by Sarina Bowen
I tuck all these items away, which only takes a few minutes. And then I wonder if Kieran would want me to stock up on a few more things that every kitchen needs. Would he be grateful? Or would he think I’m dominating his space?
I ponder the question for a minute or two. But, fuck it. This kitchen is empty and sad, and cooking is my area of expertise. I grab my car keys and the wallet that contains all the money I have in the world.
And I head for the store.
Maybe I go a little crazy at the grocery store, but a guy needs to eat, right? When I get busy cooking in Kieran’s kitchen, I feel happier than I’ve been in a long time. I rub spices all over a pork loin and set it to roast in my skillet, leaving my saucepan free for a nice batch of applesauce.
It isn’t until I hear Kieran walk in the door at seven thirty that I notice there’s flour on the countertop and steam on the windowpanes. I’ve made myself at home before he’s had a chance to do the same.
Hastily, I start cleaning up. But there he is in the doorway, holding—
“Is that a pre-made sandwich from a convenience store?” I ask, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.
He looks down at the plastic wedge in his hand, as if he’s not quite sure how it got there. “I decided not to stay for dinner at my folks’, but then I didn’t have a better plan.”
“Well, I made a pork tenderloin and applesauce. Then I realized I don’t, uh, have any plates. So I had to make some rolls to eat it on.”
“It smells so—” He sniffs the air. “Wow. Really good.”
Even this small crumb of praise makes me grow taller. “Then let’s eat. You can save that for tomorrow.” I grab the plastic sandwich container out of his hand, open up the refrigerator, and chuck it inside.
Kieran catches the fridge’s door before it closes. “Holy cow. You did some shopping.”
“Well, I guess I did.” I let out a nervous chuckle at all the food I’ve crammed in there. A gallon of milk, because it’s cheapest that way. Apples, winter squash—because it’s cheap. Butter. A few condiments for cooking. Blocks of cheese, because it’s an inexpensive protein, and some of them were on sale. My sourdough starter. “Look, I can keep all of this on two shelves and give you the other two. I don’t need to hog the space.”
He shrugs. “There’s plenty of room. And I don’t know how to cook. Like, at all. Do you think you might…”
I wait.
“Never mind.” He shakes his head.
“I might what?” I prod.
He puts his phone onto the countertop charger and avoids my gaze. “I want to learn how to cook a little,” he says. “I can’t afford to eat out every night. Could you, uh, recommend a book you like?”
“You can’t learn from a book,” I tell him. “It’s all about technique. I’ll teach you to cook. It’s the least I could do.” I move closer to him, because this idea excites me. Cooking is fun when there’s someone to feed.
Those brown eyes widen. “Really?”
“Sure. No problem. Cooking is like breathing to me. It’s the only thing I’ve ever learned how to do more quickly than other people seem to.”
That, and blowjobs.
“I’d appreciate it,” he says, jamming his hands in his pockets. He leans back a fraction of an inch, and I realize I’ve invaded his personal space. I do that to everybody when I get jazzed up about something.
I take a healthy step backwards. “Let’s eat this food before my rolls burn.” I open the oven and carefully remove the stainless steel lid to my skillet, which I’ve repurposed as a baking sheet. There are four large rolls ringing the handle.
The skillet itself is on the bottom rack, the roast browning nicely in the pan.
“Whoa,” Kieran says. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s a twelve-dollar roast and a dollar’s worth of flour. This is why I never eat take-out food. Oh, and—” I lift the lid of the saucepan, and the scent of apples rises into the air. “Apples are cheap this time of year.”
He snorts. “They’re free if you’re cousins with Griffin Shipley. I eat so many of them in the fall that I might be fifty percent apple.”
The other fifty percent is beefcake. I keep that idea to myself. But Kieran Shipley is so attractive that my slutty little mind can’t stop noticing him.
