Mothers and Daughters Ch. 06

While Lisa was snoozing, Melissa was riding back to the ranch from the diversion point along with Iturri. Sam and Luke had stayed behind to check a couple of additional details on their planned reconstruction. As they rode along Iturri chatted with Melissa about growing up in the Basque country. He was raised in the mountains near Pamplona where his family tended sheep on someone else's ranch, much like the wranglers working for Luke tended his cattle. After high school he had learned to cook in Pamplona and then come to the US with the support of an uncle born and raised on a sheep ranch in Northern Nevada (like a number of second-generation Basque immigrants, the uncle was now a successful banker in Reno). Once in the US, green card in hand, Iturri had found work as a cook in Boise. He was proud of his Basque heritage but also of his recent naturalization as an American citizen. Reverend Christensen and his wife Julia had helped him prepare for the test.

He became a great deal more excited when Melissa asked him about the meal he would prepare for them. "Oh it will be fantastic, but it will take all afternoon to prepare, and you will help me of course."

Sure, why not, thought Melissa, as she nodded to Iturri.

"Like all Basque meals there will be lots of red wine. I hope I have enough. I have a couple of gallon jugs I picked up in Idaho at one of the Sunny Slope wineries on my way to Jordan Valley after that fascist in Boise fired me."

"Why was that," Melissa asked.

"Absolutely," Itturi growled. "In the old country his grandparents were Nationalist pigs siding with Franco."

"No," Melissa said, wanting to avoid a long harangue about a civil war fought 80 years ago. "I meant why did he fire you?"

Iturri laughed. "He caught me porking his wife in the cooler of the restaurant. Not my fault. She wanted what I had to offer, and it was going to be very quick. It was cold in that cooler."

Melissa laughed. "I'll bet it got a good deal warmer when her husband walked in."

"Actually I did finish, but I don't think she did. Her husband's screaming and yelling spoiled her concentration and perhaps that chef's knife he was brandishing didn't help her either."

"That would spoil my focus," Melissa said.

"I even offered to let him join us, but . . . he didn't see it that way, so he fired me. He dragged his naked wife away and I gathered up my knives and left. I also relieved the cooler of the lamb we will use to cook tonight's dinner."

"But forget that," he continued. "Let's talk about dinner. First there will be a chicken soup. It's mostly made, waiting for us in the coolers I put in the kitchen. I made it up while I was at Etchebarria's. We just have to add some egg noodles and fresh vegetables. I'd like to use fresh pasta. Always better, but we don't have time to make it, so we will go with a couple of bags of dried pasta I brought. You can cut up vegetables for it. But be careful with my knives. They are very sharp."

"Okay. What are you going to be doing while I try not to leave a finger in the chicken soup along with the vegetables."

"I will be working on the lamb stew. It will be magnificent. It is a recipe I learned from my grandmother. It takes a while. First, I have to break down the lamb shoulders I brought along. We have about ten pounds of meat."

Mom and Dad will be eating leftover lamb stew until the end of July, Melissa thought.

"Once I have the meat cut up I will marinate it for a couple of hours."

"What's in the marinade."

"Ahh, that's the secret of the recipe. The marinade is lots of garlic, thinly sliced, rosemary and white wine. I picked up some of white wine in Sunny Slope too. After that fascist bastard fired me and I liberated the lamb shoulders, I just knew I had to make this dish. The meat needs to soak up the flavor of the garlic and the rosemary and the wine will help to soften it. Shoulder of even the choicest young lamb can be a bit tough sometimes.

"Then you separate the meat from the marinade and pat it dry. Brown it in olive oil. We will use a big pot. This will be a big stew. I would prefer Spanish oil, but it's hard to get here, so we will settle for California. It's not too bad, especially for cooking. Even with a big pot, we will need to brown the meat in batches. If it is all piled up it doesn't brown right. We will set the browned meat aside and use the oil remaining in the pot, and bit more if needed, to cook the onions and garlic you will have cut up for me. Onions first until they soften and then the garlic just long enough so that you can smell it. You don't want to burn it."

"Still no fingers in the vegetables?" Melissa said, teasing him.

"No, no. I will teach you how to use the knives. Always cut against a knuckle of the hand holding the vegetable or the meat and don't let your thumb creep out into harm's way. The knives are sharp."

