For the recipe challenge...
Nov. 21st, 2003 01:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kassrachel.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionOkay, I'm way late on this, but the challenge hasn't officially been declared over, so hey, why not.
Pie
When you're newly divorced, Thanksgiving sucks.
All you can think about is, this time last year we were still married. This time last year I still thought we might have kids someday at our holiday table. At least, that's all you can think about if you're me and you're about to hit your first Thanksgiving as a single man.
Every time I picture sitting down with my folks alone, just the three of us, I want to go to the gym and beat the crap out of some poor defenseless punching bag. For about nine hours.
Ma hinted I should bring a guest, a "special friend," but the closest I've got to a special friend is Fraser, and damn but I am not going there, because that is Not a Good Idea.
Seems like all anybody can talk about is Thanksgiving, and every time I hear it, I get more depressed. I'm miserable and I'm touchy and I'm bitter, and I figure there's no prayer of life improving until at least after Christmas.
And then Fraser shows up at the PD late on Tuesday night. Hat in hand, all bright and cheery, Dief at his side. He asks how I'm doing, and I practically bite his head off.
He kind of deflates. And so does the wolf: lies right down on the tile and puts his head on his paw.
And just like that, my anger at the world evaporates.
"Shit, Fraser, I'm sorry. I'm just...Thanksgiving's gonna be lonely."
He nods, still looking down. "Yes, I can imagine."
I'm about to ask what he's doing for the holiday, but suddenly I realize the answer: probably nothing. "Man. Do you even get the day off?"
"Well, as you know, Ray, Canadian Thanksgiving was last month. I have no shortage of vacation days, but haven't put in for any, inasmuch as I have no reason to be away from my desk."
"You could come with me," I say, before I have time to think about why I shouldn't say it. Like: my folks are crazy. Like: they might get the wrong idea. Like: he might get the wrong idea. Or the right one. I'm not sure.
Fraser lights right up. "Thank you kindly! I'd be delighted."
His smile makes my spine tingle. To hide that, I start backpedaling as fast as I can. "I mean, it's just my parents -- they're kind of a pain, you know, and it's just us, so it's not like, I don't know if you ever went to the Vecchio's, there's probably a zillion people there, and a lot of good food, and I don't know if you'd have a good time--"
"I can bring something," he says, and I can see he's already running through recipes in his mind.
"Nothing weird," I tell him.
"It's dinnertime, Ray. Let's go get some food."
I'm standing up, pulling on my shoulder holster and my jacket, turning off my desk light, when he pipes up, "How about Greek?"
"For Thanksgiving?"
"For dinner."
"Works for me."
Dief barks, probably agreeing, and we head out the door.
"Nothing weird for Thanksgiving," I tell him again. "My parents are kind of traditional." We're walking down the street to the Greek place Vecchio introduced him to.
"So no seal-fat ice cream," he muses.
"Fraser!"
"Or walrus-intestine soup," and he sounds almost sad again, "I know a lovely recipe, but I don't suppose--"
"I am warning you--" I catch a glimpse of his reflection in a store window and he's on the verge of laughing, and it makes me smile too.
"Oh, fine, bring whatever you want."
"I was thinking of apple pie, actually."
"Can Canadians make that?"
"The popular phrase notwithstanding, I assure you there's nothing exclusively American about apple pie, Ray." He sounds stern but I can tell he's faking it.
I like that he knows when I'm just giving him shit for the fun of giving him shit.
And then we're at the restaurant, and Dief's curling up on the curb outside the door and Fraser's holding the door open for a party of eleven because that's just the way he is. And I realize, weird as it's gonna be, I'm not dreading Thanksgiving quite so much anymore.
***
EASY (AND SUGARFREE!) APPLE PIE
Crust:
3 cups flour (I like King Arthur's unbleached)
8 teaspoons shortening (Crisco or butter or, if you're kosher and need to eat this with a meat meal, margarine will do)
Cold water
Filling:
Several apples, peeled and sliced
A generous splash of brandy
(Optional: a few spoonfuls of sugar. Though then it's not sugarfree anymore.)
Dash of cinnamon
Half a cup of applesauce
Cut shortening into flour, either with knives or a pastry cutter or your fingers. Add cold water until crust coheres. Separate into two balls.
Toss apples with brandy, optional sugar, cinnamon, applesauce. Roll one crust into a round and put it in a pieplate. Pour filling into pieplate. Cover with second crust (I like to cut the second crust into strips and lattice the top crust, but a whole crust works too). Bake at 375 for 45 minutes to an hour.
(862 words)
Pie
When you're newly divorced, Thanksgiving sucks.
All you can think about is, this time last year we were still married. This time last year I still thought we might have kids someday at our holiday table. At least, that's all you can think about if you're me and you're about to hit your first Thanksgiving as a single man.
Every time I picture sitting down with my folks alone, just the three of us, I want to go to the gym and beat the crap out of some poor defenseless punching bag. For about nine hours.
Ma hinted I should bring a guest, a "special friend," but the closest I've got to a special friend is Fraser, and damn but I am not going there, because that is Not a Good Idea.
