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Dec. 18th, 2003 10:22 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sister-wolf.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionA late, late entry to the Recipe Challenge. Thanks to Heuradys for taking a look at it! Note that I've never actually made this recipe... so I have no idea if it would actually work. That said, here are 2,039 words of:
Pineapple and Canadian Bacon Pizza
Ray leaned against the counter next to Fraser, sneaking a slice of bacon from the cutting board. “I dunno, Frase, this doesn’t look like any Canadian bacon I’ve ever seen. Usually it just looks kinda like a little pink Frisbee.”
“What you call ‘Canadian bacon’ is about as far from real bacon as Grant Park is from Inuvik.” Fraser concentrated on kneading the dough, trying to ignore the warmth of Ray’s body next to him, seemingly vibrating in place from sheer excess of energy.
He knew, of course, that when Ray suggested that they make pizza together, it really meant Fraser would cook while Ray hung around and generally made a nuisance of himself. But he was helpless to resist Ray’s look of wide-eyed excitement as he showed off the ‘pizza stone’ his mother had apparently bought for him at a garage sale. So here he was, up to his wrists in flour, listening to Ray’s stream-of-consciousness chatter. Quite honestly, he couldn’t have been happier.
He’d had to make do with a hodgepodge of barely adequate kitchen supplies. Ray had, to give him due credit, actually cleaned the kitchen on his own, but Fraser had received a look of complete incomprehension when he asked for as simple an item as a wooden spoon. Fraser had simply sighed, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and gotten to work.
Ray finished nibbling on the slice of ham and licked his fingers clean. Fraser averted his eyes from the disturbingly fascinating sight. “You mean it’s not really Canadian? That’s false advertising, Fraser. I could sue ‘em for that.”
Fraser had actually opened his mouth and drawn breath to launch into a lecture on the proliferation of frivolous and unfounded personal injury lawsuits in the U.S. when he noticed the distinct twinkle in Ray’s eyes and twitch at the side of his mouth. He answered mildly, “You’d be better served by petitioning the FDA regarding the high level of preservatives allowed in processed meat.”
“Nah. Preservatives help keep you alive. Or maybe they just make sure you don’t rot as fast. Something like that.” Losing interest in the subject, Ray dubiously poked at the fresh pineapple. “Hey, are you sure you can use a real pineapple on this? It might get all funky.”
“I’m perfectly sure, Ray.” Fraser surreptitiously shoved the can of pineapple in sugary syrup that Ray had provided further out of sight behind Ray’s recipe stand, which was, oddly enough, holding a Sports Illustrated rather than the expected recipe book. Trying to distract Ray from the canned pineapple question, he commented, “That’s an interesting use of a recipe stand, Ray. I’ve never seen one used to hold a sports magazine before.”
Ray shrugged. “It’s nice to have something to read while I’m eating. Besides, what would I need with a recipe book, Frase? My idea of complicated cooking is making mac and cheese from a box.”
“Why do you have a recipe stand, then?” Fraser asked, then rather wished that he hadn’t, as Ray’s energy seemed to drain out of him all at once.
Ray ran his hand through his hair and looked away, his mobile mouth drooping at the corners. “Stella bought it. I dunno why, it’s not like she ever cooked either. Anyway, it ended up in one of the boxes of stuff I got when she kicked me out.”
Fraser never quite knew how to react to Ray’s fits of Stella-angst. Sometimes he seemed to appreciate a bit of sympathy; other times Fraser’s fumbling efforts were met with rudeness or self-deprecating bitterness. Still, he couldn’t stand to see Ray in pain without attempting to alleviate it. He placed a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulder, feeling a deep sigh shudder through his wiry frame. Greatly daring, Fraser rubbed his thumb back and forth and then squeezed Ray’s shoulder lightly.
Ray smiled halfheartedly. “Thanks, Frase. I’m okay, really, it’s just sometimes it gets to me.”
