HOME | DD

Description
Redefined Valentine

“Erik… you home?”

Erik heard Dermot’s deep voice and Irish accent call out from the hallway as his tall, red-headed, pipe-smoker of a housemate enter the house. Erik tensed, which was something he hardly ever did, unless he was in the process of setting up a practical joke and was about to be busted before he was ready. That wasn’t the case right now, but he was just as likely to be busted in what he was preparing. He glanced down at his progress, then across the room at the clock that hung on the kitchen wall. It was ten minutes to five in the afternoon and Erik realised that Dermot must have left work early.

“Bollocks,” he muttered under his breath. He’d asked… no, begged their boss to let himself leave work early just so that he could get all of this ready before Dermot got home, and he’d been so close, but it was just his luck that the ever-efficient Irishman would be just as likely to get a ‘flyer’ as he was.

“You there, Erik?”

Dermot called out again. As he came through the door he was hit hard by the aroma of something cooking. It was definitely a physical scent – Dermot was beginning to get used to the other aromas and tastes that he experienced. His empathic power to pick up on other people’s emotions manifested in perceived scents and flavours, some of which he was learning to recognise as being attributed to specific thoughts and feelings. He was also starting to learn how to differentiate between real smells and those that his empathy picked up. The scent in the hallway was most definitely real, because the more gentle scent and taste of chocolate that came with it was the result of Erik’s feelings for Dermot. He also felt a slight prickling sensation, which told him that Erik was up to something… nothing malicious, but he was definitely being secretive.

“Am in t’ kitchen,” Erik called back. “Dinner’ll be ready in a few.” He spun a knife on the palm of his hand absently, then set it down and slapped the end of a spatula on the counter beside him. The spatula spun into the air and he caught it mid-flight, then flipped the two steaks that were frying in the pan in front of him. He jostled the pan to cause the melted clarified butter to coat the top of the steaks, then flipped them again. As he set the spatula down beside the hob his eyes landed on the dessert at the end of the counter.

“Shit!” he hissed. “Why don’t ya go chill in front of the telly, mate?” Erik called out quickly. “I’ll call ya when…”

Too late.

The kitchen door opened and Dermot’s smiling face peeked through the gap.

“You kiddin’ buddy?” Dermot asked. “That smell’s makin’ me mouth water!” He stepped into the kitchen and looked down at the hob. Three pans were set on the hood top, one saucepan was simmering with vegetables, another with a mushroom sauce, and the third – a frying pan - had two lightly-seared steaks sizzling away. “So, what’s the occasion…” Dermot cut himself short as his eyes landed on a raised plate with a glass dome, beneath which was laid a pink cheesecake topped with cream, chocolate shavings, strawberries, and heart-shaped chocolate slices.

Erik glanced up. He saw that Dermot had shed his probably sweat-soaked work shirt, but focused on the quizzical frown that now occupied his face . For his part, Dermot felt the prickly sensation fade instantly, to be replaced by the heavy feeling that usually came with someone else’s tension.

“It ain’t what ya think…” Erik started, then paused as Dermot glanced around the kitchen and saw that the table had already been laid out with plates, cutlery, an open bottle of Malbec, and two wine glasses.

“It’s not?” Dermot asked. Erik’s crush on Dermot was no secret, but it had never manifested itself like this before. They’d been living together for six months now, ever since Dermot’s wife had left him under the pretense of neglect, at least until it had emerged that her pregnancy was not a result of Dermot’s affections, but those of her own infidelity. The recent arrival of his final divorce papers which had severed all ties between them had come as something of a relief to the Irishman, but now he wondered if they might also have triggered this… whatever it was. “So, what is ‘it’, buddy?” Dermot asked.

Erik sighed and slumped his shoulders. His eyes dropped to the steaks in front of him. He picked up the spatula and flipped them again, then flicked the steak knife that laid on the counter into the air. As it fell back down, Erik caught it on the end of the spatula and began to spin the knife on the tip of its blade at the same time as he jostled the pan again to agitate the melted oil.

“See, I know it’s Valentine’s,” Erik said, “but I figured ya wouldn’t be in the mood for that shite…” Dermot’s eyes widened as he watched how easily Erik balanced the knife on the spatula and tended to the steaks in the pan at the same time. He stepped further into the room and around Erik’s back to get a better view. “…So I looked up where Valentine’s comes from. Did ya know it’s one of those Pagan holidays? Lupercalia. Goes all the way back to sixth century B.C. Rome. It’s a fertility festival. They used to sacrifice a goat, or something, soak strips of its skin in blood, then go round slapping women and crops with it.”

