It's still May, right? So I'm not too late for the May waffy challenge? Ah, good.
Title: Cooking Class
Rating - PG13
Disclaimer - The recognisable characters are not mine.
Huge thanks to my wonderful, never-flagging always-encouraging BR, Iolanthe.
Part 1"What am I going to do?" Lois Lane wailed.
Lucy winced at the anguish smeared through her sister's expression, but squeezed all sympathy from her tone as she asked, "Why did you tell this guy you could cook?"
"He's French," Lois replied. "He's sophisticated. He has eaten in some of the best restaurants in Europe. He -"
"Doesn't that make lying to him about your prowess in the kitchen even more stupid?" Lucy said, trying not to think too much about how satisfying it felt to be the sister asking the difficult questions instead of the sister scrambling to defend spur-of-the-moment brain explosions.
"I …" Lois's distress dissolved into a plea for understanding. "Claude is a really nice guy," she said. "He could be the
one."
"The one?" Lucy gasped. "You really think you've finally found the
one?"
"Maybe," Lois said dreamily. "He's suave, he's fashionable, he's charming, he's melt-at-the-knees gorgeous, and his French accent makes my toes curl."
Lucy had met enough of Lois's 'the one' candidates to be sceptical. "How's he going to react when he discovers you lied to him?"
Her sister's alarm surfaced again. "That's why I called you," Lois said. "Claude will be here tomorrow evening, expecting something exotic, and my cooking skills are limited to boiling pasta without it sticking together - most of the time - and heating up bought pasta sauce in the microwave."
"What do you want me to do?" Lucy asked plaintively.
"You're taking cooking classes twice a week," Lois said, grasping her sister's wrist. "I thought you could teach me."
"I have had three classes," Lucy protested. "I've made fruit salad, plain scones, and grilled tomato on toast."
"I can't feed Claude tomatoes on toast," Lois shrieked.
"They taste pretty good topped with basil and black pepper," Lucy said.
That comment earned her a dirty look. "We have twenty-four hours," Lois said. "It can't be that hard. If we stay up all night reading recipe books, surely by tomorrow we will be able to cook
something Claude will love.
"No," Lucy said firmly. "You're going to have to get take-out or -"
"Take-out," Lois groaned. She dropped onto her sofa and buried her face in her hands.
Lucy sat next to her. "Maybe Claude will be so captivated by you that he won't notice the food is take-out," she said.
"He's going to notice," Lois said in a voice of despair. "He's already told me how much he despises 'the undeveloped and insipid palate of the masses'.
"I can come and help you," Lucy offered. "There's an exorbitantly expensive Italian restaurant near where I work that has a take-out menu. I'll bring something from there; we'll dirty a few pans, scatter some vegetable scraps around the counter, and hide the containers in a dumpster two blocks away."
Lois dragged her hands down her face. "Italian?" she said.
"You don't want Italian?" Lucy guessed. "Because he's French?"
"No. No, Italian is perfect," Lois said.
"Why?" Lucy asked, unconvinced that anything about this situation was 'perfect'.
Lois gazed at her fidgeting fingers. "I told Claude I learned to cook from a sexy Italian chef," she admitted.
"Lois!"
"I thought I was covering my bases," Lois said. "I mean, pasta
is my best dish."
Lucy rolled her eyes. "You don't have a
best dish," she said. "You can't cook!"
Lois groaned again. "What am I going to do Lucy?"
"You have to look at all your options and decide which is best," Lucy advised.
"What are my options again?"
For a Kerth-winning reporter, Lois could be exasperatingly dense sometimes. "You can call off your date with Claude, you can book a table at a restaurant and 'fess up about the Italian chef, you can get take-out and hope he's more interested in you than the food, or you can let me teach you how to make tomatoes on toast."
Lois screwed up her face. "I'm not calling off our date," she said. "That would send precisely the wrong message to Claude."
"Why did you suggest the home-cooked meal?"
"I didn't. Not really. Claude was telling me about all the glamorous restaurants he knows in Europe, and I told him about the Italian chef."
"And?" Lucy said blankly.
"And the next thing I knew, Claude was thanking me profusely and saying how eating in restaurants every night became tedious because American chefs are like sheep and never have an original idea."
Lucy shuffled a little closer to her sister. "Lois, are you sure this guy's worth all the stress? I mean, if you feel as if you have to lie to -"
"Of course, he's worth it," Lois snapped. "Claude is the most wonderful man I've ever met."
"Well, I guess you're going to have to choose between take-out and tomatoes," Lucy said.
Lois glanced into her kitchen as if in hope that a gourmet meal would materialise on the counter. "I suppose it's going to have to be take-out," she said grumpily. "I would die of shame if I gave a man like Claude tomatoes on toast."
"Do you need my help?" Lucy asked. "I promise I'll sneak out before he arrives."
"You said you're free tomorrow night?"
"Yes. I'll bring take-out from the Italian place. I can make the kitchen look 'cooked-in' while you get yourself all dolled up. I'll help you put the food in pots and pans on the stove, and I'll take all the containers with me when I go."
