Pantry Pantser

By Lisabet Sarai

The topic calendar tells me that the next two weeks here at the Grip will be devoted to discussing “Other Skills”. This wasn’t my topic suggestion, but I assume that given we’re all authors, this means “skills other than writing”

We actually had a similar topic back in 2009 (yes, I’ve been posting here at the Grip that long...!). I wrote about my talent for throwing parties. The skill I want to talk about today is a bit more prosaic, namely, my ability to cook.

My mom let me help her cook from the time I was about six. My skills were honed when she was incapacitated for a month by severe pneumonia, a few years later. As the eldest child, I took on the responsibility of putting meals (albeit simple) on the table. I continued cooking, for myself and friends, through high school, college and grad school. Paradoxically, I used to concoct Chinese or Italian dinners even when I was still battling anorexia. I guess I got some sort of vicarious satisfaction out of feeding others.

When I met my DH, I learned that he also enjoyed cooking. His library of cookbooks was larger than mine. I recall the first time he made breakfast for me (after the first full night we spent together): scrambled eggs with tofu and smoked cheddar. Yum!

We pruned our cookbook collection when we moved to Asia. Nevertheless, it still fills a long shelf in our kitchen. I have to admit, though, that I rarely follow a recipe. I’ll skim some of our volumes for ideas, but then I tend to wing it. Even when I’m more or less adhering to someone else’s directions, I’ll almost always make some substitutions or throw in some unusual ingredient.

(Does this sound at all like my writing?)

I call myself an “improvisational cook”. Though I try to keep some fundamental supplies on hand (fresh veggies, lots of garlic, sharp cheddar, almonds, raisins, olives, capers, pasta) and a well-stocked spice rack, I mostly decide what to cook based on what I have in my refrigerator. These days I live a ten minute walk from a 24 hour supermarket, but even when I lived in a rural area and could only shop for groceries once a week, I didn’t do meal plans. Instead, I’d buy a bunch of raw materials, knowing I’d figure out what to do with them later.

Despite my lack of—discipline? Formality? Respect for tradition?— almost everything I cook turns out well. Honestly, I think there must be a cooking gene. My mom was a wonderful cook, as was her mother. Meanwhile, I know people who diligently follow the instructions, who measure everything twice, who would never dare alter the ingredients in a dish, whose results just don’t taste all that good.

There are exceptions, of course. Occasionally my creative disregard for recipes backfires. A few months ago I made Mexican Chile Colorado for a dinner party. Since I couldn’t get the dried Ancho chillies called for by my cookbook, I substituted dried Asian chillies. Bad idea! Even my DH, who can tolerate spicier food than anyone I know, found the results difficult to eat! (The next day, though, with some of the sauce washed off, the meat was delicious.)

At one point, before I’d published any fiction, I contemplated publishing a cookbook called The Improvisational Cook. It was to be part cookbook, part manifesto. Recipe-oppressed women of the world, unite!

That project never got off the ground, but I do have a cookbook I created a few years ago as a holiday gift to readers. Recipes from an International Kitchen was my attempt to actually write down directions for creating some of my favorite (invented) dishes, most of which have some sort of international flavor: Provencal Smoked Salmon Pasta, Bangalore Cauliflower Curry, Heidelburg Hamburg Stroganoff, and so on. I augmented the recipes with photos from my travels. Click the link above to download a copy in PDF.

Given my love of concocting scrumptious food, it may not be surprising that some of my characters also show cooking competence. In particular, I like to give my heroes some cooking ability. Here’s a bit from my recent release The Gazillionaire and the Virgin in which Theo is throwing together a quick dinner—very much the way I would:

When I wake up, it’s dark and I’m starving. The mattress rocks as I stand up, but Rachel doesn’t budge. Her succulent breasts rise and fall with her even breathing. I notice the marks from my belt are already fading. I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed.

I pull on a tee shirt and a pair of gym shorts and head for the kitchen. I know I’ve got some chicken breasts in the freezer. With some couscous and a salad, they’ll make a decent supper. Probably not up to Rachel’s standards, but she’ll just have to make allowances.

The damp, rumpled quilt on the dining room table and the ropes scattered over the floor give me a slightly queasy sense of satisfaction. I can hardly believe it happened, but here’s the evidence. I—no, we—actually did it. Can’t tell Dr. Hopkins about this, of course. Although he’s pretty laid back, I suspect there may be limits to his tolerance. No, this will have to be our secret—mine and Rachel’s. My smile’s so broad my cheeks hurt as I coil up the lengths of cord and stash them in a drawer. The emergency release process shortened them, but they still might be useful in the future.

The future. I ponder the possibilities as I putter around the kitchen, putting the chicken into the microwave to thaw, whisking together olive oil, lemon juice, basil and tarragon for the marinade, tearing romaine leaves and slicing vine-ripened tomatoes. Did Rachel and I have a future? Was there any way I could fit into her high-flying, super-charged, billionaire executive life?

