with the intention of creating an actual meal was as scary as the thirty-foot-drop ride they’d gone on in Japan.
“If I cut my fingers off, you’re going to have to explain to the band why I can’t play guitar anymore,” Miki warned, picking up the knife. “And maybe to Edie too. And the record label guys.”
“Well, don’t ye be cutting your fingers, because while I could take them on, I’m more afraid of what my bride would do to me,” Donal replied, chuckling. There was a warmth to his laugh, a gravitas mingling humor with comfort. Miki liked that Kane laughed as his father did, a low roll of thunder spiced with a bit of joy and sometimes teasing.
The teasing was the hardest thing to get used to.
Damien seemed to get the knack of it, but for all of his years on the road with the Sinners boys, Miki never quite got the hang of poking fun at others and himself. It felt mean, even though other people seem to enjoy it, and there’d been a few times when Miki sat in the middle of the Morgans’ living room and the mood shifted around him, going back to normal when Donal cleared his throat and everyone found something else to do.
Donal’s teasing was out in the open and never meant to make Miki feel small. Maybe that’s what he really didn’t like about being poked at. There’d been too many years where he’d been shoved into a tiny space and told to be invisible, or worse, told he didn’t matter at all.
“Does it have to be, like, squares? Or does it matter?” Miki poked at a piece of chicken, wondering if he should take the skin off as well. “And do I just cut it up? Like, do you want the skin?”
“Yer making it too hard on yourself there, son.” Donal leaned over to take a peek at the rice. “Skin on or off is fine. However you want to make it.”
“I just don’t want it to be wrong.” Miki scowled at the mound of cooked chicken in front of him. “Food’s a big thing. They’re always giving me shit about how I eat. I just don’t want to fuck this up.”
“That’s not going to happen. That’s the best part about fried rice,” Donal remarked, cracking an egg into a glass bowl. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, because it’s made out of everything ye have the refrigerator. It’s kind of like an omelet.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how to make those either.” He shook his head. “Kane makes them sometimes. Like, he takes a couple of eggs and pulls crap out of the fridge; then all of a sudden we’ve got this five-course meal with hot biscuits and these perfect half-moon egg things on everybody’s plates.”
“Well now, that’s just him showing off, then.” A few more eggs joined the first one in the bowl; then Donal added a dollop of water from a nearby cup. “Hand me that fork there, will ye? It’s time to add the eggs.”
“Shit, I’m not done chopping up the meat.” After handing Donal a fork, Miki began to diligently separate the chicken from the bones.
“Take yer time. See? The eggs just go on top of the cooking rice, and then let that sit for a while.” Donal made sure Miki’s attention was on the pan as he poured the beaten eggs slowly around the skillet. “Just finish up what ye’ve got and we’ll toss it in after the vegetables. Then we’ll broil the short ribs. Those will go fast, and the rice will keep in the oven under the warmer.”
He finished the chicken and then the bacon, tossing them all into a bowl before handing it over to Donal. There was a space on the counter he’d been told he could sit on, a controversial decision protested by the Morgan siblings, since they hadn’t been allowed to do so growing up. Being overruled first by Donal and then Brigid, there was a tiny storm of grumbles, but Miki was assured the rest of the family would simply have to adjust.
Although he did notice Ryan had been promptly told to get off the counter when she’d tried to sit up there.
Miki nearly breathed a sigh of relief when Donal turned the rice over with the spatula. He watched attentively when Donal showed him the crackle, then leaned back on his hands. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ye can ask me anything. Ye know that, Mick.” Donal continued