Lois put her hand on Lucy's arm. "Aw, Luce," she said. "You're the best."
Lucy stood from the sofa. "Just do me a favour and don't tell him you're a concert pianist in your spare time."
Giggling, Lois stood and hugged her sister. "Claude's due at seven-thirty," she said. "Can you be here by six-thirty? With something scrumptiously Italian that looks as if I cooked it from scratch?"
"Isn't six-thirty a bit early?"
"No. I want the food here. Otherwise, I'll stress."
"What if it gets cold?"
"Don't be silly, Lucy," Lois said. "It'll keep hot while it's in the pans on the stove."
"I don't think overcooking is good for some dishes," Lucy said doubtfully.
"We'll watch it carefully," Lois said. "What can possibly go wrong?"
Lucy choked down her extensive list of potential disasters. "I gotta go," she said. "See you tomorrow."
"Be here by six-thirty," Lois said as she opened the door of her apartment. "I'm going to need you."
--~--
"What's the time, Lucy?"
Lucy paused from her task of pouring the pesto sauce from the plastic container into the saucepan she had found at the back of one of Lois's cupboards. "It's ten past seven," she said.
"Eeek," Lois squealed. "He'll be here soon, and I haven't done my makeup yet."
"Go and do your makeup," Lucy said. "I can finish here."
"We're not going to be ready," Lois shrilled.
"Yes, we will," Lucy said. "All we have to do is put the pasta in a big pot with water and set the table."
"Have you opened the wine?" Lois swung her head left and right in a frantic search for the missing bottle. "Where's the wine? Did you put it somewhere?"
"It's next to the stove, remember?" Lucy said. "We put it there so Claude would think you'd used it for your epicurean pasta sauce."
"Of course," Lois said, making a dash for the stove. She picked up the bottle and stared at it as if it were an unfamiliar object. "Shouldn't we open it?"
"Go and do your makeup," Lucy repeated, firmly taking the bottle from her sister. "And don't forget to take the rollers out of your hair."
Lois disappeared into the bathroom. Lucy shovelled the cooked pasta into a saucepan and added water from the faucet. She turned on the heat under both pans and then swept through the kitchen, collecting the bags and containers that bore evidence of their subterfuge. "Claude had better be one super guy," she muttered.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen looked appropriately messy and the containers had been stowed away in Lucy's bag. "Lois!" she called. "Are you ready? Claude will be here soon."
Lois burst out from her bedroom, hopping as she bent over to put on her second shoe.
"You look great, Lois," Lucy said, admiring her sister's figure-hugging black dress. "I don't think Claude will be focussing on the food."
Lois smiled weakly. "You've been an amazing help, Luce. I would have been a wreck without you."
"I've got all the take-out containers," Lucy said. "I should get going. My cooking class starts in less than an hour."
"What are you cooking tonight?" Lois asked as she stood before the mirror and brushed at a few specks on her dress.
"French toast," Lucy replied. "Mrs Spangher seems to have a thing about toast."
"You get the French toast," Lois said with a slightly unhinged giggle. "I get the French guy."
"I hope you have a great night," Lucy said. She picked up the bag containing the take-out trash.
Lois hugged her sister. "Thanks, Lucy," Lois said. "Call me tomorrow, and I'll tell you all about it."
--~--
Left alone, Lois cautiously approached the stove. The pasta was bubbling away merrily, and the sauce smelled good enough to elicit a response from her stomach. She hadn't had time for lunch, and breakfast had been a chocolate bar and two cups of coffee gulped down at her desk.
The bottle of wine was open on the table. Lois surveyed the scene. Lucy had done a great job, adding a few extra touches that Lois would never have thought to include - a small vase of flowers and cutely folded napkins.
Was tonight the night her relationship with Claude would move to the next level? Was that what she wanted?
She didn't want to lose him - she was sure about that.
He was more cultured than any man she'd ever met. And so very charming. Lois knew that many women would find him attractive.
Lois returned to the stove and prodded through the bubbles. At least the pasta would be hot.
Back at the table, she poured herself a little of the wine and swilled it down, hoping it would help calm her nerves.
As she placed her glass on the table, the phone cut through the silence.
"Lois Lane."
"Ah, Lois. It's Claude."
It was difficult to hear his voice above the riotous background noise. "Where are you?" she said loudly down the phone.
"I've been unavoidably detained," he said. "I won't be able to make dinner tonight."
"You won't?"
"No. Sorry. This thing came up. I can't get out of it. I knew you'd understand, darling."
"I cooked," Lois said, fearing she sounded needy.
"Sorry? It's hard to hear. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Can we re-schedule? What about next week?" Lois glanced at the wall calendar, and noting the date, she suggested, "Thursday?"
"Thursday?" He didn't sound pleased, but Lois told herself it was probably due to the difficulties in hearing.
"Yes. It's … it's Valentine's Day."
"You'll cook for us,
ma cherie?"
Cook? Again? At least this time, she would have a week to prepare. "Yes. Of course."
"Excellent. I look forward to it. I have to go, Lois. Goodnight." The line clicked dead.
