Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Cooking Class (3/6)

As he finished dabbing under her eyes, she caught his hand. "Is that ginger I can smell?"

"Y…" He cleared his throat. "Yes."

She lifted his fingers to her nose and inhaled. "Wow."

"Haven't you eaten gingerbread before?"

"Yes, but that is a lot stronger."

"Fresh ginger always is."

She sniffed again - partly to cover her embarrassment at having taken possession of his hand with such familiarity - and then quickly withdrew.

His smile flickered into the moment of awkwardness. "Shall we … shall we continue cooking, Ms Lane?"

"I think you should call me 'Lois' now that you've rescued me from the vindictive garlic."

His smile caused mini-explosions through her heart. "I'm 'Clark'," he said. "And I'm happy to rescue you any time you need it."

Lois wasn't in the habit of needing rescuing. Well, not that she admitted, anyway. But the retort she would have fired at just about every other man was lost in the magnificence of his smile. "Thanks ... Clark."

"You're welcome … Lois."


Part 3

Lois.

The way Clark said her name - rich and sweet and warm like melting chocolate - sent tingles skittering along her spine. She gasped and checked his face for any sign that he'd noticed something, too.

Clark, however, had moved on. "I'll see to the rest of the garlic," he said, picking up the crusher and slipping another piece between its jaws.

Hauling her mind back to their task, Lois said, "Do you want me to grate the ginger?"

"It's done," he said. "You can get the garam masala. It's the dark brown powder in the pot with the blue lid."

Lois located the pot, skipped over its contents with a cursory glance, and settled on something more tantalising.

Broad chest. Wide shoulders. Neat butt.

Working the garlic crusher was doing incredible things to his arm muscles.

His head swung around, catching her in the act of perusal. "From a distance, the garlic smells kind of nice," she said.

"That's one of the advantages of using natural ingredients," Clark said. "You get to experience all the individual aromas as well as the combined tastes."

Lois unscrewed the lid of the pot.

"Be careful," he warned. "That packs a punch, too."

Lois sniffed cautiously, and an exotic potpourri of fragrances teased her nostrils. "You weren't kidding, were you?"

"No," he said. "It's a mix of cumin, cardamom, black pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg -"

"Hold on," she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Didn't you say we were going to make everything from scratch?"

For a suspended moment, Clark appeared startled by her tone. Then, she giggled, and his smile evolved with the brilliance of a new dawn. "I did make it from scratch," he said. "It seemed easier than bringing all the containers of individual spices."

"What happens if I want to make butter chicken for myself?" Lois said. "How will I get the garam masala?"

"Maybe I'll have to come back and teach you how to make it," Clark said lightly.

That sounded good - surprisingly so, for a woman who had avoided the spectre of food preparation with the same tenacity that others applied to crazed gunmen. Turning back to the counter, she said, "What's next?"

"We need a couple of bay leaves," Clark said, taking out two dry leaves. "You should remove them before you eat." He picked up a small elongated vegetable with a shiny green skin. "And chilli."

"That's hot, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Shall I slice it?" Lois said. She pointed to the stem. "I take this bit off first, right?"

"Right," he said, although he didn't give it to her. "Do you have any cuts on your fingers?"

Lois examined her hands, wondering if he would want to check them, too. "I don't think so."

"No paper cuts?"

"Maybe. I get those a lot. Why?"

"The juice stings."

"Really?"

"Really," he said. "Perhaps I should do it."

"Do you have any cuts?" Lois grabbed his hands and inspected them. His skin was soft, contrasting delectably with the underlying strength.

"N…o," he said. "No, I don't have any cuts."

The catch in his voice tightened her stomach muscles. She released his hands, reminded herself that the man of her dreams was coming for a romantic Valentine's dinner, and said, "Perhaps it would be best if you dealt with the chilli."

Clark turned to the board on the counter and sliced off the top of the chilli.

He'd said he'd left Kansas and travelled, which suggested he hadn't been in a serious relationship in his home town. He'd been in Metropolis a few months; surely that was long enough for any number of women to show interest. "Do you have plans for this evening?" Lois asked casually.

He put the chilli slices in a small conical bowl and began grinding them with a stone club. "Yes," he replied. "I'm teaching you how to make butter chicken. This is a mortar and pestle. We grind the chilli so it spreads evenly through the sauce and doesn't give someone a nasty shock."

Thinking there might have been a hint of impatience in his response, Lois quickly said, "I'm sorry. It's Valentine's Day. I hope Mrs Spangher's call didn't ruin your plans."

"It's OK."

"You'll be finished here by seven-twenty. You can change and be at her door by eight. That's still early enough to have a wonderful -"

"Lois."

Her name carved gently through the deluge of her words. "Yes?"

"It's time to start cooking."

"Oh." Was that an admission he had a date? A hint that he'd like them to hurry because someone he cared about was waiting for him to finish up here? "Of course."

Clark took a large frying pan, set it on Lois's stove, and added a squiggle of olive oil. "Would you like to stir?" he asked, offering her a wooden spoon.

"OK."

"When the oil is hot, we add the onions," Clark said. They stood, only a few inches apart, watching the oil creep across the pan. Did he have hopes for his date? Where were they in their relationship?

"Should we turn up the heat to save time?" Lois asked.

Clark checked his watch. "We have plenty of time," he said. "You won't be late, I promise."

"You can leave early if you need to."

"I should stay and watch the meal while you're getting ready," he said. "We don't want it to burn."

"OK," Lois said, remembering the pasta sauce. "Thanks." She dragged her eyes to the pan. "How do we know when the oil is hot enough?"

