DQ Ch. 02: Dangerous Recipes

DQ stands for Deviant Quickies, which will be a series of loosely related quick-and-dirty stories that explore the limits of the plausible (and very often exceed these) to provide you with wild narratives, while I work on the longer, hopefully more literary submissions that I have been promising for a while. And keep promising. They will come. Some day.

Also, I am very grateful for all your previous (and sometimes critical) comments. I try to incorporate these, so feel free to share your thoughts.

For those who are new to the series: all you have to know is that the man and the woman make up dirty stories together that take shape in reality as they write them down. As to the dove... Well, you better not look at it!

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A man and a woman still sit at a large, wooden desk. They have just opened another book, its pages still blank and promising stories yet untold.

The man still looks shocked after the first chain of events he and his companion had unleashed earlier. When was it? How long ago, one cannot say, as time is meaningless in their world of text where everything ever told is present all at once, until a reader comes along to once more revive the characters frozen stiff on the pages depicting their fate.

The woman still holds a stylus as she comes to life. She is bending over the paper, in confusion of how abruptly she had ended her previous narrative. Perhaps it would be better to stop... But she knows it has already begun, once more, and she cannot resist starting all over again, conjuring up new worlds, new plots, new vices to be explored.

As the man sees it happening in her eyes, he reaches to take the stylus from her. Perhaps to help her, as he senses her doubt about whether she should write another story, perhaps to avoid launching into another tale. But she quickly pulls her hand away.

"Let me start this time," she says. "I have already seen a beginning."

It becomes silent in the room, and the man just looks at her intently, he observes how her eyes graze the yet empty pages as if she sees the flowers of events bloom before her. A certain solemnity is in the air, a tinge of religious expectations of something extraordinary to happen. Especially the man is sensitive to hopes for the higher, and he would love to burn incense while the woman and he set down to work to create the corresponding atmosphere.

Surely, there is some magic in writing, but let the reader not hope for too much. This spiritual attitude only displays the ignorance of the man and the woman, as they do not yet know what will follow, and how ridiculous their stern faces will appear once their story once more gets off the tracks.

Those who have read these words before and have followed them to their end to return to this beginning now will surely agree. Perhaps you will start to feel a sense of doubt in the skill of these two narrators, and perhaps you will wonder who it is then who is addressing you right now in this very sentence... But I am running ahead of myself.

"What do you see?" the man asks. He is curious again, even though he still feels drained from the last story.

"I see... American suburbia. Large house. Lawns. Normal people. A bit burgeois, perhaps. It is autumn and the beautiful maple leaves lie scattered on the streets. A mother."

"A son?" he cannot refrain from asking.

The woman laughs. "Well, yes. But for once, no incest. I hope to keep the son out of this. But, to reassure you, I see enough other interesting things. I see a romance, I see adultery, I see a fall from grace. Enough to suit your interests, I hope."

This answer seems to please the man enough for now. He takes a tooth pick from the pocket in his shirt and plays with it, as he leans back and watches the words that the woman jots down unfold into lively scenes before his eyes.

It had taken quite a bit of rhetoric, but our mothers had convinced Llewyn, Jim, and me to tag along to a cooking course where we would learn to prepare a traditional Louisiana dish. Now, none of us three were particularly interested in cooking, in contrast to our mothers who had been part of the same cooking club for ages.

Cheesy as it was, every month they dedicated to another country and then made dish particular to it. The result was that they never really developed any skill in one culinary tradition, so that they had made average sushi, below average tortilla's, and a sauerkraut that was way too sour for any self-respecting German. But they were so enthusiastic about it, that we could not help but support them. Usually, we three would join in for the dinners and pretend to really like whatever our moms had concocted this time.

Especially now that we had graduated and were working, I often talked to my friends about our moms, because we felt sorry for them. They were into the second half of their forties and did not really have that much of a perspective ahead of them. None of them worked. They had given birth to us at a really young age, after which they dedicated themselves to raising us and leaving room for our fathers to make a career. And when our fathers did, they were away from home so often that our mothers had little to do in these empty hours that started to pile up. Their cooking club was their solace in a way, and although it made me cringe at times, especially when they dressed up as what they imagined the people to wear in the country that was the theme of the month - I have seen sombrero's... and Lederhosen... - I was glad that our moms had something like this to do.