“Huh?” Dermot grunted. He was half-listening to the story and half-focused on Erik’s culinary dexterity.

“Yeah, the women di’n’t mind though,” Erik continued, “they saw it as some sort of fertility blessing. Then all the young women put their names in a big pot, and the bachelors of the city pulled names out and paired up with the women for a year.”

“So… what’s that got to do with… this?” Dermot nodded towards the cooking food.

Erik flipped the knife into the air and it landed point-down into one of the steaks. He checked that it and its companion were heated through, then turned off the heat and set the pan aside for the meat to rest. He turned around to face Dermot.

“I figured no-one wants a blood-soaked thong slapped in their face these days, so I went for the next best thing…” he thumbed over his shoulder, “… rare steak. And ya can’t have steak without veggies ‘n’ a good mushroom sauce – I know ya don’t like pepper – and there’s some roasties in the oven.”

Dermot couldn’t help the sensation in his mouth as he almost drooled at the description of the meal. His eyes glanced across to the cheesecake again and he raised a questioning brow.

“Oh, that!” Erik smiled. “Well I know ya like strawberry cheesecake, so I figured I’d make ya one and…”

“You made it?” Dermot asked.

“’Course I did!” Erik replied indignantly. “At least ya know what’s in it when ya make it, not like some of that shop-bought shite! And yeah, sorry about the hearts on it… chocolate’s perfect to go with strawberries but, this time o’ year, these’re the only cake decorations ya can buy. Just think of ‘em as a symbol of the love you’ve got for the future now…” he hesitated, “…now all that bad shit’s over with.”

Dermot locked his eyes with Erik and opened himself to his empathy. He had learned early on, when his power had awoken, how to tell if someone was lying, but he sensed no trace of a lie coming from Erik. All he could sense now was the creamy, custard-like feeling of sincerity, which was followed by his own guilt for doubting his best friend. He broke into a warm smile, then pulled Erik into a warm hug.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said softly.

Erik let the hug linger for a moment, then pushed himself away. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “Enough of that soppy shite… yer steak’ll get cold. Sit yer arse down ‘n’ let me serve up!”

Dermot took a seat at the table while Erik drew the roasted potatoes out of the oven and began to serve the meal. Rather than serve the food onto the plates, he served everything in bowls at the middle of the table so that they could help themselves. He laid the larger of the two steaks on Dermot’s plate, then joined him at the table. Dermot poured the wine, and the two of them began to eat. After a few mouthfuls, Dermot set his knife and fork against the side of his plate and looked at Erik. Erik glanced up, met his gaze and frowned.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Steak overdone?”

“No,” Dermot shook his head, “it’s perfect.”

“Well, what then?” Erik pressed. “Potatoes?”

“No.”

“It’s not the veggies,” Erik shook his head, “I kept a bloody good eye on ‘em! The sauce?”

“The sauce is incredible.”

“Well? What is it, then?”

“That thing you were doing with the knife,” Dermot nodded towards the cooker hob, “spinning it on the spatula. Where’d you learn that?”

“Oh!” Erik laughed. “Me mam taught me that. She taught me how to cook, to be honest. And me gran taught me baking. What flavours go together, that sort o’ thing. You know I went to art school, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I went to a culinary college first,” Erik explained as he continued to eat. “Bored the shite out o’ me.”

“But you love cooking, Erik,” Dermot frowned.

“Yeah, I know,” Erik shrugged, “but they weren’t teaching me anything I di’n’t already know. So I took to doin’ a bit of the flashy shit like you just saw, ‘n’ they booted me out o’ the course, ‘n’ I moved over to art.”

“You missed a trick there,” Dermot grinned as he chewed on his own food. “This is incredible. Better than I’ve had in a restaurant.”

“Nah,” Erik chuckled, “it ain’t that good.”

“I’m serious, Erik,” Dermot pressed. “This steak is perfect. Me ‘n’ my ex used to go out a lot when we lived in Ireland. She liked all the classy restaurants, and I’m telling you, this is the best steak I’ve had. Ever.”

“Thanks, pal,” Erik smiled, and Dermot saw a hint of blush in the man’s cheeks. “If ya like the steak, you’ll bloody love the cheesecake!”

