Jim Cooks
(by Pani Kulek, for the “Jim Moriarty Continuum” June prompt)
http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pani_Kulek/pseuds/Pani_Kulek
“This is such a bore,” Jim said.
Sebastian glanced up from the new issue of Field and Stream. “What are you on about?” He turned a page, leaned back in his chair, and sipped his coffee.
“It’s taking forever for them to start turning brown.”
The whole process had taken Jim forever; after all, he seldom cooked. Not only did he need to figure things out, like how to peel a potato, but he was fussy. The potatoes had to be sliced just so: the slices uniform in size and the edges perfectly squared, and he had to stack them evenly on the cutting board. His utensils had to be lined up, and all the labels in the array of spices had to face him.
And then there was the frequent hand-washing, particularly after he spattered a bit of oil on his fingers. He seemed unconvinced that it was gone and repeatedly stopped what he was doing to scrub his hands again. When all was finally ready and the deep oil in the pan was hot, he stood at an arm’s length and dropped the slices in one at a time.
That was ten minutes ago. “This is taking forever.” Jim paced a small circle.
“Fuck the weather. We should have just gone to a chippy.” Sebastian rested his folded arms on the table and resumed reading the article on how to correctly present a rubber worm to a bass.
“Well, I know what I’m going to do.” Jim bent and opened a cabinet. After some clanging, he produced a large pot with a gauge on the cover.
“What’s that?” Again Sebastian glanced up.
“I think it’s a device to speed up cooking.”
“Uh-huh.” Sebastian found his place again and ignored the thumping and sizzling noises from the stove. He frowned in concentration. After it was cast into the water, a rubber worm should not be twitched but allowed to fall to the bottom before a fish could scrutinize it too carefully. Translucent green or blue worms were best for clear water. For dark water: opaque purples or black. He studied a chart for when to use two-tone and metal flake worms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim back up a few steps and cock his head.
“The gauge ran out of numbers.” Jim pointed to the stove.
“What do you mean?” Sebastian looked to the big pot. The needle on the gauge was all the way over to one side. He squinted. “’PSI’ means what, pounds of pressure per square inch, right? I don’t think the needle is supposed to be in the red zone.”
“I think the spiggoty-looking thing is supposed to leak steam if there’s too much pressure. But I don’t see any coming out.”
“Steam from what? You’re frying with oil, right?” He pushed to his feet. “I don’t know, Jim … don’t the sides of that pot look like they’re bowing out a bit? I didn’t know metal could act that way.” He came up beside Jim, and they both stared at the pressure cooker. “It doesn’t look right to me,” Sebastian said. “Almost like a balloon being puffed up.”
Jim slapped him on the arm. “Fucking run!”
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That evening, they sat on a bench in the park. “I still have a taste for fish and chips,” Jim said.
“Good for you.” Sebastian cocked an eyebrow and rubbed the goose-bumps on his arms. He had managed to grab an umbrella on the way out of the flat, but the fireball that had followed them down the hall had made it impossible to take raincoats from the closet.
Of course, Jim was monopolizing most of the umbrella. “Let’s go to that really good chippy in Brighton. Hannah B’s.”
Rain ran down the back of Sebastian’s neck and into his tee shirt. “Hope you have some cash, because we’ll have to take a fucking cab all the way out there.” Both their cars had been parked in the underground garage, now under tons of rubble. He fished his phone from his pocket and brought up Google.
“You have a better idea?”
“Yeah … next time you want to use a strange-looking pot, google it first.” He held up his phone and pointed to the screen. “See this sentence? ‘A pressure cooker is NOT for deep-frying.’”
“You need to develop a sense of humor, Sebastian.”
“Yeah.” He thought of his gun collection, also somewhere in the rubble. “That’s just what I need.”
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“Turn that up, would you? I can’t quite reach it.”
Sebastian slammed his fork down and stood. “Watch out.” He nudged Jim aside and reached up to the television. The other patrons at Hannah B’s stared when he cranked the volume but looked back to their dinners when he glowered.
A picture of the flattened building appeared behind the newscaster’s head. She read, “the London Bomber … back again? A block of flats was leveled today, burnt to the ground after a violent explosion. According to police spokesman DI Lestrade, the destruction of the building is ‘reminiscent of the work of the Mystery London Bomber of some months ago.’”
“I wonder why,” Sebastian said. He stabbed another piece of fish.
“I suppose Sherlock will be all over this.” Jim snickered.
“Yeah, and I bet he figures out what happened because he probably fucking knows more about cooking than you do.”
Jim shrugged. “The flat was ugly anyway. I should have had the wallpaper done over when we moved in. It was-” He fluttered his fingers. “Froofy.”
Sebastian finished his last chip and sipped his lager. “Well, that’s not a problem now, is it.”