Fraser squeezed his shoulder again and let go. His eyes widened as he realized he’d left a white floury handprint on Ray’s black tee-shirt. “Ah...”
“What?” Ray glanced down. “Oh, you didn’t.” He looked up, his eyes narrowing, and took a menacing step forward.
“I do apologize, and naturally I’ll launder your shirt-- Oh, dear.” Fraser attempted to back away while not getting flour everywhere.
“Uh-huh.” Ray pushed forward into Fraser’s personal space and poked him in the chest with a finger to emphasize his words. “I don’t know what they call getting flour all over someone’s shirt in the Northwest Areas, but around here we like to call it-- war.” Ray swiped a finger through the pizza dough and smeared it on Fraser’s red and black plaid shirt.
“Really.” Fraser’s sense of propriety fought a brief battle with his baser impulses and was soundly defeated. “You do realize that in the last war we fought against each other, Canada won.” Fraser armed himself with a handful of dough. Ray was tense, anticipating his next attack. Fraser feinted with the handful of dough and smeared Ray’s cheekbone with his other, floury hand. “Touché.”
Ray shook his head vehemently. “Oh no. No. You do not bring up the War of 1712--”
“1812.”
“--and then expect a little flour to settle it.” He filled both hands with dough and settled into what Fraser recognized as a boxer’s stance, his weight balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his body angled away from Fraser.
“Very well.” Fraser ceremoniously stuck his other hand into the dough. He faced Ray with his fists held high, deliberately awkward, as if he had absolutely no idea how to box. “If you insist on engaging in fisticuffs--”
“Oh, I insist.” Ray grinned, sharp and predatory.
Fraser had a lot of experience in pretending not to be amused. He started forward, slowly and obviously, watching Ray focus on his hands. Fraser telegraphed a slow punch with his right hand. Ray, as expected, shifted to the left, completely unprepared for Fraser’s sneak attack, which resulted in Ray being tripped, grappled, and completely pinned under Fraser on the kitchen floor.
Ray sputtered incoherently. “What the-- Fraser! What the fuck was that?”
“Was what, Ray?” Fraser tried to look as blank and politely clueless as possible.
“That-- that-- kung fu or whatever the hell it was!” Ray twisted furiously, trying to break free of Fraser’s hold, inadvertently rubbing his entire body against him.
“Oh, that.” Fraser realized that he really hadn’t given enough thought to the inevitable consequences of wrapping himself around a writhing, squirming Ray. A writhing, squirming Ray who was unintentionally rubbing himself against Fraser’s increasingly excited-- Good lord. His mouth continued on autopilot, “The technique is actually Judo, a form of martial arts based upon maximum efficiency of movement and thought, as well as principles of harmony and mutual benefit--”
“Fraser!” Ray stopped squirming and glared at him. “Do not give me a lecture about Judo-whatsis. Do not do that.”
“Right you are.” Fraser cleared his throat. “Ah. I’ll just-- let you go, then.” He flushed red and attempted to roll off of Ray, an attempt that was utterly thwarted when Ray wrapped his long arms and legs around Fraser’s body and hung on. “Ray.”
“Mmm-hmm?” Ray was grinning in a disturbingly catlike way, his eyes heavy-lidded.
“Do you mind?” Fraser was distinctly, uncomfortably aware that he was rapidly hardening in his jeans, a fact which would soon become inescapably clear to Ray, whose groin was pressed against his in a most distracting manner.
“Nah.” He arched his back and wriggled a little, then relaxed. “I’m comfy. You make a pretty good quilt, Frase.”
“Thank you kindly.” Fraser winced-- what an utterly idiotic thing to say, under the circumstances! “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get up now.”
“Well, I do mind, so,” Ray grinned insolently, “whatcha gonna do about it?”
“I really must insist--” The surprisingly muscular body underneath his shifted again, a fluid, sinuous movement that rolled from shoulders to hips, and Fraser barely bit back a groan as his traitorous body responded by thrusting against Ray, a motion that could not in any way be interpreted as non-sexual. Fraser squeezed his eyes shut in utter mortification, his cheeks burning with shame.
