Gotta Dance with the One Who Brung Ya - sex, scandals and sweethearts

by Jon McDonald

  Eva was nagging on about how she wanted the kitchen cabinets painted and was waving paint samples at Butch as she was trying to cook. Butch was just finishing up the syrup for the desert – a cup and a half of wildflower honey, a half-cup of water, a tablespoon of lemon juice, three cloves and a cinnamon stick. She had boiled the ingredients and was checking the temperature with a candy thermometer for a 230º reading.

  “What do you think about the Adriatic Yellow?” Eva asked, holding up the paint sample against side of the cabinet by the kitchen window.

  “Love ya to pieces,” Butch declared, as she removed the solid ingredients from the syrup. “But this is not a good time for me to be discussing paint colors. Do you think you could give me a helping hand instead?”

  “Oh jeeze,” Eva replied, “what ya need?”

  “Could you please check the phyllo dough and see if it’s okay? Gotta keep it moist.”

  Eva peeked under the damp towel and gently fingered the dough and it was fine. “Just dandy.”

  “Good. Now hand me the filling.”

  Eva handed her the bowl – two thirds cup pistachios, one half cup of almonds and one third cup of walnuts all coarsely chopped with a quarter cup of sugar and cinnamon, cardamom and touch of salt. Butch had also added a couple of secret ingredients of her own - some orange and lemon zest and a moistening of cognac.

  “Thanks. Gotta work quickly now so the dough doesn’t dry out.” Butch commented, and then proceeded to line a buttered baking dish with a leaf of the phyllo dough, and then brushed it with melted butter. She repeated this with another leaf till she had a layer of six. She was using so much butter you would have thought that she had a cow parked outside the back door. She covered the remaining dough with the moist towel and reached for the bowl with the filling. She spread a third of the filling over the dough in the baking dish and repeated this two more times with the dough and the filling. She then cut the baklava into diamond shapes and shoved it into a 400º oven till crisp and brown - about 35 minutes.

  When it was done she pulled it out and put it on a rack to cool, and carefully poured the honeyed syrup over the entire pan, letting it soak into the cooling pastry.

  “Damn, you’re good.” Eva leaned over and kissed the back of Butch’s neck. “Can I have a piece?” She reached over and picked at the edge of the sweet temptation.

  Butch slapped her hand. “Bryce would skin me alive if I came to the party with a piece missing. You’re just going to have to wait.”

  “Awww.” Eva sulked and smacked Butch back with a paint sample.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  George lived in a fantasy house on a cliff right above the ocean. His house looked like a French half-timber manor with a Norman tower that descended to the beach via a spiral staircase. George had been a Hollywood cinematographer for many years but escaped from the rat race to retire to his retreat where he puttered and lovingly restored his dream house over several years.

  George had a houseguest this weekend. Samantha was a British lady of some years (she would never reveal her true age) who resided in New York City and would visit for several weeks at a time. They had met many years ago on the beaches of Mexico, and had kept up a scintillating friendship ever since.

  George was adept at salads and simple breakfasts involving smoked salmon but had absolutely no idea how to approach a Moroccan feast. On this Saturday morning he was plowing through a Mediterranean cookbook someone had given him one Christmas because “the pictures were so nice.” He was mumbling and cursing and swatting at pages looking for something suitable – and easy. Samantha came to the rescue.

  “I can’t believe you have no idea how to cook at your advanced age,” She taunted as she pulled the book from him and turned smartly to the index. She studied the entries under Morocco and pointed. “Here, just the thing,” she pronounced as she selected a Tagine Batata Hloowa, pointing to the entry like she was instructing a toddler in calculus.

  George stared at her as though she had just given birth to a calf. “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Of course not, you’re an infidel.” She pointed to the top of a kitchen cabinet where he had a fancy array of culinary pottery displayed - all for decoration; probably covered in dust; and, without a doubt, never used. “And what do you suppose that is?” she asked in a very superior mode, pointing to a rough looking dish with a tall conical lid.

  “A dish,” he replied, not about to let her snippy attitude intimidate him.