"Goodnight, Claude." Lois returned the phone, slipped her shoes from her feet, and poured herself a full glass of the wine.
What had been so important that Claude had had to cancel their date?
She went to the stove and turned off the heat.
An hour later, most of the wine was gone, one saucepan contained an inedible gluggy mound of pasta and the other a dry, blackened sauce, and Lois had reached the point where the alcohol had just about drowned her disappointment.
Leaving the food, the dirty pans, the set table, and the rest of the wine, she went to bed.
Home cooking was overrated.
Even Claude thought so.
--~--
"That's good, Lucy," Mrs Spangher said. "Try to cut the potato cubes to the same size so they will cook evenly."
"Mrs Spangher?" Lucy said, pausing from her dicing and looking over her shoulder at her instructor.
"Yes, Lucy?"
"Do you ever conduct lessons in a home?"
Mrs Spangher considered for a moment. "I haven't before," she said, "but I suppose I could if the kitchen were properly equipped."
Lucy wasn't sure Lois's kitchen came under the heading of 'properly equipped', but there was no way she was going to risk a repeat of last week's debacle. "Would you go to my sister's apartment and teach her how to cook a meal?"
"What sort of a meal?"
"Something … exotic."
"Your sister has basic skills and wishes to advance?" Mrs Spangher asked.
"Not exactly," Lucy said. "She has offered to cook a meal for her friend on Thursday night, but -"
"Valentine's Day?" Mrs Spangher's raised eyebrows softened to a little smile. "So there will be just two people eating?"
"Yes. It's important the meal is perfect. I think my sister needs someone beside her … to advise her, you know, and give her a few tips. About things like when the pasta is cooked."
"She wants it
al dente?"
"Al what?"
Mrs Spangher seemed to be reconsidering.
"Please, Mrs Spangher," Lucy said desperately. "My sister really needs some help."
"Thursday evening?"
"Yes."
"What type of meal?"
"Anything. Anything that looks like it was made by a skilled cook."
"There would be a fee."
"Of course. I'm sure Lois would be willing to pay whatever you think is fair."
Mrs Spangher nodded. "Give me her address before you leave tonight, and tell your sister to expect me at five-thirty on Thursday."
"Thank you," Lucy said as the cooking instructor moved to the next student. Under her breath, she added, "You've just saved me from the perils of Lois's kitchen."
--~--
"She's going to come here?" Lois said.
"Yes," Lucy said firmly. "Think about how lucky you were, Lois. If Claude had come last week, you would have fed him mushy pasta and charcoal-chip sauce. You've been given another chance. With Mrs Spangher helping you, you'll be able to produce something edible, and I'm sure Claude will be impressed."
"But I don't want to learn how to cook," Lois whined. "I told you that when you asked me to join the class with you."
"This isn't learning how to cook," Lucy said. "This is scrambling to cover up a foolish lie."
Lois glared, but its ferocity quickly waned, and she said, "OK. When will she be here?"
"Five-thirty. She'll direct the cooking and preparation. She'll leave just before Claude arrives. He'll think you cooked it."
"Will you be here, too?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I have a date."
"A date?" Lois said, making no effort to cover her surprise.
"Yes," Lucy said. "Adam. From the cooking class. We're going to High Spirits."
"The bar on Seventh Avenue?" Lois asked. "Why would Adam take you somewhere like that?"
"His brother works there."
"From what I've heard, people only go there to … well, to pick up a companion for the night."
"I'll be with Adam," Lucy said. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."
"Oh." Lois managed a smile. "That sounds great, Lucy. I hope you and Adam have a wonderful time."
"Thanks," Lucy said. "Your date will be wonderful, too. Mrs Spangher is a sensational cook."
"Do I need to buy stuff? I wouldn't know -"
"You don't need to get anything. Mrs Spangher said she would bring all the ingredients. But you need to be here; she said she is an instructor, not a cook-for-hire."
"Just be here? That's all?"
Lucy nodded. "Be here, and look as if you have some interest in learning the finer points of cookery. Excuse yourself early enough that you can dash to your bedroom to make yourself look ravishing. Bid goodbye to Mrs Spangher, greet Claude with a slightly self-satisfied smile, and wow him completely with your meal and company."
Lois broke into a smile. "Thanks for arranging it, Lucy," she said. "Sorry I didn't sound very appreciative. I never should have told Claude I could cook."
"It's done now," Lucy said, patting her sister's arm. "And I bet Claude will have the best meal he's ever eaten on Thursday."
--~--
On the dot of five-thirty on Thursday, a crisp knock sounded on Lois's door. She quickly cleared her counter of several folders of story notes, two used spoons, a scattering of toast crumbs, and an empty ice-cream tub. At the door, she looked through the peek-hole.
A man was there. Dark-haired. Young. Wearing glasses.
Leaving the chain hooked, Lois opened her door a few inches. "Yes?"
"Ms Lane?" He smiled tentatively. "My name is Clark Kent. Mrs Spangher has a migraine, so she asked me to come instead."