“Hey.” The gentle voice was accompanied by a warm, calloused hand laid against his cheek. “It’s okay. I was teasing you.”
And so I responded to your innocent provocation with an entirely unwanted sexual response, Fraser thought but could not say, swallowing convulsively against the enormous lump that seemed to have taken up residence in his throat.
“I mean it.” Ray’s voice was gently insistent. “I was teasing you. I wanted you to get turned on.”
Fraser’s eyes flicked open. “You wanted me to?”
“Yeah.” Ray smiled sheepishly. “I know, real junior high school here, starting a wrestling match cause I can’t figure out any other way to tell you--” He looked suddenly nervous, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyelashes flicking down. “To tell you that I really like you. And I can tell that you... like me too. You do, don’t you? C’mon, Frase, tell me that I’m not making a complete idiot of myself here.”
“No,” Fraser said, his voice rough and husky with emotion. “You’re not wrong. I do care for you, a great deal, in a more than platonic way, which I had never anticipated you would ever reciprocate, though of course I also have feelings of true friendship for you, which I hope I have managed to communicate to you over the course of our--”
Oh, for pity’s sake, stop blithering, Benton, he thought, and, sinking his hands into the soft spikes of Ray’s hair, he lowered his lips to those of his partner and true friend, and kissed him, kissed him hard, until they were both breathless and thrusting against one another.
“Fraser!” Ray gasped when they at last came up for air. “Oh, god...”
Ray was a glorious sight, his eyes dark and hot with passion, his mouth reddened from kissing, his tee-shirt rucked up to expose one small, peach-colored nipple, and his hair... oh dear.
“What?” Ray asked, squinting at him.
Fraser blushed, realizing he’d said the last bit out loud. “Ah... your hair.”
“What about my-- oh, shit.” Ray gingerly felt his stiff, dough-encrusted spikes. “The pizza dough.”
“All over your hair,” Fraser confirmed, wincing.
Ray snickered. “Um, Frase...” He aimed a look of vast amusement at the top of Fraser’s head.
“Good lord!” There were clumps of sticky dough in two patches, roughly the size and shape of Ray’s hands, on either side of his head.
Ray’s snickers turned into full-blown guffaws. “If you could see the look on your face! Don’t worry about it, I know how to get the weirdest stuff out of hair. There was this thing I used to do to my hair in high school with Elmer’s glue-- anyhow, don’t sweat it.”
Fraser nodded. “Though, if your solution doesn’t work, I do have a solvent made from musk ox urine--”
“Do not finish that sentence. Just, don’t even think about it.” Ray shuddered.
“It’s quite natural, I assure you. Native peoples commonly used urine in the process of tanning leather--” The rest of Fraser’s explanation was effectively muffled by Ray leaning forward and kissing him.
“That’s a great way to make you stop explaining stuff.” Grinning, Ray kissed him on the nose. “We’re both getting to old to be making out on the floor. C’mon, let’s go to bed,” he said, rolling to his feet and offering Fraser a hand up.
“We’ve made a complete mess of your kitchen.” Fraser’s fingers itched to pick up a sponge and start cleaning. As if he could sense it, Ray grabbed his hands and started tugging Fraser toward the bedroom.
“You know what, Frase? The kitchen’ll still be there in the morning.” Ray paused, looking worried again. “So, ah-- are we cool, Fraser? I mean, um, with all of this.”
“Yes.” Fraser leaned in and kissed him, trying to say with his touch all of the things that somehow, for all his verbosity, he could never quite say out loud. “We’re cool.”
“Cool.”
And it was.
----
Whole Wheat Pizza Crust:
http://www.cooks.com/rec/doc/0,161,149172-244198,00.html
Pineapple and Canadian Bacon Pizza
Ray leaned against the counter next to Fraser, sneaking a slice of bacon from the cutting board. “I dunno, Frase, this doesn’t look like any Canadian bacon I’ve ever seen. Usually it just looks kinda like a little pink Frisbee.”
