Title: Cooking Lesson

Author: Zanna

E-mail: zanna186@yahoo.ca

Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone…I don’t make any money off anyone…you get the picture.

Rating: PG-13, mild sexual innuendo.

A/N: Everyone who attended the 2^nd Dark Angel Gathering in Vancouver, BC, July, 2005, was requested to write an "entrance fee" fic. There was no stipulation on the topic or length, but someone jokingly came up with a list of topics to choose from; Logan sleeps with a teddy bear, Sketchy gets a mullet, Max can’t sleep without a light on, etc. One of the topics was Logan cooks with a rutabaga and, coincidentally, two of us ending up choosing it. This is my version. It was written on very little sleep, so have mercy.

Max held up the lumpy, yellow root and gave Logan a skeptical look. "I don’t know about this, Logan. I used to have to eat rutabagas all the time at Manticore. Hated them."

They were at Seattle’s famous Pike Place Market, or what was left of it in the post-Pulse economy. Logan looked up from where he was selecting some pearl onions and flashed Max his most charming smile. "Trust me, Max, I have a great recipe. It will totally change your mind about rutabagas."

Max rolled her eyes, "I’ll believe it when I taste it." She dumped two rutabagas carelessly into her basket, and then wandered over to a bin full of carrots and selected a long, thick one. "Now carrots I can eat all day." She ran the carrot under her nose and took a long whiff. "Mmmmm, full of beta-carotene."

Logan watched as she slipped the end of the carrot into her mouth, twirled it on her tongue, and then took a bite off the tip. He gulped. "Maybe we should get some carrots, too. Besides, there’s no way we can put that carrot back after what you just did to it."

Max grinned as she lovingly selected several carrots and dropped them into her basket. She looked around at some of the other produce and Logan watched with alarm as her gaze fell on a pile of cucumbers. He quickly grabbed hold of her elbow and guided her to the checkout. "Let’s get out of here before you…"

"Before I what?" she asked innocently.

"Never mind."

When they got back to the penthouse, Logan turned on the oven and started pulling bowls and pans from his cupboards, while Max unpacked the groceries. Tonight’s dinner menu was going to be Poulet Chez Cale with roasted root vegetables. Soon, they had all of the ingredients laid out on the worktable.

Logan slapped Max’s hand away when she reached for one of his knives. "Uh-uh, nobody touches my knives but me," he chided.

"I probably know a lot more about how to handle a knife than you do, Logan. They did cover that sort of thing at Manticore, you know."

"And if I get any daggers or throwing stars, you’re welcome to them."

She looked unconvinced.

"You can make the marinade," he said coaxingly.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Whatever."

He started peeling and slicing the vegetables.

"So how do I make this marinade," Max asked.

"You mix together a half cup of olive oil, the juice of a lemon, and a teaspoon each of oregano, thyme, rosemary and salt."

She measured out the olive oil and poured it into a bowl. "I’m gonna need a knife to cut the lemon, or am I supposed to just squeeze it until it pops." Logan blushed and grudgingly handed her his second best knife. She sliced the lemon in half and started looking around the kitchen. "You got one of those juicer things," she asked.

"I’ve got a lemon reamer," he answered. "It’s in that drawer over there."

She rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a wooden tool. It had a short handle and an egg shaped point carved with ridges. "Is this it?" she asked.

"Yeah, that’s it."

He watched her as she thrust the tip of the reamer into a lemon half, twisting and squeezing it until the juice squirted out against her hand and dripped into the bowl.

"If you don’t keep an eye on what you’re doing, you’re going to lose a finger, Mr. Nobody-uses-my-knives-but-me," Max commented without looking up.

Logan quickly looked down just in time to stop himself from slicing off one of his fingers. He finished cutting up the rest of the vegetables without incident and dumped them into a roasting pan.

Max mixed in the herbs and salt, held up the bowl of marinade and asked, "What now, oh, master of the kitchen?"

"You pour the marinade over the vegetables and toss them until they’re evenly coated."

Max poured the marinade as instructed, but instead of just tossing the vegetables, she rubbed them all over with her hands, stroking the pieces of carrot and rutabaga and gently squeezing the pearl onions, her hands becoming slick with the oil.

