Tarragon, of Virtue, Is Full
Author's Note: Last July, I signed up for Schmoop Bingo, optimistically aiming for a blackout. In fact, I've only completed one of the stories for the 25 prompts required to fill my Bingo card. Since the deadline is December 31st, I figure that this is about all I'm going to get done, so I might as well post it. It was fun to write. Hope you find it fun to read.
Title: Tarragon, of Virtue, Is Full
Prompt: birthday - celebrant is sick (R1C1)
Medium: fic - 1,011 words
Rating: G
Warnings: --none--
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Summary: Jack makes Ennis a birthday dinner that neither of them will ever forget.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Tarragon chicken, green beans with almonds, buttered poppy seed noodles, and red velvet cake,” Jack proposed.
“What’s tarragon?” Ennis wanted to know.
“It’s a seasoning,” Jack explained. “Wait a minute.” And he got up and went into the kitchen, returning in a minute with a spice jar full of grayish-green dried leafy bits, which he handed over.
Ennis unscrewed the lid and cautiously sniffed. “Huh. Kinda interesting. Different.”
“It’s a real easy recipe, too. Got some wine in it. And mushrooms.”
“Sounds good. And if we don’t like it after all, there’s always the noodles and the beans. And the cake. You ain’t gonna put candles all over that cake, are ya?”
“Well, hell, Ennis, it is your birthday, after all.”
“I ain’t blowin out thirty-five candles. No way.”
“Okay, then I’ll get two candles. They got em shaped like numbers, so I’ll get a three and a five. And if ya don’t treat me right, I’ll put em on the cake the wrong way, so it’ll look like you’re fifty-three.”
“Awright,” Ennis conceded. “Um, Jack, you sure about that chicken? Maybe it might be better to go with something we already know we like?”
“Nah. It’ll be great!” Jack enthused. “You’ll see!”
Jack was actually a pretty good cook, although it took a long time for Ennis to realize it. It wasn’t until they were finally living together that the truth emerged from behind the years of semi-edible camp food. The thing was that once Jack managed to get a recipe right, he wanted to move on and try something else. So on every fishing trip, Ennis would be subjected to a new series of culinary experiments, most of which were less than 100% successful.
Jack’s basic problem was that he didn’t want to follow the directions-always wanted to do it his own way. Of course he learned eventually-by trial and error-for example, that increasing the oven temperature from the recipe’s suggested 350° to 500° didn’t make the casserole cook faster; it just produced a casserole that was burned on the top while it was still cold in the middle-not to mention stuck to the pan to a degree that after three days of soaking, Jack finally decided to throw the dish away rather than do the amount of scrubbing it was going to need to be usable again. But as the years passed, Jack learned from each mistake, and by the time Ennis’ 35th birthday came around, more of Jack’s meals could be counted as successful than otherwise.
And if they hadn’t gone out drinking the night before… And if Jack hadn’t told the whole bar that tomorrow was Ennis’ birthday… And if Ennis hadn’t felt that it would be rude to refuse to drink all the congratulatory shots and beers that were pressed on him… And if Jack hadn’t drunk almost as much as Ennis… And if, and if, and if…
Along about four in the afternoon, Jack’s hangover had eased up to the point where he could stagger into the kitchen, wearing a bright blue ice-bag on his head in lieu of the more traditional white French chef’s toque. The chicken recipe called for a tablespoon of fresh tarragon, or a teaspoon of dried, which Jack figured had to be a misprint, because of course the fresh herb-being fresh-would be more potent than the dried-out stuff. That only stood to reason. And since this was their first experiment with tarragon, they’d want to get a good taste of it-subtlety could wait until later-so he decided to double the amount.
Sauté the mushrooms in some butter; rub the cut-up chicken with a bit of salt and pepper and brown it in olive oil; pour off the excess fat; dump in a half-cup of dry vermouth and two generous tablespoons of tarragon, firmly packed; cover and let cook on low while he boiled the noodles and added almonds and garlic to the canned green beans; et voila, le birthday dinner, she is fini! (Okay, so they were whole smokehouse almonds instead of the finely sliced blanched almonds the recipe originally called for. But, in fact, they both liked it that way.)
The cake, made the day before, waited in glacial splendor in the refrigerator.
Ennis spent the morning throwing up, but by noon he could keep down a little ginger ale, and a couple hours later he ventured a few saltines. At six, he and Jack felt almost human again. And so they sat down to dinner.
The chicken smelled… tarragony. Very tarragony. The noodles were excellent, with lots of butter and poppy seeds. A purist might have considered them a little over-cooked-okay, a lot over-cooked-but whenever Jack tried cooking his pasta “al dente” it invariably came out “crunchy” instead, so he settled for the more edible end of the spectrum. The green beans were salty and smoky and garlicky and delightful. The garlic was still pretty raw, but if he’d left it on the stove long enough for the garlic to mellow, the green beans would have been mush, so it was better off as it was.
“Next time, I’ll cook the garlic a little first, and then add it to the beans.”
“Good idea. Still pretty damn good beans.”
The chicken… Ennis tried valiantly to finish his portion. And if he hadn’t tried to help it down with a too-big gulp of ginger ale… The belch was what undid him in the end. He did manage to get away from the table in time, but wisely ran for the kitchen sink, it being considerably closer than the bathroom. The overly-tarragoned chicken had been pungent going down. It was even more so coming up again. Fortunately, they had a double sink, so Jack could join him.
They ate the cake the next day. And the rest of the tarragon-over Jack’s protests-went into the garbage.