I give myself a mental slap and then ask a nosy question. “Audrey lives at the orchard?” I’m super curious about my new bosses. I pluck the rolls off the skillet’s lid and drop them onto the countertop to cool. Then I pull the skillet from the oven, setting it in on the stovetop to rest the roast before I slice it.
“Yup, they have a big spread. The orchard is their main business, but there’s also a small dairy. Griffin makes hard cider, and that’s turning into his biggest moneymaker.”
“Cool.” I can’t imagine the luxury of growing your own food. And getting Kieran talking makes me feel like I’ve won a prize. “Would it be weird to put applesauce inside the sandwich? Because we don’t have silverware, either.”
He shrugs. “You don’t have to feed me at all. But that sounds pretty good to me.”
“Awesome. Give me ten minutes to assemble this, and I will blow your mind with my pork loin.”
Wait, did that come out sounding dirty?
“Thanks,” he says simply. And then he goes upstairs to change.
Kieran
I thought that having Roderick as a roommate would be super weird. But it turns out that when your life is hellaciously busy, you don’t have time to feel weird. After our awkward dinner at the kitchen counter, I don’t see much of him for a while.
The next two weeks are a blur of coffeemaking, Photoshop, and driving to Hardwick for farm labor. Every night I stop at a store on my way home to pick up things I need for the house. I buy a set of plain white plates and bowls. I buy towels and more sheets. A king-sized quilt and blanket.
I buy a couch that’s discounted by half because one of its feet is missing. That’s an easy fix, because we have all kinds of wood scraps in the barn. It only takes me a few minutes to find one that’s the right thickness, and to cut it to size. Nobody looks at a couch’s feet, anyway.
Climbing into bed every night knowing Roderick’s in the house hasn’t been as strange as I’d thought it would be, either. His light is usually off by the time I stagger upstairs after another busy day.
Roderick still sleeps on a sleeping bag in the middle of his empty room. The only thing between him and the wood floor is the camping mattress I lent him. He seems perfectly happy with this arrangement, though. In fact, he looks much better rested than he used to. The circles under his eyes are gone, and he doesn’t fall asleep at work anymore.
And I’ve been grateful he’s kept his promise not to mention the high school incident again.
One Friday night I come home from the ad agency to find Roderick reading a book on my new couch. “Hey!” he says, slapping the book shut. “I was waiting for you. It’s time for your first cooking lesson.”
It’s embarrassing how much I like hearing that he was waiting for me. “What’s on the menu?” I ask, tossing my coat onto a doorknob. I really need to hang some hooks in the entryway. Soon.
“Roast chicken with herbed butter and garlic,” he says.
“That sounds…complicated.” Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
“I know!” he says, leaping up and looking gleeful. “It’s not, though. That’s why I chose this recipe. Come on.” He practically gallops into the kitchen.
There’s a whole chicken lying there in the center of his skillet, and some other ingredients on the counter.
He lifts a sprig of an herb off the counter. “This is…”
“Rosemary,” I say.
“And…”
“Parsley,” I say, beating him to the punch again. “I grew up with farmers. And even if my mom can’t figure out how to put flavor in food, my Aunt Ruth sure can.”
“Well.” Roderick sniffs. “I guess you’re going to do just fi
ne. See this butter? I left it out on the counter to soften.” He pokes the stick, and his finger leaves an indent. “Open that sucker up and dump it in a bowl.”
I follow this simple instruction, and then he hands me a fancy chef’s knife. “Now you’re going to learn how to get the skin off of garlic quickly.” He puts a clove of garlic on a cutting board that I’ve never seen before. It must be a new acquisition. “Smack it with the side of the knife. Go on.”
Whap. I smack the garlic, and now it’s flattened.
“Nice!” He chuckles. “Now take the skin off. That’s easy when you’ve crushed it a little.”
He’s right. I flick the skin out of the way.
“Slice it thinly, okay? Then overchop it in the other direction.”
I slice the garlic into fine slices, but then I’m stuck. “What does overchop mean?”