"I am just glad that my mother knows your moms," Llewyn said one night, as we were chilling out on a beach near the river, "because she is so insecure. She really looks up to them, and she is very glad to go out and do stuff with them. Especially to your Mom, Rick."

I nodded. I had realized this. Llewyn's mom was called Evelyn, a red head with curly hair, had worked in their own bed and breakfast, before her husband had sold it. Now she often hosted dinners and evenings for my mom and Jim's mom. She really made something out of it, and I was sure that this was in a way to lure the two into friendship. Evelyn never said so explicitly, but even as a child I observed something in her movements, something stressed. Strangely, her demeanor reminded me of a bit of a young stray dog I had once seen in a Spanish city, who always watched intently what the passer's by were doing, and who sprang up the moment any of them as much as glanced at him.

"Yeah, it gives them something to do, sure does," Jim added as he lit a cigarette in his iconic disinterested style. His physique was the most powerful of us three, as he worked in construction. Even though he had finished a bachelor in physics, he had opted for hard, physical work in the literal sense. This had given more satisfaction, he told us, than crunching numbers at a desk.

Jim's mom, Carol, did not seem to have a strong will of her own at all. She just tagged along wherever my mom went. I remember one day when she followed mom after they had had coffee, even when mom went into the barber shop and did her groceries. If Evelyn was a stray dog, Carol resembled a young duck chick. She just walked behind mom, chatting, even when mom had stopped paying attention to what she was saying. Both of them seemed fine with this constellation, which struck me as highly remarkable. But anyway, I do not mean to sound too derisive.

Carol was a sweet heart. She was the kind of mom that always had a tray of freshly baked cookies ready whenever we played there as kids. Later, when my girl friend broke up with me, I chanced into Carol on my way home: she invited me into the house, and we sat and drank tea for hours. When I returned home, I felt so much better already. Bless her.

Anyway, from what I have told, you probably already know that my mom seems to be the center of attention for these three. I never really knew what made it so, as mom is not overly dominant or a real leader-type. I guess she just has that happy-go-lucky vibe that makes people want to hang out with her, without expecting her to take the initiative. Even though mom has not made a career at all, nor is she a local celebrity, she seems to be a role model for Evelyn and Carol. When mom takes up jogging, they do too. When mom starts a cooking club, they want to be in it. They just can't get enough of her, it seems.

And rightly so, and rightly so! I love my mother a lot, she is caring and sweet. She has always been there for me, and she has talked me through a lot of crises. A lot of them! As a teenager, mom was there to explain to me how I could meet girls. As a student, she advised me to pull through with my beloved Karen, my fiance, when I was about to break up with her. Still so glad I didn't. And after I had graduated, she basically helped me find a job, by pointing me to a vacancy at the chemical concern I now work in. Mom has dedicated a large part of her life to me, with a patience that I find admirable.

There was this one time when mom and I did a Spanish course together. There I saw something of her magic happening. She tried so hard at everything she did, but it seemed to go effortless at the same time. Before long, she had memorized her lists of vocab much better than me, and she was impressing the Spanish teacher, the one with a triangle of manly breast hair peeking out of his camisa , after which I had to sit by an awkward row of indirect flirting. The better mom did, the more she tried hard to look like it went without effort, the more the teacher was intrigued with her. After twelve weeks the class ended. I could barely introduce myself in Spanish, still accidentally saying that had Rick rather than that I was called Rick. Mom was already able to make hotel reservations, and I was sure that the teacher would not have mind to extend his role play beyond class. No chance.

