Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,37
head from cocking in curiosity. “Impressed I know that?”
“No.” She tries to hide the evidence by beginning the activity. “You probably know a lot of things and just aren’t given ample opportunities to showcase it due to people like me who don’t know how to not explain things because we’re so used to doing it as a defense mechanism.” The knife touches the outside of the green fruit. “What are you making? And please don’t say something that involves raw fish like ceviche.”
Another mindless personal fact is given. “I’m more likely to make Aguachile than ceviche.”
Blake’s gaze lifts back to mine. “Aguachile?”
“It’s a Mexican dish with raw shrimp submerged in a wet mixture of lime juice and cilantro and onions and cucumbers and sometimes avocado…” It’s impossible not to groan over the way my mouth starts to water. “Fuck, I haven’t made that in years…”
Repulsion scrunches her face to comical levels.
“You’re not adventurous at all when it comes to food, are you?”
“Why would I be? One wrong combination and the results can be detrimental.”
“Considering the fact, you have no known food allergies, I believe you’re being overdramatic.”
“And I think there’s nothing wrong with maintaining a safe, stable diet you are already aware of your reactions to. Body chemistry can be a quite fickle thing. I explain this to my brother every time he makes me have Thai food or Crème brûlée.”
“Crema catalana is better.”
“I don’t…,” her head shakes in confusion, prompting our stares to connect again, “I don’t know what that is.” She doesn’t pause to allow me a chance to inform her. “Tell me what that is.”
“It’s a dessert that’s similar. It actually dates back in cooking history further than Crème brûlée or at least that’s what the food blogger I took on three dates said.”
The tiny piece of jewelry is played with in response, poorly concealing her unhappiness over the detail.
“Crema Catalana is made with milk and corn starch while the other is made from cream. Crema Catalana also has flavors of orange, lemon, and cinnamon as opposed to vanilla.”
“That’s too many flavors,” Blake denies on another disapproving headshake. “Too many changing variables to juggle. How would I know if it was the orange or the lemon or the cinnamon that upset my stomach? And recipes change from restaurant to restaurant-”
“Person to person to be more accurate.”
“-so, what if the one from restaurant A had too much lemon causing it to leave too much tang in my mouth between bites, but restaurant B got the right amount of lemon yet not enough orange and I no longer get the intended result the dessert wanted me to? Food is just like any other experiment, you know. Even the slightest change can have catastrophic effects.”
“Okay, I won’t go completely rogue, and start whipping up dishes I’m unfamiliar with, but you should prepare yourself to start documenting notes regarding your body’s response to the meals we have because I’m in charge of cooking and refuse to make the same thing over and over and over again.”
She sneers to herself yet doesn’t verbally object.
I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad thing.
I honestly just hope it’s not a she hates me thing.
About fifteen minutes later, the two of us are sitting beside one another at the kitchen bar top, in front of a colorful assortment that I’m clearly proud of, and she’s openly frightened by.
“It’s just Carne Asada, Blake.” Pushing the serving plate in her direction, I attempt to lighten the mood, “Steak, seasoned and cooked with a little Mexican flare.”
Her apprehension remains along with her death grip on the fork she’d holding.
“Do you not like Mexican food?”
“I do.”
“Let me guess…Cheese enchiladas?”
The woman I swear I’m going to give a heart attack as much as she is me, snaps her head in my direction. “What’s wrong with that? They’re essentially the same ingredients everywhere you go. Cheese. Tortilla. Red sauce. And while the sauce slightly shifts from place to place, I have learned if you ask for it on the side, it’s easier to adjust to the differences or not have to experience any if you do not want to.”
Bafflement and amusement engage in a small skirmish to decide which should rule my expression.
“Can you make cheese enchiladas?”
“Are you asking me do I know how to make them or if I will scrap this meal that I worked hard on for the last two hours to make those for you instead?”
Blake throws one leg over the other, toes brushing against