Description
Redefined Valentine

“Erik… you home?”

Erik heard Dermot’s deep voice and Irish accent call out from the hallway as his tall, red-headed, pipe-smoker of a housemate enter the house. Erik tensed, which was something he hardly ever did, unless he was in the process of setting up a practical joke and was about to be busted before he was ready. That wasn’t the case right now, but he was just as likely to be busted in what he was preparing. He glanced down at his progress, then across the room at the clock that hung on the kitchen wall. It was ten minutes to five in the afternoon and Erik realised that Dermot must have left work early.

“Bollocks,” he muttered under his breath. He’d asked… no, begged their boss to let himself leave work early just so that he could get all of this ready before Dermot got home, and he’d been so close, but it was just his luck that the ever-efficient Irishman would be just as likely to get a ‘flyer’ as he was.

“You there, Erik?”

Dermot called out again. As he came through the door he was hit hard by the aroma of something cooking. It was definitely a physical scent – Dermot was beginning to get used to the other aromas and tastes that he experienced. His empathic power to pick up on other people’s emotions manifested in perceived scents and flavours, some of which he was learning to recognise as being attributed to specific thoughts and feelings. He was also starting to learn how to differentiate between real smells and those that his empathy picked up. The scent in the hallway was most definitely real, because the more gentle scent and taste of chocolate that came with it was the result of Erik’s feelings for Dermot. He also felt a slight prickling sensation, which told him that Erik was up to something… nothing malicious, but he was definitely being secretive.

“Am in t’ kitchen,” Erik called back. “Dinner’ll be ready in a few.” He spun a knife on the palm of his hand absently, then set it down and slapped the end of a spatula on the counter beside him. The spatula spun into the air and he caught it mid-flight, then flipped the two steaks that were frying in the pan in front of him. He jostled the pan to cause the melted clarified butter to coat the top of the steaks, then flipped them again. As he set the spatula down beside the hob his eyes landed on the dessert at the end of the counter.

“Shit!” he hissed. “Why don’t ya go chill in front of the telly, mate?” Erik called out quickly. “I’ll call ya when…”

Too late.

The kitchen door opened and Dermot’s smiling face peeked through the gap.

“You kiddin’ buddy?” Dermot asked. “That smell’s makin’ me mouth water!” He stepped into the kitchen and looked down at the hob. Three pans were set on the hood top, one saucepan was simmering with vegetables, another with a mushroom sauce, and the third – a frying pan - had two lightly-seared steaks sizzling away. “So, what’s the occasion…” Dermot cut himself short as his eyes landed on a raised plate with a glass dome, beneath which was laid a pink cheesecake topped with cream, chocolate shavings, strawberries, and heart-shaped chocolate slices.

Erik glanced up. He saw that Dermot had shed his probably sweat-soaked work shirt, but focused on the quizzical frown that now occupied his face . For his part, Dermot felt the prickly sensation fade instantly, to be replaced by the heavy feeling that usually came with someone else’s tension.

“It ain’t what ya think…” Erik started, then paused as Dermot glanced around the kitchen and saw that the table had already been laid out with plates, cutlery, an open bottle of Malbec, and two wine glasses.

“It’s not?” Dermot asked. Erik’s crush on Dermot was no secret, but it had never manifested itself like this before. They’d been living together for six months now, ever since Dermot’s wife had left him under the pretense of neglect, at least until it had emerged that her pregnancy was not a result of Dermot’s affections, but those of her own infidelity. The recent arrival of his final divorce papers which had severed all ties between them had come as something of a relief to the Irishman, but now he wondered if they might also have triggered this… whatever it was. “So, what is ‘it’, buddy?” Dermot asked.

Erik sighed and slumped his shoulders. His eyes dropped to the steaks in front of him. He picked up the spatula and flipped them again, then flicked the steak knife that laid on the counter into the air. As it fell back down, Erik caught it on the end of the spatula and began to spin the knife on the tip of its blade at the same time as he jostled the pan again to agitate the melted oil.

“See, I know it’s Valentine’s,” Erik said, “but I figured ya wouldn’t be in the mood for that shite…” Dermot’s eyes widened as he watched how easily Erik balanced the knife on the spatula and tended to the steaks in the pan at the same time. He stepped further into the room and around Erik’s back to get a better view. “…So I looked up where Valentine’s comes from. Did ya know it’s one of those Pagan holidays? Lupercalia. Goes all the way back to sixth century B.C. Rome. It’s a fertility festival. They used to sacrifice a goat, or something, soak strips of its skin in blood, then go round slapping women and crops with it.”

