T-Bone - L. Wilder Page 0,17
turned towards the back gate. “I’ll see you around, freckles.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” I rushed over to him. “What about dinner?”
“You don’t have to go to any trouble.”
“But I want to ... you know, as a way to thank you for everything, and maybe you could give me your thoughts on a new French recipe I’ve been putting together for work.”
Beckett thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sure, I’d be up for that. Just name the day and time, and I’ll be there.”
“How about tomorrow night around six?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Great, I’ll see you then.” Once he was gone, I finished cleaning up and went to bed.
The next morning I woke up late, fighting a fog, when I suddenly remembered that I’d invited Beckett over for dinner. I sat up in the bed and started to panic. Damn, I wasn’t the least bit prepared. I had no idea what I was going to cook; I didn’t have any groceries, and I wasn’t even sure if I had enough pots and pans. That thought had me jumping out of bed and rushing into the kitchen. I rummaged through all the cabinets, and the second I found my grandmother’s old cast iron stew pot, I knew exactly what I’d make for Beckett. My Louisiana French-Creole recipe was a family favorite, and with all the crawfish, shrimp, sausage, and corn, I hoped Beckett would love it just as much as they did.
I pulled out the pots and pans I’d need, then made a grocery list. Once I had everything planned out, I raced back to the bedroom, threw on some clothes, then headed to store. Since I didn’t have any of the basics, it took me a while to gather all the items, and by the time I got back to the house and put the groceries away it was already after three.
I knew once I started cooking it would be hard to stop, so I decided to get my shower out of the way. Choosing to keep it simple, I wore a pair of shorts and a t-shirt with my hair pulled up. I put on a little makeup, then rushed into the kitchen to start the creole.
The roux was the most complicated and essential step to my gumbo, so using my grandmother’s pot, I added the butter and flour and got to work. I’d just started getting the roux to where I wanted when there was a knock at the door. I glanced over at the clock and groaned, noticing it was almost six; then I pulled the pot off the burner and went to answer the door. Beckett was standing on my front porch, looking hot as molasses in his black t-shirt and jeans.
“Hey, Beckett. Come on in.” I smiled at him.
He nodded, then followed me into the kitchen and placed a bottle of wine on the counter. “I brought wine.”
“I see that. Thanks.” I motioned my hand at the huge mess. “I’m sorry. I’m running a little behind.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Would you mind dicing up some onion, a red pepper, and the celery?”
“Sure.” He went over to the sink and washed his hands, then opened a couple of cabinets until he found the cutting board. I started working on the stock while he got busy dicing. After several minutes, he asked, “So, what are we making?”
“Gumbo.”
“Seriously?” he asked, sounding pleasantly surprised. “I haven’t had gumbo in months.”
“So you like it?”
Beckett chuckled as he stuck his belly out and ran his hand over it. “Can’t you tell? There aren’t many things I don’t like.”
“Hush. You look great.”
“If you say so.” I continued to stir the stock as he asked, “You mentioned that you’ve been cooking since you were a kid, right?”
“Yeah, or maybe I should say that I started trying when I was just a kid. It took some time before I was any good at it.” I glanced over my shoulder and smiled. “What about you? Do you like to cook?”
“I guess you could say I know my way around the kitchen, but I don’t really cook all that often.” He shrugged. “Just don’t have the time.”
“So, what do you do with your free time?”
“I don’t get much of that, but when I do, I usually take the bike out. Do a little riding with a couple of the brothers. Usually head down to the lake or just spend the day checking out the back roads.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“You should come with us sometime,” Beckett offered.
“I would really like