Ratatouille    

 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...."
69696969696969696969696969696969696969 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.... 6969696969696969696969696969696969696969 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. 696969696969696969696969696969696969696969
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