Melissa smiled. Growing up on the ranch her mother had taught her how to use the kitchen knives to cut up vegetables and break down beef well before she was a teenager.

"But now is where it gets good," Iturri continued, his enthusiasm building. "We will fill the pot with the lamb, a mass of roasted bell peppers, paprika, tomatoes, red wine, and a few of my secret herbs and spices. You'll have to turn your back when I put those in. No one but my grandmother ever knew what those should be. Then it simmers for hours until it is done."

He sighed. "I would like to use fresh roasted peppers, but I knew I wouldn't have time to roast any since we had to ride up here and look at your father's little project this morning. I have several jars from the Paul's Market in Marsing (a little Idaho town alongside the Snake River). Same thing with the tomatoes. I hate to use canned, but good fresh tomatoes just don't exist in Idaho until August. That hot house stuff is crap." He sighed again.

"But Iturri, if you hadn't been fired you would still be using canned things to cook at the restaurant in Boise."

He brightened. "So true." He paused. "But Christina was really worth it. Wonderful melons. It was a shame we were interrupted so early."

"Melons?"

"On her chest. Just like your Mother and Gina."

"Ah, I see."

"Oh, yes. I almost forget. The chicken stock. There must be chicken stock in the stew. Otherwise it will be too dry. I have a couple of quarts in one of the coolers that I made while I was at the Etchebarrias'. They always save chicken carcasses in their freezer to make stock so I made some for them and some for this meal. Much better than that stuff that comes in the little paper boxes you get at the Albertsons or from the commercial suppliers like Sysco."

"And how long does this have to cook?" Melissa asked.

"Until it's done of course," he responded. "Maybe two or three hours. I will decide when it is done, and then we will eat. That is if the rest of your family is not still out screwing each other. The good thing is the stew will hold if they are still some place fornicating. You have a very horny family you know."

"I've noticed."

"Perhaps they will need some help with that. No, no I must stay in the kitchen. There are other things to work on for this meal. The salad. The roast vegetables you will cut up, and, oh yes, yes. The flan we shall have for desert."

"Still no severed fingers?" she asked.

"In the flan? You don't need a knife to crack an egg Melissa. Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

"Never mind."

"What a meal this will be. I can't wait for us to get started. I just hope I brought enough wine."

"Don't worry," Melissa said. "My mother has lots more stored in the pantry."

"Oh, good, good. We don't want to run out of red wine."

What an amazing little man, Mellissa thought as they approached the ranch. He seduces any woman he can find, and they apparently love it, and still, he would rather cook than fuck, but just barely.

By the time they finished the ride to the ranch Melissa was feeling horny. Horseback riding did that to her. The saddle pushed against her parts in just the right way, especially if she leaned forward from time to time to rub against the pommel. She was standing naked in her room thinking about what to wear to spend an afternoon cooking with Iturri. She didn't really think she was she should try to seduce Iturri while they were cooking, . . . but, . . . after what her mother had told her about sex with Iturri, . . . well, maybe it was worth a try. She pulled on the cut-off jeans she and her mother had trimmed to indecency the evening before and a thin, well-worn T-shirt that allowed her bra-less boobs to jiggle deliciously. The shirt was so old and thin that her areolas and nipples were clearly visible through the fabric. She looked herself over in a mirror and smiled. Perfect, she thought. My ass is hanging out and my boobs are barely covered and totally unrestrained. She reached up and rubbed her nipples so they stood out lifting lewd little tents in the old T-shirt. Perfect, she thought as she looked in the mirror. Finally she pulled on an old pair of running shoes (cooking barefoot with hot oil around is a bad idea) and trotted down stairs to the kitchen, her boobs bouncing seductively.

Iturri had changed into his chef's clothing, a baggy white shirt tucked into and even baggier pair of striped pants held up by a draw string at the waist. The look was completed with a floppy soft grey hat, unlike any toque Melissa had ever seen. When she walked into the kitchen Iturri was already at work breaking down one of the big lamb shoulders, a knife gleaming in his hand. As she walked in, he paused to watch her boobs bouncing and then lost more concentration trying to decide if her shorts covered much of anything. He blinked, realizing he had to focus on cooking or he would never get dinner prepared.