“I know what I did wrong,” Jack insisted. “I’ll use a lot less next time!”
“No next time. Not for tarragon.” Ennis was adamant.
Title: Tarragon, of Virtue, Is Full
Prompt: birthday - celebrant is sick (R1C1)
Medium: fic - 1,011 words
Rating: G
Warnings: --none--
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Summary: Jack makes Ennis a birthday dinner that neither of them will ever forget.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Tarragon chicken, green beans with almonds, buttered poppy seed noodles, and red velvet cake,” Jack proposed.
“What’s tarragon?” Ennis wanted to know.
“It’s a seasoning,” Jack explained. “Wait a minute.” And he got up and went into the kitchen, returning in a minute with a spice jar full of grayish-green dried leafy bits, which he handed over.
Ennis unscrewed the lid and cautiously sniffed. “Huh. Kinda interesting. Different.”
“It’s a real easy recipe, too. Got some wine in it. And mushrooms.”
“Sounds good. And if we don’t like it after all, there’s always the noodles and the beans. And the cake. You ain’t gonna put candles all over that cake, are ya?”
“Well, hell, Ennis, it is your birthday, after all.”
“I ain’t blowin out thirty-five candles. No way.”
“Okay, then I’ll get two candles. They got em shaped like numbers, so I’ll get a three and a five. And if ya don’t treat me right, I’ll put em on the cake the wrong way, so it’ll look like you’re fifty-three.”
“Awright,” Ennis conceded. “Um, Jack, you sure about that chicken? Maybe it might be better to go with something we already know we like?”
“Nah. It’ll be great!” Jack enthused. “You’ll see!”
Jack was actually a pretty good cook, although it took a long time for Ennis to realize it. It wasn’t until they were finally living together that the truth emerged from behind the years of semi-edible camp food. The thing was that once Jack managed to get a recipe right, he wanted to move on and try something else. So on every fishing trip, Ennis would be subjected to a new series of culinary experiments, most of which were less than 100% successful.
Jack’s basic problem was that he didn’t want to follow the directions-always wanted to do it his own way. Of course he learned eventually-by trial and error-for example, that increasing the oven temperature from the recipe’s suggested 350° to 500° didn’t make the casserole cook faster; it just produced a casserole that was burned on the top while it was still cold in the middle-not to mention stuck to the pan to a degree that after three days of soaking, Jack finally decided to throw the dish away rather than do the amount of scrubbing it was going to need to be usable again. But as the years passed, Jack learned from each mistake, and by the time Ennis’ 35th birthday came around, more of Jack’s meals could be counted as successful than otherwise.
And if they hadn’t gone out drinking the night before… And if Jack hadn’t told the whole bar that tomorrow was Ennis’ birthday… And if Ennis hadn’t felt that it would be rude to refuse to drink all the congratulatory shots and beers that were pressed on him… And if Jack hadn’t drunk almost as much as Ennis… And if, and if, and if…
Along about four in the afternoon, Jack’s hangover had eased up to the point where he could stagger into the kitchen, wearing a bright blue ice-bag on his head in lieu of the more traditional white French chef’s toque. The chicken recipe called for a tablespoon of fresh tarragon, or a teaspoon of dried, which Jack figured had to be a misprint, because of course the fresh herb-being fresh-would be more potent than the dried-out stuff. That only stood to reason. And since this was their first experiment with tarragon, they’d want to get a good taste of it-subtlety could wait until later-so he decided to double the amount.
Sauté the mushrooms in some butter; rub the cut-up chicken with a bit of salt and pepper and brown it in olive oil; pour off the excess fat; dump in a half-cup of dry vermouth and two generous tablespoons of tarragon, firmly packed; cover and let cook on low while he boiled the noodles and added almonds and garlic to the canned green beans; et voila, le birthday dinner, she is fini! (Okay, so they were whole smokehouse almonds instead of the finely sliced blanched almonds the recipe originally called for. But, in fact, they both liked it that way.)
The cake, made the day before, waited in glacial splendor in the refrigerator.
Ennis spent the morning throwing up, but by noon he could keep down a little ginger ale, and a couple hours later he ventured a few saltines. At six, he and Jack felt almost human again. And so they sat down to dinner.
The chicken smelled… tarragony. Very tarragony. The noodles were excellent, with lots of butter and poppy seeds. A purist might have considered them a little over-cooked-okay, a lot over-cooked-but whenever Jack tried cooking his pasta “al dente” it invariably came out “crunchy” instead, so he settled for the more edible end of the spectrum. The green beans were salty and smoky and garlicky and delightful. The garlic was still pretty raw, but if he’d left it on the stove long enough for the garlic to mellow, the green beans would have been mush, so it was better off as it was.
“Next time, I’ll cook the garlic a little first, and then add it to the beans.”
“Good idea. Still pretty damn good beans.”
The chicken… Ennis tried valiantly to finish his portion. And if he hadn’t tried to help it down with a too-big gulp of ginger ale… The belch was what undid him in the end. He did manage to get away from the table in time, but wisely ran for the kitchen sink, it being considerably closer than the bathroom. The overly-tarragoned chicken had been pungent going down. It was even more so coming up again. Fortunately, they had a double sink, so Jack could join him.
They ate the cake the next day. And the rest of the tarragon-over Jack’s protests-went into the garbage.
“I know what I did wrong,” Jack insisted. “I’ll use a lot less next time!”
“No next time. Not for tarragon.” Ennis was adamant.