“Like this,” he says. He actually reaches around my body and pivots the knife, and my concentration goes haywire. I’m too focused on the heat of his chest at my side and the brush of his thumb on my hand. “Okay, a little finer,” he says.
I squint down at the garlic and give it a few clumsy chops, but my attention is still on him. He’s standing so close to me that I feel a puff of his breath when he talks. And I like it way too much.
“Good enough,” he says. “Now do another one.”
I force myself to concentrate. The minced garlic gets tossed on top of the butter, along with parsley and rosemary that I chop, too. Then Roderick hands me a wooden spoon and has me mash it all together.
“Time to preheat the oven,” he says. “Use four twenty-five. Four fifty is even better, but sometimes it makes the house too smoky. Always cook a chicken hot and fast,” he says with a chuckle. “What’s good for sex is also good for roasting chicken.”
Now my neck and face are on fire.
“Last step,” he says. “Using your hands, you’re going to shove half of that butter under the chicken skin, over the meat.”
“What about the other half,” I ask, my face still red.
“We’ll freeze it for next time.” He grabs a piece of waxed paper and plops half the butter onto it. He shapes it into a log and rolls it up before I can blink.
I get to work buttering the chicken, but I might have gotten more of it on me than on the bird.
“It’s a messy job,” he concedes.
“Not nearly as messy as gutting and plucking the chicken,” I point out.
“You’ve done that?” he yelps.
“Many times. Next time you need a chicken, give me three days’ notice, and I’ll bring you a really fresh one and show you how.”
He puts a hand on my back, and I feel the warmth through my T-shirt. “I think I’m happy to let the store handle that for me, farmer boy.” That hand disappears, but I can still feel it after it’s gone. “Last step,” he says, grabbing a cardboard container of kosher salt. “Salt and pepper the fuck out of everything. That’s a technical term. Memorize it.”
I laugh again. That’s twice in one day.
We let the bird roast for an hour. I shower and call my brother, then Roderick makes rice.
“For brown rice or basmati, try two cups of water to one of rice. That usually works.” He lifts the lid off the saucepan of rice, and a homey scent fills the air.
“That smells delicious.”
“I just threw in some turmeric and cumin.” He shrugs. “We ought to have a vegetable, too. But we’re out of pans, and we’re out of time. So maybe I’ll tackle that at your next lesson.”
“Good plan.”
He opens the oven door, and the chicken is gorgeous, like something on a magazine cover—golden brown and sizzling everywhere.
“Jesus,” I murmur.
“I know, I’m hungry, too,” he agrees. “Move your big self out of the way so I can get this.” With a dish towel in each hand—my mother gave me those from her stash—he lifts the skillet onto the stovetop. “It has to rest for five or ten minutes, then we feast.”
I can barely stand the wait. But when I finally get my first bite, it’s delicious.
“Your cooking rocks,” Roderick says, biting into a thigh. We’re standing at the counter side by side, because there’s no table.
“Don’t flatter me, it’s your recipe,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. I have that happy glow you get from eating something amazing. The garlic and butter have turned an ordinary thing extraordinary. “But what I don’t understand is this—if cooking is so easy, why do so many people do it badly?”
“I’ve always wondered the same thing,” he says, licking his fingers.
The sight of his tongue reminds me of something else, and I look away. Jesus. Even if Roderick has been good about not bringing it up, the memory is obviously still there, lurking in my psyche.
And I have no idea how to make it go away.
Roderick
November rolls on. Before the end of the month, I leave my rent check on the counter when I leave for work at five a.m. It’s money well spent. Every morning I wake up in a snug house instead of in my car. And I sleep soundly at night knowing that the door is locked and that there’s a burly farm boy somewhere in the house.
I’m a pack animal. I’m not cut out to live alone.
Also, I’m already deeply in love with Kieran’s house. The living room has a high ceiling and shiny wood floors. It has the old bones of a home that’s been standing for a century. I love the creaky built-in cabinets in the dining room we don’t use. And the ornate staircase spindles.
