Bridget's Flame, November contest, week two, "Dine"
Preparing dinner had always been Jeffrey’s favorite task of the day. He fantasized about it all day at work, and fidgeted impatiently in his seat on the bus, going over each step of the preparation in his mind on the way home.
As soon as he got through the door, he tossed his jacket on a chair, kicked off his shoes, put on his ‘kiss the cook’ apron, and got to work. He drew his favorite cleaver out of the drawer, ran the blade along a sharpening steel a few times, and tested it on an onion. Satisfied with the edge, he removed the main ingredient of tonight’s dinner from the refrigerator.
Jeffrey took a moment to study the sublime silhouette of his main course before he cut into it. It was getting difficult to obtain this sort of viand in the city; in fact, he had to travel out past the suburbs, into the less competitive countryside to get his hands on the smaller, more tender specimens he craved. Taking a deep breath, he placed his palm on the oblong delicacy to steady it, and brought his cleaver down with a practiced thwack, slicing off about one eighth of the top, neatly exposing the inner cavity.
He reached inside the hole he had just made, scooping out handfuls of the sticky contents until he had an almost empty shell. Taking up a large metal spoon, he methodically scraped the inside of the now hollow ovoid until the rest of the offal was removed. Setting the main part of his dinner upright in a deep baking dish, he commenced to fill it with the apple and sage stuffing he had prepared last night. After adding a small amount of water to the bottom of the dish, he popped it in the oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit and set the oven timer for two hours.
He thought for a minute about saving the innards for a snack later; he had heard that if you roasted them with a bit of oil and salt they were quite tasty, but right now they just looked like a big mess, so he stuffed them in the garbage disposal, grinding them up and washing them away. He continued to clean the kitchen until all evidence of his food preparation were erased.
Jeffrey checked the oven timer and found he still had an hour and forty five minutes left to go, so he opened a bottle of Chianti, put on his mix of his favorite Bach Toccatas, and sat down to do the crossword.
An hour and forty five minutes later, the unique aroma of his dinner filled the apartment. The timer went off, and he opened the oven, drawing out the rich looking, golden fleshed masterpiece. He set it on a trivet in the center of the table and admired it for a few minutes before he began eating. First, he took a heaping serving of fava beans and poured himself another glass of wine. To be truthful, he was putting off the moment when he would have to deface his opus by cutting into it, but the delectable smell finally overcame him, and he dug in, adding a steaming pile of flesh and stuffing to his plate alongside the beans. He watched the steam rise off his plate, and then scooped a forkful of food into his mouth.
“Ohhh, mmmmmm,” Jeff groaned orgasmically, “I just love roast stuffed pumpkin. Becoming a Vegan was the best thing I ever did.”
As soon as he got through the door, he tossed his jacket on a chair, kicked off his shoes, put on his ‘kiss the cook’ apron, and got to work. He drew his favorite cleaver out of the drawer, ran the blade along a sharpening steel a few times, and tested it on an onion. Satisfied with the edge, he removed the main ingredient of tonight’s dinner from the refrigerator.
Jeffrey took a moment to study the sublime silhouette of his main course before he cut into it. It was getting difficult to obtain this sort of viand in the city; in fact, he had to travel out past the suburbs, into the less competitive countryside to get his hands on the smaller, more tender specimens he craved. Taking a deep breath, he placed his palm on the oblong delicacy to steady it, and brought his cleaver down with a practiced thwack, slicing off about one eighth of the top, neatly exposing the inner cavity.
He reached inside the hole he had just made, scooping out handfuls of the sticky contents until he had an almost empty shell. Taking up a large metal spoon, he methodically scraped the inside of the now hollow ovoid until the rest of the offal was removed. Setting the main part of his dinner upright in a deep baking dish, he commenced to fill it with the apple and sage stuffing he had prepared last night. After adding a small amount of water to the bottom of the dish, he popped it in the oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit and set the oven timer for two hours.
He thought for a minute about saving the innards for a snack later; he had heard that if you roasted them with a bit of oil and salt they were quite tasty, but right now they just looked like a big mess, so he stuffed them in the garbage disposal, grinding them up and washing them away. He continued to clean the kitchen until all evidence of his food preparation were erased.
Jeffrey checked the oven timer and found he still had an hour and forty five minutes left to go, so he opened a bottle of Chianti, put on his mix of his favorite Bach Toccatas, and sat down to do the crossword.
An hour and forty five minutes later, the unique aroma of his dinner filled the apartment. The timer went off, and he opened the oven, drawing out the rich looking, golden fleshed masterpiece. He set it on a trivet in the center of the table and admired it for a few minutes before he began eating. First, he took a heaping serving of fava beans and poured himself another glass of wine. To be truthful, he was putting off the moment when he would have to deface his opus by cutting into it, but the delectable smell finally overcame him, and he dug in, adding a steaming pile of flesh and stuffing to his plate alongside the beans. He watched the steam rise off his plate, and then scooped a forkful of food into his mouth.
“Ohhh, mmmmmm,” Jeff groaned orgasmically, “I just love roast stuffed pumpkin. Becoming a Vegan was the best thing I ever did.”