Like I said, I felt bad for our mothers too. Evelyn had an extremely busy husband, that had forced her, more or less, to sell her bed and breakfast, but had not given her any opportunity for fulfillment in another way. She just seemed to wait through life now, as if she were sitting a bus stop for a bus that would never come. Carol had never even worked, and though she was so kind, with Jim out of the house that got her nothing. As to mom, I think she had trouble accepting that she was aging and that she never become 'someone'. When she was younger, her own parents had pushed her so hard, telling her she was special, that she would be seen by the world, but as a response, mom seemed to have let go of all ambitions. True, she slaved at Spanish classes, which she dropped after twelve weeks, and she tried to cook delicious dishes. But once she married dad, who is rich, she just leaned back and let her life pass by on a deeper level.

That night at the beach, Jim, Llewyn, and I determined to do something more for our mothers. There had to be something we could make them happy with. Little did we know that we would so soon be joining them in a cooking course. This was, perhaps, strangest for Jim, who never cooked for himself at all. The thought of him in an apron would have made me laugh so hard. And yet, there we were, a month later, after Llewyn had asked his mother with what he would make her happy with. Apparently, it was her deep wish that we would share in this experience with them. When mom heard of the plan, it was as good as settled - Carol, of course, didn't need to be consulted.

Now at first, we had not been invited. Our moms had hoped to somehow get our dads to join them. Part of the cooking experience involved that men and women prepared parts of the meal separately, and the recipes of those parts were strictly secret for those of the other sex. Usually, it were husband and wife that took on those responsibilities. But, predictably, our dads had been too busy. And when our moms asked us, I felt like we couldn't really say no.

To be honest, it was mostly due to me that we had accepted. Llewyn and Jim had reservations - Jim never cooked, he always took dinner out or had it ordered home - but I had wanted to cheer up Mom a bit, who seemed to have been lonely after I had left the house for college when I had turned eighteen, already three years ago. Our mothers had been absolutely delighted.

This brings us to the moment when we were waiting in the kitchen where we had to prepare our male-part of the meal. The evening in a lousy neighborhood center had started with the cook explaining us the overall procedure. He was a lively guy with a stubble beard, around forty. I could tell that our mothers tried to impress him by listing all the kinds of things that they had already prepared in their cooking club. The man was pretty good at veining surprise and admiration, even at dishes as plain as taco's, but a certain boredom lingered in his grey eyes. He reminded me of a cat in a way. But enough with all the animal metaphors already.

After we had gone through the shared instructions, the cook delegated our mothers to another room where they would start on their part of the work. Mom squeezed my arm when she moved out, and winced her eyes to express her gratitude for us being here. Evelyn and Carol chatted loudly as they followed mom, and the gaggle slowly moved out of the kitchen. I followed them with my eyes. They still looked so lively.

Evelyn wore a flowery dress, that fell tightly around her motherly curves, and the flowers danced on the yellow of the fabric as she moved. Her red hair stood out in extreme contrast to the dress' color, but that gave a cute and girlish effect. She seemed so helpless too, the way her shoulders stooped slightly, the way she nervously glanced at the other women. I felt sorry, as I always did when looking at her, that she was not more secure. I mean, she actually was rather pretty, with her cute orange freckles on her small, intelligent face.

Carol was a bit more plump than Evelyn, but she just was such a warm person that I could imagine men would find her attractive still. I saw the cook glance subtly at her jeans that stretched across her enormous ass, and I couldn't blame him for it. She wore a tight shirt, that pressed up her boobs into an impressive cleavage, that had often haunted my mind's eye during the night when we were teenagers. On a first glance, you would probably think that Carol was the smart one, as she wore glasses with a thick frame under her brown hairs that made her look like an art teacher or a researcher even. When she opened her mouth, one was soon freed from such expectations.

My mom wore a knitted vest over her tight, black shirt - Carol had, of course, copied the habit of wearing shirts from mom. Mom thought that these shorts gave her a sporty look, a bit tough even. Perhaps she was right. I just wished she wouldn't wear them so openly though, as men generally couldn't stop staring at her cleavage which was almost as impressive as that of Carol's, although mom's breasts were a bit smaller. Mom wore her blonde hairs in a pony tail, and I would not have been surprised if you would have thought that she had served in the police or the army. However, her good-naturedness emanated strongly from her face, and as with Carol, expelled this wrong first impression. It was impossible for mom to hurt anyone.