“What you call ‘Canadian bacon’ is about as far from real bacon as Grant Park is from Inuvik.” Fraser concentrated on kneading the dough, trying to ignore the warmth of Ray’s body next to him, seemingly vibrating in place from sheer excess of energy.
He knew, of course, that when Ray suggested that they make pizza together, it really meant Fraser would cook while Ray hung around and generally made a nuisance of himself. But he was helpless to resist Ray’s look of wide-eyed excitement as he showed off the ‘pizza stone’ his mother had apparently bought for him at a garage sale. So here he was, up to his wrists in flour, listening to Ray’s stream-of-consciousness chatter. Quite honestly, he couldn’t have been happier.
He’d had to make do with a hodgepodge of barely adequate kitchen supplies. Ray had, to give him due credit, actually cleaned the kitchen on his own, but Fraser had received a look of complete incomprehension when he asked for as simple an item as a wooden spoon. Fraser had simply sighed, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and gotten to work.
Ray finished nibbling on the slice of ham and licked his fingers clean. Fraser averted his eyes from the disturbingly fascinating sight. “You mean it’s not really Canadian? That’s false advertising, Fraser. I could sue ‘em for that.”
Fraser had actually opened his mouth and drawn breath to launch into a lecture on the proliferation of frivolous and unfounded personal injury lawsuits in the U.S. when he noticed the distinct twinkle in Ray’s eyes and twitch at the side of his mouth. He answered mildly, “You’d be better served by petitioning the FDA regarding the high level of preservatives allowed in processed meat.”
“Nah. Preservatives help keep you alive. Or maybe they just make sure you don’t rot as fast. Something like that.” Losing interest in the subject, Ray dubiously poked at the fresh pineapple. “Hey, are you sure you can use a real pineapple on this? It might get all funky.”
“I’m perfectly sure, Ray.” Fraser surreptitiously shoved the can of pineapple in sugary syrup that Ray had provided further out of sight behind Ray’s recipe stand, which was, oddly enough, holding a Sports Illustrated rather than the expected recipe book. Trying to distract Ray from the canned pineapple question, he commented, “That’s an interesting use of a recipe stand, Ray. I’ve never seen one used to hold a sports magazine before.”
Ray shrugged. “It’s nice to have something to read while I’m eating. Besides, what would I need with a recipe book, Frase? My idea of complicated cooking is making mac and cheese from a box.”
“Why do you have a recipe stand, then?” Fraser asked, then rather wished that he hadn’t, as Ray’s energy seemed to drain out of him all at once.
Ray ran his hand through his hair and looked away, his mobile mouth drooping at the corners. “Stella bought it. I dunno why, it’s not like she ever cooked either. Anyway, it ended up in one of the boxes of stuff I got when she kicked me out.”
Fraser never quite knew how to react to Ray’s fits of Stella-angst. Sometimes he seemed to appreciate a bit of sympathy; other times Fraser’s fumbling efforts were met with rudeness or self-deprecating bitterness. Still, he couldn’t stand to see Ray in pain without attempting to alleviate it. He placed a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulder, feeling a deep sigh shudder through his wiry frame. Greatly daring, Fraser rubbed his thumb back and forth and then squeezed Ray’s shoulder lightly.
Ray smiled halfheartedly. “Thanks, Frase. I’m okay, really, it’s just sometimes it gets to me.”
Fraser squeezed his shoulder again and let go. His eyes widened as he realized he’d left a white floury handprint on Ray’s black tee-shirt. “Ah...”
“What?” Ray glanced down. “Oh, you didn’t.” He looked up, his eyes narrowing, and took a menacing step forward.
“I do apologize, and naturally I’ll launder your shirt-- Oh, dear.” Fraser attempted to back away while not getting flour everywhere.
