The night I pretended to be an expert chef

please read The night I was arrested on a vice charge first.

The clock ticks. Fifteen minutes before Dominic aka Prince Charming arrives. Flour drapes across every surface in the kitchen. I can feel it on my face. The sole in grenobloise sauce is dry and clumpy. The roux is burned. The acrid smell haunts my apartment. The exhaust seems only to have shuffled the smell from the kitchen to the living room. Opening the window did nothing.

The only bit of food I have successfully prepared is smoked salmon roll-ups and those only because my Aunt Grace used to make them all the time and they are easy as wrapping smoked salmon, cream cheese, capers, and red onions in a tortilla.

There’s a firm rap at the door. I don’t glance in the mirror.

He stands there smiling, but the smile fades as he looks at me. His eyes twinkle. “Hey, Stay Puft Marshmallow girl.”

He hands me sunflowers, a bottle of red wine, and then uses his index finger to dust my lips before he plants a kiss on them. “Something smells . . .”

“It’s dinner, I’m afraid. Or was dinner.”

He doesn’t remark on my expert chef ability. He simply removes the pizza menu from the drawer and looks at me. “The works?”

 

end 8/30/2016 (2)

S. Darlington

 

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