Dishing Up Love

“Perfect,” Curtis murmurs, his voice like butter. “I’d like to point out that this is smoked andouille sausage. If you don’t have this available in your area, any smoked sausage will work. This one has a little kick to it, so if you don’t like things spicy, you can always use any other smoked sausage you prefer.”

As he takes hold of the onion, I hurry over to the refrigerator to grab another cutting board off the top, knowing he’ll probably try to make me cut the evil tear-inducing vegetable myself. That ain’t happening. Instead, I choose the bell pepper from out of the lineup of ingredients, pull out another knife, and try to imitate the way he’s dicing… on the opposite end of the island, as far away from the onion as possible.

I see his grin even though he tries to hide it. He’s so tall even ducking his head can’t disguise it from my shorter height. He knows exactly what I’m doing, but again, he shows mercy and doesn’t make me cut the onion. He’s finished dicing it in warp speed, before I’m even halfway done with the bell pepper.

“Bowls?” he asks, running his pointer finger along the flat sides of the knife to clear off the remaining pieces of onion before setting it down.

My head nudges toward the cupboard above the microwave. “Bottom shelf of that cabinet.”

He opens the white wooden cabinet door and collects several bowls we usually use for ice cream. When he comes back to the island, he scoops the onions into one bowl, the sausage into another, and then begins to chop up the green onion. He’s starting on the celery as I finally finish with my bell pepper. It took me even longer because I kept stopping to watch with fascination how effortless he made it all look. If I tried to do it as fast as him, there would be a little part of me in every dish, and I don’t mean a figurative piece of my heart.

I couldn’t even catch what he does with the little bulbs of garlic. One second they looked like the fake white roots in net bags they have hanging around Italian restaurants for decorations, and the next, they look like off-white almonds. And then he took the flat of the knife and smashed them before mincing it all up.

“I didn’t even know you could use a knife like that,” I say, my face contorted in puzzlement, I’m sure.

“You’d be surprised all the different ways you can use kitchen utensils, other than their normal purpose,” he murmurs, a teasing smile lifting one corner of his lips as his eyes meet mine for a split second, long enough for me to catch the naughty gleam in them.

Visions of him spanking me with a spatula immediately come to mind, followed up by a weird one of him moving a rolling pin up and down my back. I shake my head. Obviously, I’m not creative enough to come up with anything remotely sexy the way he seems to be able to, if the chuckle he tries to hide is any indication.

Just then, the Instant Pot goes off, letting us know the NPR is finished. “Now, we just press the Cancel button, and we can open the lid safely.” He pushes the button, and then he carefully lifts the lid. “Drain, and then they’re ready to cook.” Which he does, pouring the beans in a bigger bowl I set on the counter for him.

“Next, we set this bad boy in the Sauté mode. We’re going to brown the sausage in two tablespoons of vegetable oil.” At that instruction, I hand him the little set of measuring spoons connected together with a plastic ring, but he winks at me, shaking his head. “What kind of teacher would I be if I did all the work for you? The rest is all you, sugar.”

My nose scrunches up as I pout. “Fiiine,” I drawl, grabbing the bottle of vegetable oil and filling the largest of the measuring spoons before dumping it in the pot. I take the bowl of sausage we cut up, and put that in as well. When I go to close the lid, he stops me.

“We don’t have to close it just to brown the meat. We leave it in for about five minutes, continuously moving it around so it gets cooked evenly,” he explains. “When that’s done, we’ll use a slotted spoon to remove just the sausage, leaving all those delicious juices in the bottom of the pot for our other ingredients to cook in.”

No one could ever describe me as graceful if all they had to go by was watching me brown the meat inside the pot. I am pretty proud I don’t spill anything or burn myself when I move the sausage from the pot to the bowl though.