Mornings [2/?]
anonymous
February 8 2010, 11:04:24 UTC
For a few good minutes, the kitchen is filled with an odd mix of fresh garlic, brewing coffee and synthetic seafood. Turkey, sated and slurping noodles with a tiny plastic fork, leans on the counter beside Greece and idly watches him gather, chop, regather and rechop already thoroughly minced garlic before scooping them by the flat of his blade and placing them gently to one side of a white plate.
“Y’r c’ffee’s ‘n th’ table,” he says with his mouth full. “What would ya need done next?”
Greece goes to the sink to wash his hands before gratefully taking a sip of much needed caffeine. “Could you go out back and gather a few rosemary sprigs?”
Turkey shrugs and, still carrying his cup possessively, does as he’s told. When he comes back, Greece is coarsely chopping fresh coriander. He tosses the empty noodle cup into the trash, grabs and chopping board and a knife of his own and set about doing the same to the rosemary at almost the same speed as Greece.
Wordlessly, the pair moves about the kitchen, handing each other various kitchen tools and ingredients while still keeping focused on whatever tasks they’ve got on hand. Turkey spreads out the lamb leg and rubs it with salt, the rosemary, coriander and garlic while Greece carefully slices the chili to be added last.
With a fancy flourish Turkey raises an eyebrow at, they survey their handiwork. Once more, Greece washes his hands and goes to a drawer by his telephone.
“Got string? We’ll have to tie it up.”
Turkey frowns. “Why are you asking me? This is your house!”
“I meant look over there…”
After a few snappish remarks and some heavy arm work, they fold and tile the leg of lamb neatly, sandwiching the spices they rubbed on it to help infuse flavor perfectly.
. For the crust . Two teaspoons of coriander seeds Two teaspoons of cumin An ounce of pine nuts
Turkey gets the oven going with a match as Greece turns on the stove, ready to dry roast his spices and the pine nuts in a pan. Soon, the earthy smells of cumin and coriander drive out the fresh herbs of a few minutes ago. Turkey inhales appreciatively and looks over Greece’s shoulder to watch them gradually turn a golden brown.
“…and more cumin.”
“Hell no. This is strong enough already.”
“Did you see the freaking lamb we were working on? It’s huge.”
Greece sighs and adds a pinch. “Get the pan, this’ll be ready in a minute.”
After a few clangs, Turkey takes a sizable baking pan out from under the sink, briefly washes it and lays it on the table. With idiotic glee, he drizzles olive oil all over it and rolls the tied up lamb in it, coating the meat with translucent glass yellow-green liquid. Greece comes over with his pan of roast spices, still fresh from the stove, and dumps them unceremoniously over the lamb. Turkey tuts but continues rolling it to evenly cover the surface.
“Watch where you’re waving that thing, brat! It’s hot!”
Greece laughs and playfully takes a swing at him without hitting his head. Turkey ducks instinctively and takes revenge by waving his oily, spice-covered hands in Greece’s face.
“Hey-aaaah!”
. For the red wine gravy . A cup of lamb stock A cup of red wine One tablespoon of Balsamic vinegar One tablespoon of honey One heaping tablespoon of cornstarch Cold water
It’s close to lunch. The lamb is roasting for only a good five minutes yet the kitchen is already swimming in the thick, heady sweetness of cooking meat. Greece and Turkey are sitting on the dining table, the former eying a recipe somewhat sleepily and the latter reading over his shoulder, with his hand on a box of dry baking stuffs.
“I’ve got your cornstarch…” Turkey says.
Greece sits up and looks about, inhaling as much air as he could in the process. His mouth waters a bit and thinks Gods lunch is truly going to be delicious. “Uh, did you boil the bone yesterday?”
Turkey blinks. “…did I what?”
Greece frowns. “Boil the bone. I told you to ask the bone from the butcher when you bought the lamb and then boil it for the stock.”
Mornings [3/3]
anonymous
February 8 2010, 11:06:35 UTC
There’s a tense pause before Turkey remembers and looks for the crudely bottled ingredient in the refrigerator. Greece sighs and adds this and the cup of red wine to an already heated saucepan on the stove. While waiting for the mixture to reduce in half, he moves about washing dishes.