We connect sexually. I have no doubts about that, not anymore. Despite her position, or maybe even because of it, she has a natural desire to submit, a desire that I can apparently satisfy. And make no mistake, I’m happy to oblige—to push her to her limits, and beyond. I’ve never felt the kind of power and certainty I felt this afternoon. And that was just the beginning. There are so many things I want to do to her—with her. I’m getting hard again as a parade of X-rated images runs through my mind.

But sex is not enough. Entertaining as it might be to fantasize about a life with Rachel as my 24/7 slave, I know that’s ridiculous. We come from different worlds. We have different values. Rachel measures everything in dollars and cents.

That’s not fair. I arrange the chicken in a baking dish, dump in the marinade, sprinkle chopped garlic over the top, and leave it to sit for ten minutes. From what I’ve seen so far, she also values creativity, innovation and hard work, just like I do. She’s super-smart, energetic, funny. And brave. It took guts for her to take me to Home Depot. I’m sure she realized I might have had a total melt-down. Hey, I almost did.

She’s a lot braver than I am. Would I ever have admitted my interest in kink if she hadn’t found my stash?

Vinegar, oil and Grey Poupon make a quick, tasty salad dressing. Too early to pour it over the greens, though. I put the chicken in the oven, setting the timer for half an hour.

Now the cat’s out of the bag. And she didn’t run away screaming—quite the contrary! It’s pretty likely she’s going to want more.

So now what? She lives almost an hour away, even if there’s no traffic. She runs a billion dollar company. She’s glamorous and self-confident, with a taste for luxury. And me? I’m just a nerdy computer scientist with a touch of Asperger’s and a penchant for bondage. People scare me. Change terrifies me. There’s no way I belong in her universe.

Even if she wants you there? A startling notion. Dr. Rachel Zelinsky always gets what she wants.

The rich aroma of roasting chicken makes my mouth water and my belly clench. The water for the couscous is boiling, so I dump the yellow grains into the pot, cover it and take it off the stove. Time to set the table, then I’ll go wake my guest. I like that notion, actually. I’ve never had a guest for dinner before.

“God, that’s smells incredible!”

I jump, almost dropping the glass salad bowl. “Jeez! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry.” Rachel extracts the bowl from my grip and places it on the counter, then wraps her arms around me. She’s warm and rumpled and smells of sex. “You must have been lost in thought.” She lands a quick kiss on my lips and gives me a squeeze. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

Okay, so there’s some sex in there, too. Sorry!

I also have a novella (Her Secret Ingredient) and a novel (The Ingredients of Bliss) where the heroine is an ambitious Cordon Bleu chef. Despite Emily Wong’s traditional training, she tends to get creative with classic dishes, much to the chagrin of her French boss:

“Ginger? Do I taste ginger?”

“Uh—yes, that’s right, sir…”

“Ginger in coq au vin? That’s practically sacrilege, Ms Wong.”

Etienne Duvalier fixed me with a look that would have withered spinach. I straightened my spine, smoothed my apron and attempted a placating smile.

“It’s good, though—isn’t it? One of my signature dishes at Le Belvedere.” It had come out perfectly, the succulent meat melting off the bone at the first touch of a fork. I held out another portion, my own mouth watering at the rich, complex aroma. I wasn’t about to mention the hint of cloves to a traditionalist like Etienne.

Actually, I had great fun with these two books, especially the novel. It’s set mostly in France, and features lots of the amazing food I enjoyed on my last trip to that ultimate gastronomic paradise.

This has gone on much longer than I’d intended. Food is always a favorite topic! I like to fantasize that someday I might be able to host all the Grip contributors at a dinner party. Then you’d understand that I’m not just bragging.

Smackdown

By Lisabet Sarai

She stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up. With a sigh, she made up her mind, stomped up the stairs and stood at his door. Opening her purse, she took it out and held it in her hand. She hammered on the door with her fist. "Henry! Open up! It's me."

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

The desperation in his voice triggered some sympathy, despite her determination to be stern. “We've got to talk. You can't go on like this. The wedding's next month.”

“Call off the wedding then. I don't give a damn.” Someone who knew Henry less well might have thought he sounded like a petulant child, but Sheila caught the undercurrent of pain in his testy reply.

She filled her lungs with air, then released it slowly. Unclasping her fingers, she stared at the shred of red silk nestled in her palm. She'd found it in his briefcase, while she'd been searching for his address book to verify one of the invitations. It wasn't the first time she'd discovered a woman's lingerie among his belongings.

“Henry – darling – you promised... Last time you told me you'd get help...”

“'Help?' What if I don't want to be 'helped'?”

“Don't you want me? Love me?” His selfishness reignited her anger. “Damn it, Henry! Is your – compulsion – more important than our relationship? You told me you'd put your old ways behind you. That with me by your side, you could resist the temptation to stray.”

“I was wrong. I'll never change. I know that now.” He choked up and once again, compassion melted her. Aside from this one weakness, he was a good man – caring, honest, and strong - a skilled and considerate lover - serious about things that were important, but with an unerring instinct for making her laugh. He'd make a good husband. She knew he wanted to be faithful to the vow he'd made. He just needed her support.

“Look – let me in. Please. It's silly for us to be arguing through the door like this.” She made her voice gentle, non-threatening, as though she were coaxing a feral animal to come closer. “I won't hurt you. I'm not mad anymore. Open the door, baby.”