"You'll need an apron," he said, gesturing with the knife to one hanging on the wall. He quickly realized nothing would get done in the kitchen with her dressed as she was. "Then get some onions from the cooler and begin cutting them up into medium sized chunks for the marinade."

Melissa dutifully put on the apron, tying its strings around her narrow waist. It spoiled the effect of the T-shirt, which is of course why Iturri told her to wear it. He wanted to focus on the cooking. But when she walked to the cooler and bent over to retrieve onions, Iturri was again distracted. The apron covered nothing of her scantily clad back side. Iturri's eyes were glued to her as she bent over. "He mumbled a Basque obscenity under his breath and then thought, she has an even better ass than her mother. Then he told himself to focus on the cooking, but the focus didn't really begin until Melissa stood up and turned to face him.

Melissa stood opposite Iturri cutting up onions and then garlic. She knew her shorts had rattled him, but given the way they were working she couldn't come up with a quick follow-up pose, aside from two more trips to the coolers to get the white wine and various herbs Iturri wanted included in the marinade. Each one brought Iturri's productivity to a complete halt when she bent forward to access the cooler. On each trip to the coolers she deliberately took more time than she needed.

Iturri recognized her delay for what it was and was thinking, not only does she have her mother's great ass, but she is horny, just like her mother. He was absolutely right, of course, but it was this kind of thinking that had gotten Iturri fired from his last job.

By the time the marinade was done, and the lamb tucked away in the fridge to absorb the flavors, both could feel a sexual tension building in the room. That was when Gina walked in, still naked of course.

"Melissa. Iturri," she cried in greeting. She grabbed each of them and smashed her boobs against them in a hug, making sure she rubbed her big tits back and forth against Iturri. She leaned back against the kitchen counter and said to Melissa, "Your friend Jamie is quite a catch Melissa. I just spent a couple of hours with him in the Shag Wagon. He is a fantastic lay. And that was after your mother spent the whole night there with him. Yummmmm."

"Shag Wagon?" Iturri asked. "What is Shag Wagon?"

"It's Jamie's VW Micro Bus," Melissa responded.

"Oh, you mean that piece of shit parked down there by the barn. Why doesn't he have a nice pick-up like your brother, and why is it called 'Shag Wagon'?"

"Shag is a British term for fucking," Gina responded. She made a lewd gesture by circling a forefinger and a thumb of one hand and then running the middle finger of the other hand in and out of the ring.

"Oh. It's a wagon for fucking," Iturri said, suddenly enlightened. "It must work well if you and Lisa spent so much time there with him. I must try it. Which one of you ladies wants to join me or will it be both . . . joining with me." He was waiving a shining chef's knife as he made his lewd proposition.

"Oh no Iturri." Melissa said. "We have cooking to do this afternoon. All afternoon. You said so yourself."

Gina yawned. "I need sleep. It was a short night at Etchebarrias' last night, and Jamie was a work out this morning." She wandered out of the kitchen her big boobs swinging across her chest.

Melissa followed her out, but just far enough out of the kitchen to allow her to peel off her apron, shed her T-shirt, and then put the apron back on so it was barely covering her breasts. She returned to the kitchen smiling, ready to torment Iturri.

"All right boss," she said. "Let's cook. What's next?" She turned towards the coolers, ostensibly to retrieve whatever the chef required, but in reality, to show him the side view of her barely covered tits.

Iturri shook his head, amused by the girl's shameless flirting. Still waiving the knife like it was a baton. He said. "Yes, yes. Right, we must cook. I need eggs. Get me eggs from the cooler. We will make the flan. It has to bake and then cool. I need eggs. Eggs and sugar, and those cans of milk and the vanilla extract. Oh, and get me the orange extract. The classic recipes don't call for it, but get me the little bottle of orange extract. A little of that flavor just nails it." All the time he was thinking, "We'll get the flan in the oven and then I'll take her in the cooler, oh no cooler here, well that big pantry will do. She wants it and that ass is . . . oh . . . so fine. I can't wait. But I must. We have to make the Flan."

Iturri fiddled with the oven, getting it started to preheat. "Shit," he grumbled. "I have to convert to Fahrenheit. Why can't this country use Celsius like the rest of the world?"