“Uh-huh.” Ray pushed forward into Fraser’s personal space and poked him in the chest with a finger to emphasize his words. “I don’t know what they call getting flour all over someone’s shirt in the Northwest Areas, but around here we like to call it-- war.” Ray swiped a finger through the pizza dough and smeared it on Fraser’s red and black plaid shirt.
“Really.” Fraser’s sense of propriety fought a brief battle with his baser impulses and was soundly defeated. “You do realize that in the last war we fought against each other, Canada won.” Fraser armed himself with a handful of dough. Ray was tense, anticipating his next attack. Fraser feinted with the handful of dough and smeared Ray’s cheekbone with his other, floury hand. “Touché.”
Ray shook his head vehemently. “Oh no. No. You do not bring up the War of 1712--”
“1812.”
“--and then expect a little flour to settle it.” He filled both hands with dough and settled into what Fraser recognized as a boxer’s stance, his weight balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his body angled away from Fraser.
“Very well.” Fraser ceremoniously stuck his other hand into the dough. He faced Ray with his fists held high, deliberately awkward, as if he had absolutely no idea how to box. “If you insist on engaging in fisticuffs--”
“Oh, I insist.” Ray grinned, sharp and predatory.
Fraser had a lot of experience in pretending not to be amused. He started forward, slowly and obviously, watching Ray focus on his hands. Fraser telegraphed a slow punch with his right hand. Ray, as expected, shifted to the left, completely unprepared for Fraser’s sneak attack, which resulted in Ray being tripped, grappled, and completely pinned under Fraser on the kitchen floor.
Ray sputtered incoherently. “What the-- Fraser! What the fuck was that?”
“Was what, Ray?” Fraser tried to look as blank and politely clueless as possible.
“That-- that-- kung fu or whatever the hell it was!” Ray twisted furiously, trying to break free of Fraser’s hold, inadvertently rubbing his entire body against him.
“Oh, that.” Fraser realized that he really hadn’t given enough thought to the inevitable consequences of wrapping himself around a writhing, squirming Ray. A writhing, squirming Ray who was unintentionally rubbing himself against Fraser’s increasingly excited-- Good lord. His mouth continued on autopilot, “The technique is actually Judo, a form of martial arts based upon maximum efficiency of movement and thought, as well as principles of harmony and mutual benefit--”
“Fraser!” Ray stopped squirming and glared at him. “Do not give me a lecture about Judo-whatsis. Do not do that.”
“Right you are.” Fraser cleared his throat. “Ah. I’ll just-- let you go, then.” He flushed red and attempted to roll off of Ray, an attempt that was utterly thwarted when Ray wrapped his long arms and legs around Fraser’s body and hung on. “Ray.”
“Mmm-hmm?” Ray was grinning in a disturbingly catlike way, his eyes heavy-lidded.
“Do you mind?” Fraser was distinctly, uncomfortably aware that he was rapidly hardening in his jeans, a fact which would soon become inescapably clear to Ray, whose groin was pressed against his in a most distracting manner.
“Nah.” He arched his back and wriggled a little, then relaxed. “I’m comfy. You make a pretty good quilt, Frase.”
“Thank you kindly.” Fraser winced-- what an utterly idiotic thing to say, under the circumstances! “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get up now.”
“Well, I do mind, so,” Ray grinned insolently, “whatcha gonna do about it?”
“I really must insist--” The surprisingly muscular body underneath his shifted again, a fluid, sinuous movement that rolled from shoulders to hips, and Fraser barely bit back a groan as his traitorous body responded by thrusting against Ray, a motion that could not in any way be interpreted as non-sexual. Fraser squeezed his eyes shut in utter mortification, his cheeks burning with shame.
“Hey.” The gentle voice was accompanied by a warm, calloused hand laid against his cheek. “It’s okay. I was teasing you.”
And so I responded to your innocent provocation with an entirely unwanted sexual response, Fraser thought but could not say, swallowing convulsively against the enormous lump that seemed to have taken up residence in his throat.
“I mean it.” Ray’s voice was gently insistent. “I was teasing you. I wanted you to get turned on.”