Seems like all anybody can talk about is Thanksgiving, and every time I hear it, I get more depressed. I'm miserable and I'm touchy and I'm bitter, and I figure there's no prayer of life improving until at least after Christmas.
And then Fraser shows up at the PD late on Tuesday night. Hat in hand, all bright and cheery, Dief at his side. He asks how I'm doing, and I practically bite his head off.
He kind of deflates. And so does the wolf: lies right down on the tile and puts his head on his paw.
And just like that, my anger at the world evaporates.
"Shit, Fraser, I'm sorry. I'm just...Thanksgiving's gonna be lonely."
He nods, still looking down. "Yes, I can imagine."
I'm about to ask what he's doing for the holiday, but suddenly I realize the answer: probably nothing. "Man. Do you even get the day off?"
"Well, as you know, Ray, Canadian Thanksgiving was last month. I have no shortage of vacation days, but haven't put in for any, inasmuch as I have no reason to be away from my desk."
"You could come with me," I say, before I have time to think about why I shouldn't say it. Like: my folks are crazy. Like: they might get the wrong idea. Like: he might get the wrong idea. Or the right one. I'm not sure.
Fraser lights right up. "Thank you kindly! I'd be delighted."
His smile makes my spine tingle. To hide that, I start backpedaling as fast as I can. "I mean, it's just my parents -- they're kind of a pain, you know, and it's just us, so it's not like, I don't know if you ever went to the Vecchio's, there's probably a zillion people there, and a lot of good food, and I don't know if you'd have a good time--"
"I can bring something," he says, and I can see he's already running through recipes in his mind.
"Nothing weird," I tell him.
"It's dinnertime, Ray. Let's go get some food."
I'm standing up, pulling on my shoulder holster and my jacket, turning off my desk light, when he pipes up, "How about Greek?"
"For Thanksgiving?"
"For dinner."
"Works for me."
Dief barks, probably agreeing, and we head out the door.
"Nothing weird for Thanksgiving," I tell him again. "My parents are kind of traditional." We're walking down the street to the Greek place Vecchio introduced him to.
"So no seal-fat ice cream," he muses.
"Fraser!"
"Or walrus-intestine soup," and he sounds almost sad again, "I know a lovely recipe, but I don't suppose--"
"I am warning you--" I catch a glimpse of his reflection in a store window and he's on the verge of laughing, and it makes me smile too.
"Oh, fine, bring whatever you want."
"I was thinking of apple pie, actually."
"Can Canadians make that?"
"The popular phrase notwithstanding, I assure you there's nothing exclusively American about apple pie, Ray." He sounds stern but I can tell he's faking it.
I like that he knows when I'm just giving him shit for the fun of giving him shit.
And then we're at the restaurant, and Dief's curling up on the curb outside the door and Fraser's holding the door open for a party of eleven because that's just the way he is. And I realize, weird as it's gonna be, I'm not dreading Thanksgiving quite so much anymore.
***
EASY (AND SUGARFREE!) APPLE PIE
Crust:
3 cups flour (I like King Arthur's unbleached)
8 teaspoons shortening (Crisco or butter or, if you're kosher and need to eat this with a meat meal, margarine will do)
Cold water
Filling:
Several apples, peeled and sliced
A generous splash of brandy
(Optional: a few spoonfuls of sugar. Though then it's not sugarfree anymore.)
Dash of cinnamon
Half a cup of applesauce
Cut shortening into flour, either with knives or a pastry cutter or your fingers. Add cold water until crust coheres. Separate into two balls.
Toss apples with brandy, optional sugar, cinnamon, applesauce. Roll one crust into a round and put it in a pieplate. Pour filling into pieplate. Cover with second crust (I like to cut the second crust into strips and lattice the top crust, but a whole crust works too). Bake at 375 for 45 minutes to an hour.
(862 words)
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 08:36 pm (UTC)Me, too! And who knows -- maybe things'll get more interesting from there... ;-)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 08:31 pm (UTC)"Nothing weird," I tell him.
"It's dinnertime, Ray. Let's go get some food."
I'm standing up, pulling on my shoulder holster and my jacket, turning off my desk light, when he pipes up, "How about Greek?"
"For Thanksgiving?"
"For dinner."
One of my particular joys is reading conversation between Due South characters that could easily be mistaken for canon. This is one such situation, but it's always the case when I read your DS fic. Well done! (But not too dry, still with the juices...)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 08:37 pm (UTC)::blushes::
Thank you kindly! That's just about the nicest compliment you could have paid me. :-)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 08:57 pm (UTC)OK, I see the recipe actually has sugar in it, but, like your story, I assume it's nicely moderated. Just the right note of sweetness!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-21 10:06 pm (UTC)(And mmm, pie. I like pie. *g*)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-22 03:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-22 12:37 am (UTC)Those guys are my favorite dessert! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-22 03:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-22 02:22 am (UTC)Prettyplease?
:)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-22 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-23 09:38 pm (UTC)(Hopefully this is not the Thanksgiving Fraser's dead relatives turn up at ... )
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 02:34 am (UTC)