“Don't 'baby' me, Sheila. I know you. As soon as you're inside, you'll start laying into me – verbally if not physically.”

“I won't.” She swallowed her frustration. “I love you, Henry. You know that. Please don't shut me out.”

Henry didn't answer, but she heard his footsteps approaching the door. She stuffed the evidence of his guilt back into her bag.

The door swung open. She stepped inside, noting that he'd shut the blinds against the afternoon glare. Patchouli hung heavy in the air., presumably emitted by the candles burning on his bureau and night-table.

“Thank you, darling - “ she began. The sight presented by her fiancé rendered her speechless – a state completely unfamiliar to her.

Henry towered over her, defiant, with his hands on his hips – hips that were wrapped in purple satin tap pants. His matching padded brassiere was trimmed with white lace. Taupe silk stockings encased his legs, held in place by elasticized bands that encircled his muscular thighs. His size nine feet were crammed into shiny black pumps with three inch heels. Rhinestone drops dangled from his earlobes. A matching choker sparkled below his Adam's apple.

He hadn't shaved. The earrings made a glittering contrast with his five o'clock shadow. The dark hair growing between his pecs poked out from the cleavage created by the bra. He'd smeared violet shadow onto his eyelids and painted his lips flaming red. She sniffed, catching a whiff of male sweat mingled with his cheap perfume.

“Oh – oh my God...!” Sheila had known about Henry's obsession for more than a year. He'd confessed the day after he'd proposed. But she'd never seen him - dressed up.

“So what do you think, Sheila?” His deliberate scorn wounded her. He twirled on his heels, surprisingly stable and graceful. “Aren't I just lovely?”

She couldn't answer. She could only stare in fascinated horror at the man she'd agreed to marry.

Disgusting. Bizarre. Abnormal. Perverse. The words ran through her mind, but she couldn't articulate them. And she couldn't look away.

He grabbed her hand and led her toward the bed. She slumped down, her legs finally giving way. Henry continued his camp promenade in front of her. He cupped his false breasts, then smoothed his hands down his torso to his hips in a slow, lascivious parody of a woman showing off her curves. “Well?”

“I – I ...”

“This is me, baby. This is who I really am. Take a good long look.” He brushed his palm over his purple-covered crotch. His cock jumped and swelled in response to his touch. Sheila's eyes were glued to the growing bulk that distended the feminine garment. Henry stroked himself through the satin, obviously enjoying the way the fabric slithered back and forth over the skin underneath. “You still want me, Sheila? Still love me?”

Twisted. Filthy. Obscene. Disturbed. But hot, oh yes - very hot. Sheila realized her nipples were hard and her own panties damp. “Henry...” she croaked, ashamed of her own reactions. He took a step in her direction. She leaned away from him, not wanting her scent to betray her. “You're not gay, are you?”

“Of course not, woman.” He seemed to gain confidence as she lost hers. “If I were gay, would I be doing this?” He reached down and pulled her to her feet, then grasped the collar of Sheila's blouse and tore it open. Buttons clattered in the corners. “Or this?” His mouth fastened on her nipple, sucking hard through her bra.

“Oh...” When he bit down on the swollen nub, fire raced through her. His lipstick left scarlet streaks on the sensible white cotton. “Oh, Henry...!”

He bore her down backwards onto the bed, ripped open the fly of her jeans and dragged them down over her hips. Then he plunged his fingers into her wetness. “I'm not gay, baby. I'm just a bit twisted.” He moved his hand inside her as if to illustrate the concept. “And you know what? I”m tired of apologizing. Either take me as I am, or cut me loose.”

She gazed up at him, kneeling between her spread thighs. His stocking seams marched down the back of his powerful calves. The front of his panties turned a darker shade purple as pre-cum soaked through the fine material. He rubbed his cock with one hand while massaging her clit with the other. Her pelvis jerked uncontrollably. He knew exactly what she liked.

When she was sure she couldn't endure any more, Henry stretched out on top of her. His padded breasts mashed against hers. His satin-clad erection prodded her bare belly, then slipped lower to nestle between her sticky thighs. “What do you say?” he breathed in her ear. “Do you want more, baby?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please...”

His earring swung against her cheek. His perfume made her dizzy. He ground his cock into her cleft while clamping down on her earlobe. When she gasped at the pain, he drove his tongue inside her mouth. He nibbled at the corner, smearing her cheeks with greasy red lipstick, before sealing her lips with his own.

Henry had always been considerate, in control of his lusts, thinking first of her pleasure. She'd never known him to be so forceful – almost brutal. And she loved it. She couldn't pretend she didn't.

He teased her until she tottered on the edge of coming, then snatched her back before starting again. When he finally relented, stripping her jeans off one leg, forcing her thighs to her shoulders, and ramming his cock into her depths, she screamed at the sensations that tore through her. It didn't matter that his prick poked out from satin and lace ladies' panties, or that the purple cones of his brassiere bounced as he fucked her.

He was all man. Her man. And it looked like being married to him might turn out better than she'd ever imagined.