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Feb. 19th, 2007
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Feb. 19th, 2007 05:10 pmJack hates the stove. He has an intense, irrational, deep seated animosity towards the stove. And this is saying something, because Jack doesn’t feel particularly strongly about politics, or people who run red lights, or street cars that are late or people who cough in the theatre or talk on their cell phones in restaurants. He just really, honestly doesn’t like the stove.
Privately, he’s certain that it’s out to get them, but he isn’t going to share that thought.
Jack, coincidentally, likes cooking on the stove. You’d think this wouldn’t be a logical follow through, but it’s for very different reasons. He doesn’t hate cooking on the stove because it’s like making a house of cards or playing Mikado. You’re never sure when it’s going to be a second too long, and it’s adding ingredients and things and things and ingredients until you’ve got something edible.
Usually edible. Usually. Much more frequently since he starting trying, things only go devastatingly wrong very once in a while. And when they do, there’s usually fire involved, so Jack’s usual solution is to throw the whole mess into the sink and run water onto it, and then leave it for Parker to deal with in a fit of despair.
But, as mentioned, that only happens once in a while.
He makes the strangest meals, because he isn’t sure what’s normal, so it’s borscht one night and chicken Bombay the next and chaat and pad thai and moo soo pork and pita with black bean and pizza with feta and mushrooms. It doesn’t make any sense, until you connect the India-Italy-Ethiopia-Bangkok-Moscow dots and spot the where-Jack-lived pattern. Curry, fettucini, rice dishes without words for them, fish pancakes full of the little green things Parker doesn’t recognize, petah heh and jolubtsi.
Privately, he’s certain that it’s out to get them, but he isn’t going to share that thought.
Jack, coincidentally, likes cooking on the stove. You’d think this wouldn’t be a logical follow through, but it’s for very different reasons. He doesn’t hate cooking on the stove because it’s like making a house of cards or playing Mikado. You’re never sure when it’s going to be a second too long, and it’s adding ingredients and things and things and ingredients until you’ve got something edible.
Usually edible. Usually. Much more frequently since he starting trying, things only go devastatingly wrong very once in a while. And when they do, there’s usually fire involved, so Jack’s usual solution is to throw the whole mess into the sink and run water onto it, and then leave it for Parker to deal with in a fit of despair.
But, as mentioned, that only happens once in a while.
He makes the strangest meals, because he isn’t sure what’s normal, so it’s borscht one night and chicken Bombay the next and chaat and pad thai and moo soo pork and pita with black bean and pizza with feta and mushrooms. It doesn’t make any sense, until you connect the India-Italy-Ethiopia-Bangkok-Moscow dots and spot the where-Jack-lived pattern. Curry, fettucini, rice dishes without words for them, fish pancakes full of the little green things Parker doesn’t recognize, petah heh and jolubtsi.