TLV Inbox

[greatoldjohn]

[in a rather deep voice] "This is John Doe. Please leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I may respond in text if I'm currently with Arthur. Apologies."

Now Moved To: Inbox: Act II - please tag in there!

Comments

[greatoldjohn]

You didn't take very long to think.

[pitofguilt]

Because I know that you're taking away my favorite toys because I was a bad, bad girl.

[greatoldjohn]

Not at all.

That's not the answer.

So think again.

[pitofguilt]

[ Oh my fuCKING--

Another deep breath. Feel it start to finish. ]

Playing twenty questions with me right now is a waste of both our time.

[greatoldjohn]

It isn't a game.

There's only one question.

Think about it.

[pitofguilt]

You could save both of us time by just telling me what you want me to learn or deal with but not being able to get drunk. And I'm assuming I can't get high either.

[greatoldjohn]

No, you can't. No recreational substance will work at the moment.

I'm not trying to save time, Natalie.

I'm trying to make you think.

So try it.

[pitofguilt]

[ But daaaAAAAD ]

Right. Thanks for nothing.

[greatoldjohn]

What time did you want dinner?

[pitofguilt]

Six.

[greatoldjohn]

In the mood to cook it or should I bring it in?

[pitofguilt]

I'm in the mood to chop vegetables. If you bring in whatever protein they're serving in the dining room, that should be fine.

[ She's keeping her voice even, but it's honestly pretty damn clear she's unhappy^TM. ]

[greatoldjohn]

I'll get us some vegetables. And there's chicken or beef. Do you have a preference?

[ It should be pretty obvious from the fact that he's blithely discussing dinner options that he Doesn't Give a Shit^TM

...it's helpful to have 'constantly pissed off at you' as a baseline you're used to in your partner sometimes. ]

[pitofguilt]

[ She KNOWS and she HATES IT. ]

Chicken.

[greatoldjohn]

Chicken it is. I'll be there soon.

[ And there will be a knock in about fifteen minutes. ]

[pitofguilt]

[ Despite not looking terribly angry, she is the living embodiment of this face as she holds the door open for John and his little cart. ]

Kitchen's set up.

[ He'll find a frying pan on the stove, a cutting board and knife nearby, and bowls to put the chopped vegetables in. There's a bottle of cooking oil too, because they're taking this cooking for Arthur thing seriously, and angry or not, she does think he deserves at least that much from her. ]

What am I working with tonight.

[greatoldjohn]

[ John floats in with his bag in hand, and he'll head right for the kitchen to start laying out the ingredients: several vegetables, some chicken breasts, and a quantity of rice. ]

They recommended a 'stir fry'.

[pitofguilt]

[ She has learned that it is surprisingly easy to overcook just about anything. But stir fry at least she can keep fussing with in the frying pan and maybe guess when it's ready to go. ]

Yeah? Wouldn't have guessed.

[ She puts the rice in a pot, grabs the vegetables, and washes them off one by one. Then it's chopping time, and she is definitely using more force than necessary at first, until she finds a rhythm and becomes absorbed in the task. ]

[greatoldjohn]

[ John is going to wash the rice, add a little oil, a little salt, and carefully measure the water. He sticks his finger in and squints, since it's hard to see the knuckle with his shadow hand. Then he's heading for the stove to put the rice on the back burner. ]

[pitofguilt]

[ Red pepper, green pepper, onion, carrot, broccoli. Each gets dumped in a bowl as she goes through them. A clove of garlic gets as close to minced as she can get it without injury to her fingers.

She swears under her breath, remembering too late she should have gotten the oil heated up by now. That sets her back a little, pouring it in the pan, turning on the stove, waiting a while, finally guessing when is good. Garlic first, then each of the vegetables, not caring what order they go in or how long they should each be there. ]

Shit. [ Yes, again. She glances at the chicken and sighs sharply, staying with the vegetables for now, because dear god does she hate overcooked vegetables. ]

[greatoldjohn]

Here.

[ He's gotten a bowl, something for her to put the vegetables in so that they don't get overcooked. ]

We'll put them back in after the meat cookes. I prepped the chicken.

[ Properly 'velveted' according to the book he read about: cooking wine, cornstarch, white pepper, salt, and soy sauce. ]

[pitofguilt]

[ This mistake has at least redirected her grumpiness at herself-- because it's her own fault she's here learning to cook anyway. When she takes the bowl from John there's no attitude to it, nor to the "thanks" she mumbles, even if it's not the most effusive show of gratitude she's ever made.

The vegetables go in the bowl, and she cuts up the chicken into thin strips before putting them in the pan to cook. ]

It smells good, at least.

[ Please let it not turn out overcooked. ]

[greatoldjohn]

It does. But it needs a little more oil. The oil acts as a contact to transfer the heat; if you don't have enough oil, one side cooks too quickly while the other side doesn't cook enough and it ends up partially overcooked eventually.

[ A pause. ]

There's a book by a man named Alton Brown. I'll take it out of the library and bring it for you tomorrow.

[pitofguilt]

[ Her grip on the rubber spatula she's holding tightens. Why is this so fucking esoteric and arcane.

She puts the spatula down and pours more oil into the pan. ]

That look like enough?

[greatoldjohn]

[ He watches and- ]

Yes, that's enough. No more. Now it's sizzling all around. Some of it looked dry before. It's browning nicely now.