Turkey returns to the table and slumps on the chair, lazily dragging the open bottle of wine to a readable distance.
“…is this one of Spain’s?”
“A Christmas gift last year.”
“Hn…”
Greece gently adds the honey and the Balsamic vinegar, taking care not to stir the mixture too much before dousing the cornstarch with a little cold water in a separate container and mixing it briskly. He spots Turkey falling asleep.
“Get dressed you,” he says. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“…pray tell, why I would need to get dressed? It’s only them.”
Greece thinks. Sure, France won’t mind. “Lovino will freak, Feliciano will get pissed at you and Antonio will hand you your ass.”
Turkey glares at him, the intensity partly ruined by the fact his face is half hidden by a tanned muscular arm. “Then why don’t you get dressed?”
“I don’t trust you to cook this sauce right.”
There’s a moment of quiet as Greece stirs the red wine gravy to a smooth consistency and Turkey plans his next move. Slowly, he slides off the dining chair and wraps his arms around Greece’s waist. The other man starts and the sudden heat and contact but keeps his grip on the saucepan firm.
“What are you planning?” Greece mumbles and watches Turkey resting his chin on his shoulder from his peripheral vision.
“Nothing,” was the innocent reply and Greece remains unconvinced. His breath hitches and his hands momentarily stop stirring as he feels Turkey’s lips latch onto his neck.
“You insatiable bastard-“ he begins.
“Come on…” Turkey says, low and inviting. “Your sauce is done and the lamb won’t be finished till fifteen minutes. We’ve got time for a quick one.”
Greece barely manages to turn the stove off before he’s bodily dragged into the bathroom.
“Fifteen minutes is relative!” he yells in protest.
“You left the door open, right?” Turkey calmly replies. “When they arrive, let them turn the oven off.”
“…that’s not my point-hnng!”
END - - - - …I hope it is to OP’s liking. :’D /hides
Re: Mornings [3/3]
anonymous
February 8 2010, 14:39:11 UTC
Ah, this is amazing! I love their relationship in this, fighting all the time but still getting along very well. And the idea of them all meeting together is really cute. <3
Re: Mornings [3/3]
anonymous
February 10 2010, 22:46:46 UTC
awww this is so sweet! It sounds very domestic and I love how you put the parts of the recipe in the fic! And all the cooking details ~ very nice! I can smell the lovely kitchen smells ahhhhhhh I love kumin bread! So nice to see Turkey/Greece not fighting and yet so in character
“Y’r c’ffee’s ‘n th’ table,” he says with his mouth full. “What would ya need done next?”
Greece goes to the sink to wash his hands before gratefully taking a sip of much needed caffeine. “Could you go out back and gather a few rosemary sprigs?”
Turkey shrugs and, still carrying his cup possessively, does as he’s told. When he comes back, Greece is coarsely chopping fresh coriander. He tosses the empty noodle cup into the trash, grabs and chopping board and a knife of his own and set about doing the same to the rosemary at almost the same speed as Greece.
Wordlessly, the pair moves about the kitchen, handing each other various kitchen tools and ingredients while still keeping focused on whatever tasks they’ve got on hand. Turkey spreads out the lamb leg and rubs it with salt, the rosemary, coriander and garlic while Greece carefully slices the chili to be added last.
With a fancy flourish Turkey raises an eyebrow at, they survey their handiwork. Once more, Greece washes his hands and goes to a drawer by his telephone.
“Got string? We’ll have to tie it up.”
Turkey frowns. “Why are you asking me? This is your house!”
“I meant look over there…”
After a few snappish remarks and some heavy arm work, they fold and tile the leg of lamb neatly, sandwiching the spices they rubbed on it to help infuse flavor perfectly.
. For the crust .
Two teaspoons of coriander seeds
Two teaspoons of cumin
An ounce of pine nuts
Turkey gets the oven going with a match as Greece turns on the stove, ready to dry roast his spices and the pine nuts in a pan. Soon, the earthy smells of cumin and coriander drive out the fresh herbs of a few minutes ago. Turkey inhales appreciatively and looks over Greece’s shoulder to watch them gradually turn a golden brown.