“Huh?” Dermot grunted. He was half-listening to the story and half-focused on Erik’s culinary dexterity.

“Yeah, the women di’n’t mind though,” Erik continued, “they saw it as some sort of fertility blessing. Then all the young women put their names in a big pot, and the bachelors of the city pulled names out and paired up with the women for a year.”

“So… what’s that got to do with… this?” Dermot nodded towards the cooking food.

Erik flipped the knife into the air and it landed point-down into one of the steaks. He checked that it and its companion were heated through, then turned off the heat and set the pan aside for the meat to rest. He turned around to face Dermot.

“I figured no-one wants a blood-soaked thong slapped in their face these days, so I went for the next best thing…” he thumbed over his shoulder, “… rare steak. And ya can’t have steak without veggies ‘n’ a good mushroom sauce – I know ya don’t like pepper – and there’s some roasties in the oven.”

Dermot couldn’t help the sensation in his mouth as he almost drooled at the description of the meal. His eyes glanced across to the cheesecake again and he raised a questioning brow.

“Oh, that!” Erik smiled. “Well I know ya like strawberry cheesecake, so I figured I’d make ya one and…”

“You made it?” Dermot asked.

“’Course I did!” Erik replied indignantly. “At least ya know what’s in it when ya make it, not like some of that shop-bought shite! And yeah, sorry about the hearts on it… chocolate’s perfect to go with strawberries but, this time o’ year, these’re the only cake decorations ya can buy. Just think of ‘em as a symbol of the love you’ve got for the future now…” he hesitated, “…now all that bad shit’s over with.”

Dermot locked his eyes with Erik and opened himself to his empathy. He had learned early on, when his power had awoken, how to tell if someone was lying, but he sensed no trace of a lie coming from Erik. All he could sense now was the creamy, custard-like feeling of sincerity, which was followed by his own guilt for doubting his best friend. He broke into a warm smile, then pulled Erik into a warm hug.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said softly.

Erik let the hug linger for a moment, then pushed himself away. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “Enough of that soppy shite… yer steak’ll get cold. Sit yer arse down ‘n’ let me serve up!”

Dermot took a seat at the table while Erik drew the roasted potatoes out of the oven and began to serve the meal. Rather than serve the food onto the plates, he served everything in bowls at the middle of the table so that they could help themselves. He laid the larger of the two steaks on Dermot’s plate, then joined him at the table. Dermot poured the wine, and the two of them began to eat. After a few mouthfuls, Dermot set his knife and fork against the side of his plate and looked at Erik. Erik glanced up, met his gaze and frowned.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Steak overdone?”

“No,” Dermot shook his head, “it’s perfect.”

“Well, what then?” Erik pressed. “Potatoes?”

“No.”

“It’s not the veggies,” Erik shook his head, “I kept a bloody good eye on ‘em! The sauce?”

“The sauce is incredible.”

“Well? What is it, then?”

“That thing you were doing with the knife,” Dermot nodded towards the cooker hob, “spinning it on the spatula. Where’d you learn that?”

“Oh!” Erik laughed. “Me mam taught me that. She taught me how to cook, to be honest. And me gran taught me baking. What flavours go together, that sort o’ thing. You know I went to art school, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I went to a culinary college first,” Erik explained as he continued to eat. “Bored the shite out o’ me.”

“But you love cooking, Erik,” Dermot frowned.

“Yeah, I know,” Erik shrugged, “but they weren’t teaching me anything I di’n’t already know. So I took to doin’ a bit of the flashy shit like you just saw, ‘n’ they booted me out o’ the course, ‘n’ I moved over to art.”

“You missed a trick there,” Dermot grinned as he chewed on his own food. “This is incredible. Better than I’ve had in a restaurant.”

“Nah,” Erik chuckled, “it ain’t that good.”

“I’m serious, Erik,” Dermot pressed. “This steak is perfect. Me ‘n’ my ex used to go out a lot when we lived in Ireland. She liked all the classy restaurants, and I’m telling you, this is the best steak I’ve had. Ever.”

“Thanks, pal,” Erik smiled, and Dermot saw a hint of blush in the man’s cheeks. “If ya like the steak, you’ll bloody love the cheesecake!”