Melissa asked him what temperature he wanted and quickly did the conversion calculation in her head. "Set it to 350," she told him. He grumbled and started the oven. Then he went to work creating the melted sugar base in two baking dishes while she stirred the custard, He patronizingly lectured Melissa on the dangers of working with the hot sugar that he would undertake himself while she stirred up the custard. She rolled her eyes.

They had it ready to go before the oven was up to temperature. Iturri was standing there grumbling about the oven. Melissa walked over and stood close to him and asked, "Tell me Iturri. What do chefs wear under these baggy pants? Are they like a Scotsman's kilts?" She was tugging lightly at the draw string as she spoke.

"Perhaps you should keep pulling on that string and find out," he responded, forgetting completely about the oven and the flan. He was leaning back against a kitchen counter with his hips thrust out at Melissa, thinking, "This girl is hot. She's going to be better than Christina was."

The oven emitted a beep to tell them it had reached 350. Iturri swore in Basque at the interruption.

"The cooking comes first," she said, dropping the draw string and letting her hand slide down and stroke his cock. "The cooking is everything . . . isn't it?" She walked away from him releasing the strings on her apron as she walked. "Put the flan in the oven Iturri, and set a timer. Meet me in the pantry. We don't have a cooler here." She let the apron fall to the floor and was pushing her shorts down as she walked away from him and into the big pantry off the kitchen.

She heard the oven door open and the racks slide out, and back in, as the two baking dishes went into the oven. She was naked now, except for the old pair of running shoes. She turned so she was facing Iturri and leaned against the door jamb leading into the big pantry. "Do we have time Iturri? Or do we have to start the next step on the stew? I wouldn't want dinner to be late."

Iturri almost cackled he was so excited. "Oh no little one, we have time. The stew meat must marinate for another hour. And we can have what you call it . . . a 'quickly'?"

"Quickie you mean," she said, correcting his error. "Yes, we have time for a quickie," she agreed as she turned and walked into the pantry. "But not too quick, I hope."

There was an old wooden chair in the pantry. Lisa used it to reach items stored on the highest shelves. A simple chair with no arms, but strong enough to stand on, or to hold two people when they were fucking. Lisa and Luke had also used it for that for years. More than a few meals had been burned because of that chair. Melissa stood behind the chair and pushed it towards Iturri as he walked in. "Sit," she said. When he was sitting in the chair she stepped around it. She stood, her long naked legs on either side of his thighs, grabbed his soft floppy toque, and tossed it in the corner. Then she stepped back and dropped to her knees before him. She reached out and slowly began again to tug on the draw string on his baggy chef's trousers. Her other hand was stroking his erection through the trousers. "Is this okay now?" she asked. "Can I find out what you wear under these?" The bowknot was slowly coming undone, but she was deliberately taking her time. She leaned forward and replaced her hand that had been stroking his erection through the pants with her mouth, nuzzling the engorged flesh through the cloth. That was when she felt the knot release. "Oh my," she said. "It's loose." While she continued to rub his cock through the cloth with her face, she reached up with the fingers of both hands and tugged at the loose belt line of the pants which quickly fell away. Then she grabbed the trousers and pulled them down over his hips, releasing his cock.

"Oh they're just like kilts," she said. "You don't wear anything under them."

Iturri cackled in response.

Now she was stroking his cock with her hand. "It's not very big is it?" she said. That was pure tease. She couldn't begin to get her fingers around it. In fact, when she leaned forward and began to suck on it, she could barely get it in her mouth. She had her doubts about whether she could get it in her cunt.

Iturri reacted to her tease by reaching under her armpits and lifting her in the air as he pulled her towards him. Surprised at his strength, she found herself sitting astride him, her legs on either side of him, and the head of his cock nestled between her pussy lips. He had his hands on her tits, massaging them, while she moved her hips to cause his cock to slide back and forth between her wet pussy lips and to strike her clit each time. She had been wet since before she finished her ride, so her lips quickly coated his cock.

"This is fun," he said. "but we don't have time. I told you it had to be a 'quickly.' We have to cook."

"Quickie," she corrected him. "But Iturri, we must have time to fuck too," she said. Then she gasped as he forced the broad head of his cock into her cunt. "Oh Shit! Christ you're big. Just give me a moment." She let herself slowly down on to him and Iturri, knowing what it took for most women, just let her adjust. He knew what he was doing.

"Oh god yes," she said. "That feels so fucking good."