  “It’s a tagine,” she smirked. “A Moroccan baking dish.”

  “Well goodie. Looks like it will hold a dandy salad.”

  “Oh…” She brushed him aside and started rummaging through his cupboards and refrigerator. “Get it down.”

  “Please?” he taunted.

  “Yes. Please.” She looked at it as he brought it down. “And clean it up while you’re at it.”

  As he was washing the tagine she pulled out several cans of pearl onions left over from some Christmas long ago – some yams, some carrots and a bag of somewhat dried out pitted prunes. “Do you have any sesame seeds?” she asked fishing through a cupboard of spices and pulling out what else she would need to season the dish.

  “What are they?”

  “Useless, useless,” she mumbled, finally finding a small packet at the back of the spice shelf. “Good, this will work out nicely.”

  “Need any help?” he asked, indeed, beginning to feel useless.

  She looked around at what she had gathered. “Yes, can you peel the yams? You do have a peeler somewhere, yes?”

  He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a splendid peeler, presenting it to her like he had just brought home the Heiseman Trophy.

  “Excellent.”

  He continued to hold it up, quite unaware of what to do with it.

  “So peel the potatoes,” she nudged.

  “Oh, yeah.” He turned to the sink and began to peel the yams.

  Samantha sautéed the pearl onions in a pan with some butter. She took out half and placed them aside. George had finished peeling the yams.

  “Here peel and slice these,” she directed, giving George several carrots. She cubed the yams and placed them in the sauté pan with the remaining onions and added the carrots when George was done, cooking them till they were slightly browned. She added two cups of vegetable broth, a quarter cup of honey, some cinnamon, ground ginger, a cup of the pitted and chopped prunes and some salt and pepper. She placed the entire mixture into the bottom of the tagine, covered it with the lid and put it into a 400º oven and baked it till the vegetables were tender. When she lifted off the tagine lid the most delicate and intoxicating aromas filled the kitchen. Samantha added the reserved onions and cooked the tagine for five minutes more. She had toasted the sesame seeds and kept them aside to sprinkle over the tagine just before serving.

  George commented as she took the tagine out of the oven for the last time. “Wow that smells pretty damn good.”

  Samantha nodded and acknowledged the obvious. “Of course.”

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Delgado was up early Easter morning, basting the lamb once again with the marinade before it would go on the grill. He was an early riser and almost always preceded Bryce to the shower. He puttered in the kitchen, making coffee, and feeding the cat. He snacked on some left over pizza from the night before and then, with great anticipation, stepped outside to check the roses. He stood on the deck, greeted the sun, just now crowning the hill behind the house and stretched. He walked down to the rose bushes to inspect the blooms and was in complete shock when he saw that all the buds were nipped off cleanly at the stem. He let out a cry and raced back into the house, through to the bedroom, and threw himself on top of Bryce soundly asleep, snuggled up in the bed. Bryce scrambled awake and sat up with a shock.

  “What?”

  “The deer! They’ve gotten all the roses.”

  “What?” He could hardly focus let alone comprehend what Delgado was saying.

&nbs
p; “Our roses. Gone.”

  Bryce was still not getting it. “You got roses?”

  “No. The deer. They…have…eaten…all…the…roses.”

  Now Bryce got it. He leapt out of bed and rushed stark naked outside and dashed down to the rose bed. He examined the truncated bushes. “What makes you think it was deer?”

  “Do you know of any rose burglars out and about?” Delgado snidely remarked. He stared at Bryce. “Will you please come inside? We don’t need to have you arrested for indecent exposure on Easter morning.

  “But our roses. They were just perfect. What are we going to do for the table? I didn’t get any other flowers because we had these.” Bryce stumbled back into the house, stubbing his toe on the steps to the deck, mumbling and cursing.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Dan and Virginia, a couple now in their early forties, had spent ten years in Iran, teaching music and theatre. This was long before the revolution and they had been favored by the Shah and his Queen in their educational endeavors.

  Though it was not quite Moroccan, they were going to prepare a delicious crispy rice dish – a favorite from their Iranian days.