Little by little, we’re furnishing the place. Kieran shops at stores and online. One morning when I wake up, I find a large, creamy rug in the center of the living room. I lie down in the center of it and decide I approve.
For my part, I’ve been haunting the thrift shops in Montpelier, slowly furnishing the kitchen with my finds. I’ve bought coffee mugs with roosters on them and a shiny copper teakettle.
One Saturday I swing by a church rummage sale and hit the motherlode: egg cups, serving spoons, a two-dollar cast-iron griddle with the tags still on it. And those are just the bigger purchases.
On Monday, for the first time ever, neither Kieran nor I has a shift at the coffee shop. That’s the day that Zara and Audrey have claimed to work together. “We’ll get a chance to start the week and talk. Just the two of us,” Audrey had said.
I wake up at six thirty, though, because I’ve trained myself to be awake in the morning. I run out for groceries, because it’s time for Kieran’s next cooking lesson.
He comes downstairs at eight, wearing flannel pants, a snug-fitting waffle-weave shirt and sleep-tousled hair. As usual, I experience a rush of affection for the hot farm boy who rescued me off the streets.
I don’t gush about my gratitude, though, because it’s clear that Kieran doesn’t know what to do with praise. And my exuberance generally makes him a little uncomfortable. So I try to rein myself in whenever we’re together.
Still, I can’t stop wondering how good it would feel to be grabbed up in those strong arms and hugged. Or, say, pinned to the bed while he fucks me. I’m not picky.
“You didn’t have to do that,” is the first thing Kieran says to me this morning.
“Um, what?” I’m still distracted by my morning sex fantasy, and by the way his hair is grown out and starting to curl. I want to sift my fingers through it.
“The soap dish in my bathroom,” he clarifies.
“Oh!” I wave a hand to dismiss this bit of nonsense. “Lucky find.” The dish is made from a single piece of waxed, carved wood. It reminded me of Kieran.
“I can pay you back,” he says.
“Sure, man. If you really want to, I’ll take your twenty-five cents.”
“Wait, what?”
“Church rummage sale. But look! I also got this…” I grab his muscular wrist and tug him over to the stove where my new Dutch oven waits. “It’s the best that four bucks can buy.”
“Wow.” He chuckles. “What are you go
ing to make in that?”
“Not me, you. I shopped for your next lesson.”
“I want to pay for the groceries,” he says immediately.
“Fine. I still have the slip somewhere. Today you’re making pulled pork. The cooking time is five hours, so you’d better get started. Here.” I hand him a mixing bowl. “Two tablespoons of brown sugar. And a quarter cup of paprika. You’re making a dry rub.”
He blinks at me with sleepy eyes. “Before coffee?”
His expression is so unguarded and sweet that I just want to give him a hug. But I’ve learned that Kieran is not a toucher. When I sometimes slip up and pat his arm, he always grows still and wary.
I grab the stove-top espresso maker—another thrift-store find—and fill it with water. “I’ll caffeinate you. But you’re rubbing that butt.”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
“Pork butt. Also called shoulder or picnic roast, depending on where you are in the country. Preheat the oven to two seventy-five.”
“Isn’t that kind of low?”
“Yep! Low and slow. Just how I like my…” I break off laughing, because Kieran’s face is reddening already, and I haven’t even made the joke yet. “Never mind. We don’t have a slow cooker, so we’re using the oven. Real pulled pork is made in a smoker, but this will still be super good. If you ever get started.”
Kieran finally takes the hint and preheats the oven.
After I bully him into stirring six spices together, and rubbing the mixture all over four giant chunks of pork, he scatters a few quartered onions in the bottom of the pan and lays the spiced meat on top of it.
“There you go!” I cheer. “Put that puppy in the oven. Good. Now I’m going to make us some yeasted pancakes.” I set my new griddle on the stovetop. “We can’t smell pulled pork all day on empty stomachs.”