A
response to James Kythe's "no touching" challenge. ;-) Pam
Only a hint of spice.... But all the ingredients are firm and fresh!
(Except possibly the celery.)
Ratatouille
by Pam Rush
The antiseptic, white depths of the old refrigerator were as cold as
Mammoth Cave and nearly as empty, at least by Vecchio household standards.
Ray whistled and heard the note echo hollowly back from the bare cavern;
he sighed and then flinched, startled, when his sigh was echoed from
regions over his right shoulder. The suggestion of warm breath on the
back of his neck might have been more his imagination than reality, but
the sigh held at least as much sincere regret as his own.
"Geez, Benny, don't you ever buy normal food?" he asked, poking
at a dispirited looking clump of wilted celery leaves clinging to three
or four slightly brown stalks. Even the near west side of Chicago closes
down early on Sunday evenings and it was later than "evening" now by
anyone's standards. A profitless stakeout had kept them bored but occupied
until this hour of the night and now the neighborhood coffee shops and
delis were closed and the Mountie had invited Ray up to explore the Fraser
pantry for sustenance. Thus far their culinary prospects seemed to be
evenly divided between starving to death or taking their chances in the
garbage dumpsters lining the narrow alley behind the old apartment building.
"Well, Ray, I've been eating out with you frequently, of late.
But there should be some--"
The uniformed arm reached past the detective to pull out the
crisper drawer. Sure enough, it was full of totally unidentifiable but
tightly covered plastic containers, tidily plastic-wrapped bundles, and
lumpy, self-sealing storage bags.
Vecchio captured what might have been a plastic butter container
in a previous incarnation and popped the lid hopefully. In his mother's
kitchen Tortellini con Gorgonzola Napolitano would have been a good bet,
but in the Fraser 'fridge it was half full of....
"EEWWW!!!" exclaimed Vecchio, histrionically holding it out at
arm's length.
"What?"
"That's what I said!"
"No, Ray, you said 'Eeww--'"
"That *means* WHAT, as in WHAT the hell is--"
"Bean sprouts, Ray."
"--it? It looks like-- Bean sprouts? Is that like, uh, Brussels
sprouts?"
"No, they're--"
"Never mind. I don't wanna know. I thought it was albino worms;
now I just don't wanna know."
"You're exaggerating. If they were albino worms they would be
squirming."
"No, they wouldn't," Vecchio kibitzed automatically while poking
amongst the plastic wrapped items hoping that one of them would holler
'mortadella and provolone on whole wheat.' "They'd be *dead* albino
worms; they'd have suffocated in that--"
"That's ridiculous, Ray. Why would anyone keep--?"
"Exactly! Why would anyone keep half a butter bowl of old bean
sprouts in their refrigerator?"
"Low-fat, unsalted butter substitute."
"Where!" Vecchio exclaimed, looking alarmed.
"Nowhere, Ray--"
"Then why'd you *say*--"
"The *receptacle* was purchased *containing* low-fat, unsal--"
"Fraser!"
"What?"
"Is there *anything* cholesterol laden, salted and naturally
appetizing in this refrigerator?"
"No, I don't believe so, Ray."
Fraser squatted in front of the crisper drawer as a scowling
Vecchio elbowed his way clear of the opened door and yielded the floor...or,
rather, the major household appliance, to his friend. Before he could
decide whether eye rolling or teeth-grinding would annoy Fraser more
and hence qualify as the more suitable substitute for a comment, the
Mountie interrupted the process with a triumphant cry and stood up, turning
around and brandishing his treasure-trove.
Vecchio regarded the trio of undistinguished vegetables in Fraser's
hands with a doubtful eye. The view did not improve appreciably when
he used both eyes either. Two tomatoes, one eggplant and a zucchini
were certainly not going to transmogrify magically into a corned beef
on rye with mustard and 'kraut. It wasn't even going to make chicken
salad with mayo on white.
"Uh, Fraser, it's late 'n' maybe I'm not even all that hungry.
I mean, I can wait 'until breakfast--"
"Ratatouille!" Fraser exclaimed heartily, off-loading the eggplant
and zucchini to Vecchio and turning 'round to peer back into the depths
of the crisper bin.
"What!?" Vecchio shouted, scowling even more ferociously.
"Here's most of a pepper and the celery can go in and I'm almost
sure there's half an onion and I know I have some garlic...." his voice
faltered as, looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of Vecchio's
expression. "....Ray?"
"Who's a rat-a--?"
"Rat-a-*touille*, Ray. A French Provencal casserole of eggplant,
peppers, onions, zucchini and toma--"
"All right, all right," Vecchio groaned, tensing his shoulders
and squeezing his eyes shut apprehensively, "it's vegetable soup. Like
I said, I should go--"
"Ray...?"
Vecchio stopped in mid-sentence and managed to maintain his forbidding
expression for all of two seconds before he gave in. He could never
resist that combination of artless manipulation and ingenuous maneuvering
when Fraser started looking all forlorn and whining.