“…and more cumin.”
“Hell no. This is strong enough already.”
“Did you see the freaking lamb we were working on? It’s huge.”
Greece sighs and adds a pinch. “Get the pan, this’ll be ready in a minute.”
After a few clangs, Turkey takes a sizable baking pan out from under the sink, briefly washes it and lays it on the table. With idiotic glee, he drizzles olive oil all over it and rolls the tied up lamb in it, coating the meat with translucent glass yellow-green liquid. Greece comes over with his pan of roast spices, still fresh from the stove, and dumps them unceremoniously over the lamb. Turkey tuts but continues rolling it to evenly cover the surface.
“Watch where you’re waving that thing, brat! It’s hot!”
Greece laughs and playfully takes a swing at him without hitting his head. Turkey ducks instinctively and takes revenge by waving his oily, spice-covered hands in Greece’s face.
“Hey-aaaah!”
. For the red wine gravy .
A cup of lamb stock
A cup of red wine
One tablespoon of Balsamic vinegar
One tablespoon of honey
One heaping tablespoon of cornstarch
Cold water
It’s close to lunch. The lamb is roasting for only a good five minutes yet the kitchen is already swimming in the thick, heady sweetness of cooking meat. Greece and Turkey are sitting on the dining table, the former eying a recipe somewhat sleepily and the latter reading over his shoulder, with his hand on a box of dry baking stuffs.
“I’ve got your cornstarch…” Turkey says.
Greece sits up and looks about, inhaling as much air as he could in the process. His mouth waters a bit and thinks Gods lunch is truly going to be delicious. “Uh, did you boil the bone yesterday?”
Turkey blinks. “…did I what?”
Greece frowns. “Boil the bone. I told you to ask the bone from the butcher when you bought the lamb and then boil it for the stock.”
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Turkey returns to the table and slumps on the chair, lazily dragging the open bottle of wine to a readable distance.
“…is this one of Spain’s?”
“A Christmas gift last year.”
“Hn…”
Greece gently adds the honey and the Balsamic vinegar, taking care not to stir the mixture too much before dousing the cornstarch with a little cold water in a separate container and mixing it briskly. He spots Turkey falling asleep.
“Get dressed you,” he says. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“…pray tell, why I would need to get dressed? It’s only them.”
Greece thinks. Sure, France won’t mind. “Lovino will freak, Feliciano will get pissed at you and Antonio will hand you your ass.”
Turkey glares at him, the intensity partly ruined by the fact his face is half hidden by a tanned muscular arm. “Then why don’t you get dressed?”
“I don’t trust you to cook this sauce right.”
There’s a moment of quiet as Greece stirs the red wine gravy to a smooth consistency and Turkey plans his next move. Slowly, he slides off the dining chair and wraps his arms around Greece’s waist. The other man starts and the sudden heat and contact but keeps his grip on the saucepan firm.
“What are you planning?” Greece mumbles and watches Turkey resting his chin on his shoulder from his peripheral vision.
“Nothing,” was the innocent reply and Greece remains unconvinced. His breath hitches and his hands momentarily stop stirring as he feels Turkey’s lips latch onto his neck.
“You insatiable bastard-“ he begins.
“Come on…” Turkey says, low and inviting. “Your sauce is done and the lamb won’t be finished till fifteen minutes. We’ve got time for a quick one.”
Greece barely manages to turn the stove off before he’s bodily dragged into the bathroom.
“Fifteen minutes is relative!” he yells in protest.
“You left the door open, right?” Turkey calmly replies. “When they arrive, let them turn the oven off.”
“…that’s not my point-hnng!”
END
- - - -
…I hope it is to OP’s liking. :’D /hides
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Thank you for writing this!
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It sounds very domestic and I love how you put the parts of the recipe in the fic! And all the cooking details ~ very nice!
I can smell the lovely kitchen smells ahhhhhhh
I love kumin bread!
So nice to see Turkey/Greece not fighting and yet so in character
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