Short Fiction--The Guy Next Door: Part 1

Here's the bottom line, the low down, the absolute truth of the matter. I LOVE to cook. 

I always used to say it was because I'm ethnic. I blame that on my propensity to hug strangers, too. But, eh', what can I say? I gesticulate, I hug, and I cook. There you have it.

Barefoot, with loud music, and a breeze streaming through the open window. My tiny kitchen Buddhas on the shelf above the sink holding out their eggs and chubby bellies. I have things set out in baskets and spin one way to grab a bit of that and then back 'round again for a snitch of this. Splashing sauce on the wall and dropping chunks all over the floor, piling pots and bowls and utensils into the porcelain sink, knowing that my own private sous chef will someday arrive. Ah, such joy! Truly. Bliss.

Part of why I love living in the subtropics is that I can grow stuff. Stuff being the oh so necessary piles of herbs that I tend to toss into most everything. Stuff also being chilies and greens, berries and beans, and a whole host of other random stuff. 

And flowers. I do love my tables with a touch of color.

Hadn't cooked for several years. Not like I used to when the children were home and toddling hungrily around my kitchen, growing way too fast for my own good. Then I became the caretaker of my mother and her husband. And, it all came back.

I mean, I HAVE cooked over the years; I DO eat. Just, differently when alone than when I have someone to cook for.

So, yes, I cook with an opulence of herbs and spice, and oh yes, wine and cheese and chocolate. Because, I deserve it, I say. So do they, I say. Robust flavors and all around delectable decadence. Brownies for breakfast; breakfast for dinner. 

He calls me a Kitchen Goddess. Tells me I should write a book. About cooking, or some such. 

I tell him to hush that nonsense and to eat. 

He does, but stares at me as if I were floating above the floor with a glowing halo. 

I shrug it off as I wipe my hands on my apron and sit down to watch him enjoy what it is I've cooked. 

Him being the guy next door (GND) for whom I also cook. I prep for Miss Grace as well. I've got everybody on this diet and they are shedding pounds by the dozens. My mother's lost thirty, step dad twenty, and GND--he's not telling.

Know why not? He cheats. Yup, when I'm not looking. So does Miss Grace, only she—at 80-- doesn't care if I know it. They're now behind on their weight loss program and want to catch up so are begging to be let back on the band wagon. 

I'm nice so said, "Yes".