Fraser’s eyes flicked open. “You wanted me to?”
“Yeah.” Ray smiled sheepishly. “I know, real junior high school here, starting a wrestling match cause I can’t figure out any other way to tell you--” He looked suddenly nervous, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyelashes flicking down. “To tell you that I really like you. And I can tell that you... like me too. You do, don’t you? C’mon, Frase, tell me that I’m not making a complete idiot of myself here.”
“No,” Fraser said, his voice rough and husky with emotion. “You’re not wrong. I do care for you, a great deal, in a more than platonic way, which I had never anticipated you would ever reciprocate, though of course I also have feelings of true friendship for you, which I hope I have managed to communicate to you over the course of our--”
Oh, for pity’s sake, stop blithering, Benton, he thought, and, sinking his hands into the soft spikes of Ray’s hair, he lowered his lips to those of his partner and true friend, and kissed him, kissed him hard, until they were both breathless and thrusting against one another.
“Fraser!” Ray gasped when they at last came up for air. “Oh, god...”
Ray was a glorious sight, his eyes dark and hot with passion, his mouth reddened from kissing, his tee-shirt rucked up to expose one small, peach-colored nipple, and his hair... oh dear.
“What?” Ray asked, squinting at him.
Fraser blushed, realizing he’d said the last bit out loud. “Ah... your hair.”
“What about my-- oh, shit.” Ray gingerly felt his stiff, dough-encrusted spikes. “The pizza dough.”
“All over your hair,” Fraser confirmed, wincing.
Ray snickered. “Um, Frase...” He aimed a look of vast amusement at the top of Fraser’s head.
“Good lord!” There were clumps of sticky dough in two patches, roughly the size and shape of Ray’s hands, on either side of his head.
Ray’s snickers turned into full-blown guffaws. “If you could see the look on your face! Don’t worry about it, I know how to get the weirdest stuff out of hair. There was this thing I used to do to my hair in high school with Elmer’s glue-- anyhow, don’t sweat it.”
Fraser nodded. “Though, if your solution doesn’t work, I do have a solvent made from musk ox urine--”
“Do not finish that sentence. Just, don’t even think about it.” Ray shuddered.
“It’s quite natural, I assure you. Native peoples commonly used urine in the process of tanning leather--” The rest of Fraser’s explanation was effectively muffled by Ray leaning forward and kissing him.
“That’s a great way to make you stop explaining stuff.” Grinning, Ray kissed him on the nose. “We’re both getting to old to be making out on the floor. C’mon, let’s go to bed,” he said, rolling to his feet and offering Fraser a hand up.
“We’ve made a complete mess of your kitchen.” Fraser’s fingers itched to pick up a sponge and start cleaning. As if he could sense it, Ray grabbed his hands and started tugging Fraser toward the bedroom.
“You know what, Frase? The kitchen’ll still be there in the morning.” Ray paused, looking worried again. “So, ah-- are we cool, Fraser? I mean, um, with all of this.”
“Yes.” Fraser leaned in and kissed him, trying to say with his touch all of the things that somehow, for all his verbosity, he could never quite say out loud. “We’re cool.”
“Cool.”
And it was.
----
Whole Wheat Pizza Crust:
http://www.cooks.com/rec/doc/0,161,149172-244198,00.html
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2003-12-19 11:19 am (UTC):D
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Date: 2003-12-24 04:51 am (UTC)Yum!
Date: 2003-12-19 12:20 pm (UTC)Re: Yum!
Date: 2003-12-24 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-19 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-19 03:37 pm (UTC)I have hairs and I'm not afraid to split them! *g*
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Date: 2003-12-24 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-19 02:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-24 04:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-19 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-24 04:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-19 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-24 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-20 01:30 am (UTC)Oh, so that's what Canadian Bacon is. Being English I just never got the allusions.
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Date: 2003-12-24 04:57 am (UTC)Yep, what we call "Canadian Bacon" is this ham-like substance that looks like little pink Frisbees.