wine. ”Are you looking for a kick in the a.s.s?”
”Actually, I'm looking for a nice pinot grigio,” she called out. ”Ah, here we go. I hope I'm invited to dinner,” she continued as she brought the bottle back to the kitchen. ”It's been a while since anyone's cooked for me.”
”That was the idea.” He watched her uncork the wine she'd very likely stocked herself in the wine cooler. ”Is nine-one-one on speed dial?”
”Yes.” She gave him a gla.s.s, and a friendly kiss on the cheek. ”And thank you.”
”Don't thank me until we rule out kitchen fire and food poisoning.”
Willing to risk both, she sat on a stool, enjoyed her first sip of wine. ”When's the last time you cooked anything that didn't come out of a can or a box?”
”Certain smug people smirk at food from cans and boxes.”
”We do. Shame on us.”
He turned his frown back on the garlic bulb. ”I'm supposed to peel and slice this garlic.”
”Okay.”
When he just stared at her, she s.h.i.+fted, picked up the knife. ”I'll demonstrate the procedure.”
She tugged off a clove, held it up, then, setting it on the cutting board, gave it a kind of smack with the flat of the knife. The peel slid off, easy as a stripper's breakaway. Once she'd sliced it, she handed him back the rest of the bulb and the knife. ”Got it?”
”Yeah.” More or less. ”We had a cook. When I was growing up, we always had a cook.”
”Never too late to learn. You might even like it.”
”I don't think that's going to happen. But I ought to be able to follow a recipe for morons.”
”I have every faith.”
He mimicked her slicing procedure, and felt marginally more hopeful when he didn't cut off a finger. ”I know superior amus.e.m.e.nt when I'm standing in it.”
”But it's superior and affectionate amus.e.m.e.nt. Affectionate enough I'll teach you a trick.”
”What trick?”
”A quick and easy marinade for that chicken.”
Fear and loathing of the very idea echoed in his voice. ”It doesn't say anything about marinade.”
”It should. Hold on a minute.” Rising, she went to the walk-in pantry. It gave her a jolt, seeing everything mixed up, out of order, jumbled. Then she remembered the police.