Baewatch - Xavier Neal Page 0,67
disgust. “Sin.”
“Grandmother…” Brooklyn sweetly coos in a way that makes the feisty woman back down.
She is the only one who can do that shit.
To everyone.
Self, included.
Darius redirects the conversation back to her original question, “Ax is here early for us to share with him the secret family tradition to perfecting it.”
“Yup,” Fredrick concurs, rising to his feet. “Gonna show the boy how to properly sauce the meat, something your father still messes up.”
“Thanks for that, Fred,” her dad grumbles as he stands as well. “Come on, Ax. Let’s put you to work.”
“Who knows, maybe I’ll even let ya hold the fork,” Fredrick lightly chuckles. “Something Darius couldn’t be trusted to do when he was first learning.”
“And, again,” Darius huffs at the playful nagging, “thank you for that, too, Fred.”
I chortle, hop up, plant a passionate but brief kiss on the lips of the woman I hope to call my wife someday, and follow the two of them across the house for the back door, their arguments now sounding like their wives a second ago.
Outside on the corner of the patio across from a small seating area is where the charcoal grill is located. I’ve been fortunate enough up until this point to just sit over there and let Kora ruffle my hair while she tells me what a handsome young soul I am. According to them, manning the meat is not a responsibility they just share with strangers.
It’s a rite of passage.
My rite of passage into their family.
Scrubbing the cooking area isn’t hard work; however, maneuvering my way around the three women occupying the somewhat small kitchen as they fuss over sides and seasonings is a little more difficult. Having to repeat the obstacle course to retrieve the sauce, the spices, and the needed utensils all on separate trips for their sheer amusement, strangely enough, doesn’t annoy me.
Again.
Feels more like an official welcome to the family style of hazing.
Information on how to handle different types of meat comes out simultaneously from both men. One discusses pork while the other does lamb then one drones on and on about chicken at the same time the other lectures about fish. Neither seems to care that they’re not necessarily getting to have my full attention or that I’m getting whiplash from rapidly swinging my head back and forth.
What I do manage to gather from everything I’m told – in between them dropping the grub on the rack – is relatively simple.
The one who holds the spoon controls the sauce.
The one who holds the fork controls the cooking.
The one who holds both is the idiot who stayed behind while the other two went to get and enjoy ice cold beers.
Using the pronged utensil, I attempt to flip the baby lamb chop that’s closest to the edge only to have it nearly escape the heated confines I’m supposed to be governing. I cringe over my sloppiness seconds prior to flinching over the abrupt roar of flames underneath the food.
Huh.
Why do I get the feeling it shouldn’t be doing that?
“Ot-oh,” my girlfriend’s voice playfully sings. “You over an open flame?”
I meet her mirth-filled gaze as she arrives at my side.
“Should I go grab the fire extinguisher? Put the fire department on standby?”
“If you’re gonna highlight my shame, at least get me a beer first so I have something to wash it down with.”
Brooklyn snickers and pulls her wavy hair to the side of her face. “They left you here in the deep end to drown, huh?”
“Basically.” Humor hops into my stare. “Is that why you came over? Lifeguard senses were tingling?”
“It’d be the fourth time today…” She solemnly mutters and steals a glance of the meal I’m potentially ruining. All of a sudden, she switches the fork from my grip to hers and coos, “Oh, no, bae. You can’t have them angled like this.” Brooklyn gingerly begins to reposition them piece by piece. “Chops and skewers need slightly different amounts of love. Chops are solo and skewers have vegetables that have to be considered. Last thing you want is the cherry tomatoes losing all their flavoring…”
“Isn’t that what the BBQ sauce is for?”
The sarcastic look I’m tossed hurts more than the burn I got on my thumb during the cooking lesson.
“Why am I not surprised you can BBQ?” I lovingly tease, hand curling around her lower waist needing her more connected to me than she has been since her arrival.
“Because you’ve met me and my family and know how to use context clues to deduce the