Are You Sure This Isn't Rotten, Walter?

by Amazon X

Title: Are You Sure This Isn't Rotten, Walter?

Author: Amazon X



Category: Punishment

Rating: PG, language

Summary: One man's fish is another man's...well, just read.

Archive: Are you SURE you want this?

Disclaimers: CC could never think this one up, but I was TOLD to do it, so bug her not me!

Notes: Ok, this is what I get for defending grits. My mother never made me eat some of this, but all the food in this is real, and um...shit, just read it. It's from the "Compromised" universe, but it can stand alone if you haven't read it. But read it! Thank you of amazing Beta Erynn!


I walk into the house and the stench gets me first. I don't even put the mail on the table by the door or take my jacket off before I walk into the kitchen. It gets worse as I get closer to the door. My husband is standing in the kitchen, apron around his waist that says, "Fuck the cook...hard!" with a smiley on it that has an evil grin. He turns to me and smiles.

I love my husband. He's gotten even better looking since he's grown in his beard. Not just the goatee he would sport in the winter, but a full beard. It makes the lack of hair on his head seem sexier, as if it wasn't sexy without the facial hair. But the stink is getting to me.

"Walter, what the fuck are you cooking?" I ask.

"Oh, this is a treat! I got a care package from Sharon's sister by FedEx today. I talked to her on the phone a while ago and told her how I missed Sharon's Italian cooking. So, Maria sent me a some good stuff."

Sharon was half-Italian. Walter told me about how well she cooked. She taught him early in their marriage how to cook for her, in case when she was pregnant and she couldn't, he could. Well, fat lot of good that did. He kept threatening to cook this stuff for me. I guess he came through.

"What...uh...whacha got there?" I ask tentatively. I hope it's something I recognize.

"Escarole and pasta, with olive oil and garlic. Bacalao and tomatoes and onions with bits of sweet sausage. Garlic bread and green salad. We're gonna have a killer breath problem. But I like the smell of garlic on your breath, in your skin. It's comforting."

"Baca...what the fuck?"

He starts to laugh. He's fucking laughing at me. "It's dried, salted cod. I soaked it and it's made into a soup. The soup is kinda salty. You'll like all this, trust me. Go wash up for dinner."

"Are you sure is isn't rotten?"


I go into the living room and shed my coat. I dutifully wash my hands and face as I'm told and reluctantly return to the kitchen. He's dished these limp, watery green leaves into a bowl that has some broken pieces of spaghetti in it. The juice around it has a green tint with globs of oil floating on top and hunks of garlic are nestled in it. I'm sure my face is as green as my dinner.

Sitting across from Walter I watch as he sprinkles some Romano cheese on top. He uses his fork to scoop some up and takes a mouthful. The green fluid is running down his chin and he smiles as he wipes it up. OK, damn it, here goes.

I scoop a medium forkful into my mouth and chew. A huge hunk of garlic bursts and it mingles with the bitter greens and the sweet pasta. Shit, this is good. Not too much of...anything. Even the robust cheese is a welcome addition. I take another mouthful, then another until, all too soon, the bowl is empty. Walter is smiling at me as I look up at him.

"Well, I see you liked that. There's more if you want."

"No, let's get to the soup. If it smells as bad as this, I'm sure it's delicious!" Walter laughs again and puts the bowl down in front of me. It smells horrific! I watch as he sprinkles more cheese on the soup and cracks fresh pepper on it. I do the same and wait until he eats again. The pleasure spreads across his features as he chews and swallows with the look of bliss on his face. He takes a bite of garlic bread. I follow and scoop a spoon of the soup. The stench is starting to turn my stomach. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

I gather my courage to push the spoon into my mouth and start chewing. The overwhelming saltiness is the first thing that gets me. I know my face is screwed up into a grimace that is probably hurting his feelings beyond anything I've done before. The chunks of fish are tender, as are the vegetables, but for some reason, this all tastes as if it's rotten. It tastes as if it's all gone bad and no one told him. I open my eyes to see him looking at me, hurt covering his face like a dark shadow. I swallow.

"The taste is...unique. Walter, wasn't prepared."

"You don't like it, do you?"

I take a deep breath. I can't lie to him, I love him too much for that. "No, not very much, actually. I'm sorry. Does the taste grow on you or something?"

He takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly. He gets up and takes the bowl away from me to replace it with a bowl of salad that looks very good. I eat that with enthusiasm, as well as his amazing garlic bread. I look at him while he's finishing.

"I'll cook for you tomorrow, Walter, I promise. And I'll make it up to you tonight. Another promise."

He knows I'll deliver and smiles through his pout. I love when my husband pouts, but when he's being sexy, not when I've truly hurt his feelings.

As we watch the hockey game on the sports channel that night, I fidget with my wedding ring as I try to think of something he'll like. I can only come up with one thing.

"Vlad, lemme go look something up on the computer. I'll be back later."

He watches me carefully as I leave the room to go into den. The computer is always on so I open a browser and begin my search. A few bad pages later, I'm golden. After scanning my information, I close the window and return to my man on the couch, just as the Rangers sink another goal against his precious Penguins. Yeah, I love my hockey.

The next evening, I hear him come into the house after working in the woodshed, building a dresser for an online customer of ours. We decided it would make the best sense to open our business to the internet and with a good friend in the post office, we can get all of our shipping needs taken care of easily. He calls to me that he's going to shower off quickly before joining me in the kitchen, so I start dinner. This is an easy one and it doesn't take long to cook.

When he walks into the kitchen, I have dinner ready and served. He sits at his place and looks at the table and smiles. "Sasha...what did you make me?" His smile is gentle and I know he's happy with the tangy, spicy aroma wafting up to him.

"Spiedies and salt potatoes. This is a central New York tradition. There's salad and I got some Labatts, hang on."

I put the wooden bowl on the table, along with our beers and hold my hands out for him to start. He's looking at the chunks of marinated and fried chicken chunks, hoping to figure out the marinade, I guess. He raises the sub-type sandwich to him mouth and takes a hearty bite. His eyes close in pleasure. He likes it. He chews, swallows and takes another huge bite. I start eating mine and soon, both out sandwiches are gone. We tear through the salt potatoes, drowned in butter and the salad is just great with lemon and garlic. We're so full by the time we're done I can barely walk to the sink to wash the dishes. But we get things cleaned up and make it back out into the living room to lounge on the couch and neck.

He pulls away from me and looks at me, seriously. Then he pouts. "Vlad...what's wrong?"

"I liked your dinner better than you liked mine."

I exhale loudly. Then we smile and take our necking to bed. Yeah, my dinner was better, but his thanks are gonna be better than my make up. I can't wait!

The end, for now
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