The ladies had finally left the kitchen. Meanwhile, we waited in the room filled with cooking gear in stainless steel that shone as if it had just been polished, even in the broken light of the flickering light bulb. An airco hummed lazily. Llewyn and Jim stood about idly, bored. Jim was playing with a bit of aluminium foil that he had found on the counter, which he rolled up to a tube, and unfolded it again. He kept repeating this, as Llewyn and I sought for something to say to entertain Jim. Somehow it was always like this. If Jim was grumpy, Llewyn and I drew on all tricks we knew to get him interested again. When the cook finally came in, we looked up in anticipation.

"Fellows," he said, "I am looking forward to getting started. You will have to prepare for this dish mentally first. As you know this is a very traditional way of cooking, and I need you to draw on all your manly energy."

I cringed a bit as he pumped his fists to illustrate the word 'manly'. His eyes stared down on us in turns. I realized why his gaze reminded me of cats. There was the boredom you'd see in cats that play with their prey...

"To stimulate this energy, I have six secret peppers for you here. Eat these whole, seeds and all. They are very expensive so be sure no to waste anything." He handed each of us two peppers, they were green and small. "I will return in five minutes, when the energy should be working for you."

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "You don't actually think that we believe this crap, right?'

The cook replied, as he walked out of the kitchen: "Just give it a go, fellow. Just give it a go."

Llewyn and Jim looked at the peppers with great suspicion. "What is this New-Age crap?" Jim wanted to know.

"Just play along, dude," Llewyn replied, "it's for our mothers. Maybe these will fill us with testosterone or something. Might be fun." And he started to chew on the first pepper. Jim followed suit, and me too.

The taste was sweet, sweeter still than a paprika. But when I swallowed it, I felt a weird sensation in my stomach, as if a tension was building in the lower part of my body. Jim and Llewyn felt it too by the looks of it.

"Ah man, this thing is making my stomach ache. Let's throw the other one away," Llewyn said.

"No, let's not," I remarked. "Remember that he just said how expensive they are? I don't know what he'll do if he'll find them stuffed in the bin."

Jim was not impressed and already opened to trash can to throw his second one away.

"You know what?" I said. "Just give yours to me, I don't really dislike the sensation. And it was me who put pressure on you to come her anyway." And so they gave their peppers to me. With each pepper the tension built further, but it didn't get uncomfortable. It felt like an energy that I just had to release somehow.

As we waited, we started to make ourselves more comfortable in the empty kitchen too. Llewyn opened random drawers, where the strangest spices were hidden in dusty containers. Gochugaro. Larissa. Some Japanese stuff. He took them out, turned them about to read the ingredients and placed them back with a scoff.

On one of the counters there were screwed some firm leather straps, wide enough to tie an arm, perhaps even an entire leg to the counter. They were placed three in a row, and where they were, the kitchen counter made a curve, making notches large enough for people to sit in if chairs were placed there.

"What are they for?" Llewyn asked about the straps. "Never seen them in a kitchen before..."

"I don't know." I had to admit. "They look like straps to perhaps tie a large piece of meat that needs to be prepared or something. I don't eat meat so I wouldn't know, though. You ever seen this, Jim?"

Jim had rolled the piece of aluminum to a long pick-like tube. "It looks like you could tie a person to the counter. Maybe the cook uses this as a kind of crazy sex chamber."

We laughed. The very idea of it...

Meanwhile, the cook had gone to a small office next to the kitchen. Through a window he observed our movements closely, even when we weren't aware that he was watching us. He saw how I ate the others' peppers, and this made him smile and chuckle softly. Intently, he picked up the telephone that hung on the wall and dialed a number.

The phone rings.

"What the..." the man begins.

The man and the woman sit there, dumb struck, looking at the ringing phone, as if they see water burn.

Startled, finally, the woman slowly walks to to the phone and picks it up. Her eyes fixate on the man, as if she is requesting his aid. "Hello?" she says into the phone. A creaky voice replies through its speaker.