Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Like Apple Pie, Sexy Apple Pie



Quartermain liked to cook. In fact, I would say the way in which he described cooking took it from something one does for enjoyment and turned it into a sex act. Andlike so many of us in Koreahe did not have an oven.

It just so happened that I had an oven, and by some bizarre twist of fate I actually had two ovens, one of which was portable and I was not using. At some time around Christmas I offered the oven and it was accepted, and it only took about two weeks to actually remember to make sure the oven left the house with him.

After which, of course, I had to take him to the bakery goods supply shop to outfit him for cooking in the oven.

"I insist you keep me from spending too much money. Oh crap. What is that? I must have that! Oh, and that! Shiny. Fuck!"

Needless to say, since I was an enabler, I did not stop Quatermain from spending way too much money on baking goods. The consequence of which was now I had to see his goddamn pastry photos all the time.

"You know, I just made a French tart."

"That is not the kind of thing you can make and not share. All French tarts must be passed around."

"Are you demanding my tart?"

"Bring it to dinner and we'll all have some."

The verdict on the tart was that it was awesomely delicious. What I did not realize was that it was also a type of quichemaking it basically poison to me. Being adventurous anyway, I tried a bit of the crust. And had an asthma attack for the trouble. However, I declared it delicious.

"Haven't seen you in about a week. How about I come over tonight? I'll bring two flank steaks."

"Do so; the Irish will be pleased."

"That's right; you don't eat steak."

"Shouldn't stop you from coming over."

"All right, I'll bring pie."

Dammit.

No one seriously respected the fact that I was low carb. Or at least, there had been a lot of disregard over the last month. Bastards, all of those cake-slinging bastards, all of them. And so it was that I spent a dinner sitting around our smallish dining table with the Irish, Quatermain and an apple pie. Granted, my piece was not as large as the boys', but in the end I admit I ate the hell out of that fucking pie. I ate that pie so hard that the look on my face went from one of a simple dining experience to one where the watching boys probably would have preferred I had excused myself from the table to have such a private moment. I ate that pie like a starving person would eat a peanut. I ate that pie like eating pie was the culmination of the best sex ever conceived in the history of man. I got down on that pie.

This is what comes of giving British men ovens and pointing out the baking goods supply store.

It was worth it.

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