"Okay, okay, what'd'ya want me to do with this?" he asked, pointing
the zucchini at Fraser who smiled winsomely over his own armful of helpless
vegetables.
"Peel, seed and cube, Ray, or julienne if you prefer...."
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Under Ray's knife, the thin peel slid easily off the zucchini:
they were appealing vegetables, he reflected idly, as vegetables went.
He'd never really admired eggplant, on the other hand, at least not the
fat, purplish aubergine. The slimmer, paler Oriental eggplant was quite
nice. Of course, it was rather like a zucchini. An albino zucci-- That
made him think about the bean sprouts and he smirked, glancing quickly
towards Fraser to share the joke, but found his partner standing with
his back to him as he adjusted the heat on the ancient and temperamental
stove top. An excellent back, of course, with perfect Canadian posture:
every vertebra in alignment, shoulders straight, knees together, toes
out, buttocks tucked in....
Dreamily, Vecchio pared the sensitive blossom end of the zucchini
and smoothed over the exposed tip with his thumb. The meat was cool
and smooth under his touch.... Long and thick....his hand barely able
to wrap around the rigid shaft of the squash.... Fresh juices spurted
and his fingers slipped on the lubricated surface, sliding over the firm,
white, vegetable flesh.... Hazy, disconnected images slipped through
his mind but melted away like butter on hot oatmeal before he could fully
grasp their meaning....
"--ready in about twenty minutes, Ray."
He didn't realize that he had stopped peeling, seeding and dicing
until he suddenly perceived that, unlike his dream Fraser, the real Fraser
was now standing *facing* him with raised eyebrows and a mildly concerned
expression.
"What?" Vecchio came to with a start, noticing that he still held
a knife in one hand and realizing thankfully that he had indeed peeled
and chopped vegetable matter instead of his own fingers while he had
been daydreaming. "Uh....I was just thinking about, er....bean sprouts....
What'd'ya say?"
"I said that it was a good idea to chop everything extra fine so
that it will cook faster; it ought to be ready in about twenty minutes
this way." Fraser looked at him rather strangely as he offered the deep-sided
Dutch oven, half-full of his own part of the cuisinely preparations,
for Vecchio's contribution. Ray's bemused glance fixed on his work
and he realized that he had more or less pulverized the long squash with
his chopping blade.
The unfocused and seemingly unconscious gaze that had concerned
Fraser disappeared as, looking up, Vecchio's eyes focused on the Mountie.
Then, to the equal but disparate consternation of each, Ray blushed.
"Ray...?"
"Damn, it must be the onions," Vecchio exclaimed, wiping his hand
across a burning cheek.
"Onions are supposed to make you cry, Ray, not--"
"Right. My eyes are watering like crazy," he asserted, rubbing
at his face fiercely, which would account for any sort of heightened
color. Fraser's doubtful look was his only reply as he scraped the massacred
vegetables into the pot and turned away to the stove top.
Damn, thought Vecchio, that was.... Well, what was it? Better
not to name it, or examine it too closely, or think about it any more....
What the *hell* would Fraser think if he *knew*, even suspected, what
kind of strange things.... Ooops. Better not to think about it any
more. He glanced at the Mountie's perfectly linear spine and rolled
his eyes. God, no! No doubt it was just one of those peculiar but meaningless
twists of the subconscious, but Fraser would never, *ever* understand....
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The ratatouille wasn't really all that bad for something that didn't
have any pasta in it, Ray decided. Of course, the plentiful addition
of crushed garlic and olive oil and the fresh herbs from the window box
that Fraser cultivated all summer helped out. *And* he had managed
to hold up his end of a perfectly normal --or as normal as usual when
it included Inuit paradigms and exotic woodlore dating to the Lost Continent--
conversation while his mind behaved in a perfectly normal way. Yeah,
that other thing was just an aberration. Probably happened to everybody
once in a while. At least, everybody except Fraser. Nothing like that
would every cross his frozen-Alaskan* brain, surely.
(*an ice-cream snack sold by street vendors)
Vecchio looked over to where Fraser was once again burrowing into
the depths of the 'fridge after some suddenly recollected treat he was
determined to designate as dessert and smiled wryly at the quirkiness
of human frailty. Yeah, maybe it happened to most people, once in a
while, but not to Fraser....
But he was certainly taking a long time to look for those brandied
peaches.
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Brandied peaches... Fraser thought dreamily, eyes smoky with an appetite
seemingly unquenched by a substantial helping of ratatouille as they
rested on the liquorous fruit bumping tantalizing against the glass surface
of the jar.... Soft yet firm, pale golden half-globes of succulent
flesh, sweet as honey but spicy, too.... Ripe and ready to bite....
Just a nip, perhaps, at first.... But then....
Bon Appetit!
Fulsome praise modestly accepted and criticism cheerfully ignored if
addressed to the author at pkrush01@ukcc.uky.edu