  Virginia came in from the garden with an armful of freshly clipped Iris in a variety of soft pastel colors to take to the party. She knew how much Bryce and Delgado loved to decorate the table for their famous feasts. Dan was working away on the rice dish. Virginia placed the blooms in water till time to leave for the party just before noon.

  Dan had washed three cups of rice, picked over and cooked a cup and a half of lentils for ten minutes and drained them. He was now sautéing one onion, thinly sliced, in oil. He added a cup of raisins, two cups of pitted chopped dates and two tablespoons of slivered, candied orange peel, mixing well and setting the mixture aside.

  “What is this?” Virginia asked with a laugh as she came back into the kitchen from the bedroom.

  “Oh my god, that’s Drippy. I’d completely forgotten I still had that,” Dan explained. “Where’d you find it?”

  “At the bottom of your sock drawer.”

  “Snooping for dirty secrets, huh?” he joked.

  “No-o-o-o. Was putting your laundry away, Mr. Smarty.”

  Virginia closely examined Drippy. It was a yellow sponge rubber ring about the size of a fifty-cent piece with a component of faux paste flowers at the top. “A bit small for a sex toy,” she commented.

  Dan laughed. “Well yes, as you know, I would need something considerably larger.”

  “You are so bad.”

  Dan continued working on the rice. He had cooked and drained three cups of long grain basmati rice and rinsed it several times. In the pot he had cooked the rice he poured half a cup of melted clarified butter.

  “And exactly what is – and how do you happen to have – this Drippy?” Virginia continued pressing forward with her enquiry.

  Dan placed two large serving spoons of rice, two tablespoons of yogurt and a few drops of one teaspoon of ground saffron dissolved into four tablespoons of hot water in the pot with the butter. He spread this mixture over the bottom of the pan. This would help create a golden crust.

  “Well many Christmases ago when I was just a lad my family got this arcane object as a present from my grandparents. Its intended use was a complete mystery to all of us. You can imagine the speculation as to its use or abuse. It became such a hit that it was given back and forth as a joke present over many seasons. I can’t remember how, but at some point we delicately asked the grandparents what it was for, not wanting to offend them, of course, by not knowing its use. Well, it turns out that it was meant to be placed over the spout of a teapot to catch drips - and was thus christened Drippy. Somehow over the years I ended up with it and it migrated to my sock drawer and was forgotten till some daring archeologist rediscovered it in the Temple of Sock.”

  Dan put two more heaping spoons of rice in the pot. He had a mix of cinnamon, cardamom, cumin and ground rose petals. He sprinkled half the mixture over the rice. He added a spoonful of lentils, some of the raisin mixture and then more rice – repeating the layering till it was all in the pot. He then sprinkled the rest of the spice mixture over the pyramid of rice and fruit. He covered the pot and cooked it for ten minutes more over medium heat.

  “Well what would you think if I warped up Drippy and we gave it to the boys and let them see if they can figure out what it is? Unless, of course, it is an ancestral treasure by now that must not be parted with.”

  “No, that’s a great idea. Do you mind wrapping it? I’m kinda tied up with this right now.”

  “Sure.” She disappeared.

  After the ten minutes of cooking the rice Dan poured a mixture of one more half cup of clarified butter with a half cup of water over the rice mixture. He then poured the remaining saffron water over it as well. He placed a towel over the pot and covered that firmly with the pot lid. It continued to cook over low heat for fifty minutes more.

  Virginia came back with a small, beautifully wrapped gift. “I found an old ring box. I think it will make the perfect presentation for Drippy, don’t you think?”

  Dan smiled. “Splendid.” He removed the pot from the stove and let it cool covered for five minutes. This would help free the crust from the bottom of the pot. He would serve the rice when they arrived at the party. Detaching the crusty rice from the bottom and serving it around the mound of softer rice.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Alain and Robert were to drive down to Laguna Beach from Los Angeles. Alain had been Bryce’s lover many years ago when Bryce had worked in the Cameroon in the Peace Corps and Alain, who was French, had been there as a member of Doctors Without Borders. Alain had settled in Los Angeles at a prestigious research institute. He had met the younger Robert who had been his waiter at L’Orangerie one fateful evening. They had become a couple soon after. Bryce and Alain had remained good friends – but much more like family really.