For a moment, all Logan could do was stare, but then he thought, two can play that game. He drizzled the chicken with olive oil, sprinkled it with some salt and pepper, and then rubbed the oil and seasonings into the skin with his hands, allowing his fingers to linger on the thighs and breasts of the bird. He then sliced a lemon into several wedges and thrust them deep inside the cavity, followed by a handful of fresh herbs. When he nonchalantly looked up at Max, he saw her licking the marinade off her fingers.

"Mmmmm, I still have my doubts about the rutabaga, but this marinade is yummy." His eyes bulged as she twirled a finger inside her mouth to suck off every last drop of the marinade. He looked down at his own oil-smeared hands, but since he had been handling raw meat, he couldn’t duplicate that move without risking salmonella poisoning. He settled for placing the bird in the roasting pan, on top of the vegetables, and going over to the sink to wash his hands. She joined him and for a while they stood side by side, watching the soapsuds ooze out from between each other’s fingers.

After they finished rinsing and drying their hands, Logan put the roasting pan into the oven and set the timer. They did a quick clean up of the work table and then stood leaning against it.

"It’s going to be another 50 minutes before dinner is ready," Logan said. "You got any ideas on what to do until then?"

Max gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, I’m sure we can think of something."

Logan grunted. "What does the spinner say? I can’t see it." He was crouched on all fours on a plastic mat, his hands and feet resting on brightly colored circles.

Max was arched face upward over him, her legs on either side of his head and her left arm next to his hip. "Right foot on red," she said. The exoskeleton whined in protest as Logan reached out his right foot and placed it on a red circle.

Max slid the spinner towards him and said, "My turn."

Logan spun the dial on the spinner. "Right hand on blue," he said.

She reached back towards a blue circle between his legs. Just then the timer on the oven dinged and she fell on top of him, causing him to collapse underneath her. She sat up and looked down between her thighs at the back of his head. "Sorry," she said contritely.

"S’all right," his voiced was muffled against the mat. "You were winning anyway." He lifted his head and spoke more clearly. "Dinner’s ready."

They got up and straightened their clothes. "You set the table and I’ll bring out the food," Logan said. He went into the kitchen, took the roasting pan out of the oven, and arranged the chicken and vegetables on a serving platter.

When he brought the platter into the dining room, he found the table set for two, complete with wineglasses. She had even dimmed the lights and lit some candles. "Nice," he said appreciatively. He placed the platter on the table.

"Now all we need…" he went over to his wine rack "…is a nice Pinot Blanc." He selected a bottle, found his corkscrew and brought both to the table. "Would you like to do the honors?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks. I always break the cork, remember?"

"Then let me seat you and I’ll be your wine steward and waiter for the evening."

He pulled out her chair with a flourish, waited as she sat down, and then gently pushed her chair in. Within moments he had the wine open, their wineglasses filled, and the food on their plates. When he sat down, he lifted his glass to her. "To good food and good company," he said.

She held up her glass and clinked it against his. "I’ll drink to that." They each took a sip. "Now can we eat? I’m starving."

"Go right ahead," he smiled in amusement.

She dug into her food with gusto, but Logan noticed that she was still avoiding the rutabagas. "Aren’t you going to try the rutabagas?" he asked.

She sighed, "Do I really have to?"

"You said you’d believe it when you tasted it. Now’s your chance to prove me wrong, although I don’t think you will."

She speared a piece of rutabaga with her fork, brought it reluctantly to her mouth and took a tentative nibble. Her eyebrows rose as she chewed and swallowed. "This isn’t bad," she said with surprise. She finished off the piece. "Actually, this is pretty darn good."

"I knew it! I knew I’d be able to make a convert out of you!" he crowed.

"Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to rub it in," she said grudgingly.

As they continued to eat, Logan couldn’t help noticing how sensuously she enjoyed her food. His own food was eventually left forgotten on his plate while he watched her squirm in her seat with delight as she moaned around each mouthful.

When she finished, she pushed her plate forward and leaned back in her chair. "That was awesome, Logan. You’re a culinary genius."

"I’m glad you liked it," he said with a smug smile, proud that he had been able to satisfy her.

But then she leaned forward and gave him a smoldering look that took his breath away. "Now what’s for dessert?" she asked.