  Alain and Robert, neither particularly adept at cooking, had concocted an appetizer tray of pita, hummus, kalamata olives, sliced cucumber and cubes of feta cheese.

  “You’re not going to wear that?” Alain queried, looking askance at the “Barney” purple shirt Robert was putting on.

  “What’s wrong with it? It’s Easter,” Robert responded. “I think it’s nice and colorful.”

  “Oh please, go as a bunny if you like, but please spare us that. You look like a pregnant Easter egg.”

  “And how exactly can an Easter egg be pregnant, if you please? An egg is already pregnant. How can it be pregnant, pregnant?”

  Alain waved this comment away.

  “I suppose you’re concerned what Bryce will think of me,” Robert poked back.

  “Oh Robert,” Alain said dismissively. “Don’t give me that ‘jealous of Bryce’ routine again. You know that was a gazillion years ago. I only have undying affection for your sweet little ass. You know that.” He swatted Robert on the behind with his towel. “Here, try this on.” Alain handed Robert a stunning sunny yellow silk shirt from his side of the closet.

  “Oooo, very nice.” Robert took the shirt and sensually slipped it on. “Mine to keep?”

  “Not on your life.” Alain chose a deep blood red silk shirt for himself and started to put it on.

  “Oh, you’re not going to wear that, are you?” Robert added, looking at Alain with a wry smile.

  They left at ten thirty in order to arrive in Laguna by noon.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Bryce was in charge of tending to the charcoal grill and was letting the briquettes reach temperature before Delgado put on the lamb. It was just a little after eleven and Bryce and Delgado could hear Sandra calling from the street below. She was the first guest to arrive and was calling for some help in bringing up her dozens of eggs, prizes and of course the famous green bean casserole. Bryce tumbled down the steps to help.

  “You have to help me hide these,” Sandra said, indicating the cartons of colored eggs. “We have to get them all hidden before the others
get here.”

  “Of course,” Bryce offered. “Oh your green bean casserole.” He commented, peering into one of the shopping bags, and not quite able to mask his disappointment. “You do know the theme of this party is Morocco.”

  “Oh, I know. But everybody would be so disappointed if I didn’t bring this. You can’t mess with tradition.”

  “I guess.”

  They finally reached the summit and Bryce helped Sandra with her various bags and bundles. She immediately began issuing orders once she had greeted, embraced and kissed Delgado on both cheeks. “Is the white wine nice and cold?” she hinted.

  “Oh yes, you ready?” Delgado asked.

  She looked at him like he had just escaped from the rubber room.

  “I’ll bring it right over.” Delgado smartly poured her a glass.

  She turned back to Bryce. “Now, these are the marzipan eggs. We should mix them up with the regular ones and these chocolate eggs in the foil. I’ll put the prizes over here. Aren’t they nicely wrapped? I just love the little chickies on this paper, don’t you?”

  “Ah….” Bryce tried to answer but was cut off.

  “If you’ll just take these, then, we can get them all securely hidden. Do you like my hat? It’s new.”

  “Ravishing.”

  Delgado brought the wine to Sandra. “How’s the grill?” Delgado asked Bryce, trying to rescue him.

  “Let’s just go check.”

  The two of them escaped to the deck.

  “Be right back.” Bryce waved to Sandra, and giggling, the two rushed to the grill to check on the coals.

  “I’ll just get the eggs out of the bags. Don’t be long,” Sandra sang out.

  “I still have to make the yogurt sauce,” Bryce said to Delgado as he poked at the glowing coals.

  “The coals are just about ready,” Delgado added. “Shall I put the lamb on yet? What do ya think?”

  “How long does it take?”

  “I’m thinking about forty-five minuets to an hour.”

  Bryce checked his watch. It was now eleven thirty. “No one’s ever on time. We don’t want it over cooked. Let’s wait till twelve.”