"Olive oil has a very high smoke point," Clark said. "So smoke would be a definite sign that there's too much heat." He grinned as he turned to the counter and picked up the plate. "Throw in a couple of pieces of onion. They should sizzle; not spit."

She did. The oil hissed. "Too hot?" Lois guessed.

"No. Just right." Clark swept the rest of the onion from the plate with a knife. "Stir them while they cook."

"OK." Given his short time in Metropolis, the relationship was probably in its early stages. Was this the first date? Was he going to cook for her? Or take her to a romantic restaurant?

Did he love her? Did he know how she felt about him? Or were they still stuck in the circling phase where both were cautious about disclosing too much?

The aroma rising from the pan made Lois's stomach growl with hunger. "I never realised onions could smell so good."

"My mom always says that if she's running late with supper, she fries up some onions just as Dad walks in, because they fill the air with the promise of a meal to come."

His affection for his parents was so tangible that it tugged on the cords of disillusionment strung through Lois's heart. "You're close with your folks, aren't you?" she said.

"Yeah," he said. "They're great people. Keep stirring. I'll get the butter."

Perhaps Mr and Mrs Kent were the reason why Clark was such a nice guy. "There's butter in butter chicken?" Lois asked with fake surprise.

"Just a little," he said, smiling as he added two small chunks. They melted into a sputter of bubbles, releasing another aroma into the air.

"My apartment is going to smell like a restaurant," Lois said.

"You like it?"

"Yes." She took a deep breath, feeling like an intrepid traveller exploring new and surprising terrain. "Yes, I do."

"Good." Clark took the spoon from her, his fingertips brushing over hers. "I'll stir now," he said. "You can get the other ingredients."

Lois swept a glance over the counter. "Is this a quiz to see if I remember all the names?"

"Do you?"

"Try me."

"Crushed garlic first," Clark said. "Keep it away from you eyes."

That was good advice. The stinging sensation hadn't been pleasant. Clark's ministrations, on the other hand ...

Lois tipped the garlic into the pan.

"Ginger next."

She tossed in the flecks of grated ginger.

"Garam masala. Bay leaves. Lemon juice."

She got them, one after the other, and added them to the pan.

"I don't think you were entirely honest with me, Ms Lane," Clark said, face solemn, eyes twinkling. "You told me you know nothing about cooking."

"I don't."

"Didn't," he corrected. He gave her the spoon. "Don't let it stick to the bottom of the pan."

Lois stirred, watching as the assortment of ingredients combined. Her mind flitted back to the upcoming date. His; not hers.

She figured a date with Clark would be wonderful. To be lavished with that smile … to be the focus of his attention … to talk and laugh with him … to have abundant opportunities to check out his body.

And that was just at dinner. Afterwards -

"How much heat do you want?" he asked.

"Ah …" Lois could feel herself reddening and hoped desperately that her face did not give away the train of her thoughts. "Ah … I like spicy food."

"How about …" Clark paused. "… your guest?"

"Claude," Lois said. "I'm not sure. He's Italian. Do they eat spicy food in Italy?"

Clark added about half of the red chilli. "I'll get you to test it later, and we can add more if you think it needs it."

"OK," she said. "What's that?"

"Tomato puree." He poured the thick red substance into the pan.

"I would never have guessed that butter chicken needed so many ingredients," Lois said. "It's kind of overwhelming."

"If you think you'd like to make it again, I can write out the recipe for you," Clark said. "It's not difficult."

"I don't think I could do all this," she said. "Not alone."

"I think you could," he said as he opened her fridge and took out the cream, milk, and yoghurt.

"They go in, too?" Lois asked, her voice lifting with surprise. "I thought they were for dessert."

"Nope," Clark said, grinning. "They are important ingredients in butter chicken. They give it the creamy texture."

Lois nodded sagely. "Making it romantic?" she teased.

She'd hoped her comment would prompt another smile, and it did … eventually. But the pause was noticeable, giving her time to wonder if he were thinking about his date.

Was she someone he had met at the cooking class? A student, perhaps? Had she been disappointed when he'd called to give her the bad news that he was going to have to delay their date? Was she thinking about him now as she prepared for the evening ahead?

The dairy foods had tamed the bright red colour of the sauce, turning it golden brown. "This is making me hungry," Lois said. "And there's still over an hour before I can eat."

Clark took a teaspoon, loaded it with some of the sauce, and offered it to her. "Have a taste."

"Is that allowed?"

"Only a foolish cook puts a meal on the table without testing it beforehand."

"Does your mother say that?"

"Yep."

Instead of taking it from him and risking a spill, Lois folded her hand over his and slipped the spoon into her mouth.

The skin of her palm burned with their connection. An explosion of taste assaulted her tongue. "Mmmm."

"Good?" Clark asked.

"It's incredible."

"Better than a jar?"

Lois pretended to consider. His eyebrows drew together. She felt amusement prod at her mouth.

His expression softened, poised on the threshold of a smile. "Well?"

"Much better," she said.

His smile came, garnished with a dash of satisfaction.

Realising she was in danger of getting bogged down in a stretched-out stare, Lois quickly asked, "What's next?"

"We need to cut up the chicken." Clark sprinkled more garam masala and a red powder in a bowl and began cutting up the chicken and tossing in the little cubes. "Can you keep stirring the sauce?"

Lois slid the spoon across the pan. "What's the red stuff?" she asked.

"Cayenne pepper."

"Whoa," she said. "This is going to be hot."

"I brought extra yoghurt," Clark said with a grin. "Serve with a dollop on top. That'll douse down some of the heat."

Lois continued stirring, giving her task just enough attention to keep the sauce from sticking to the pan. She watched Clark cutting up the chicken. His hands moved with easy proficiency, arousing a bevy of questions. If cooking wasn't his usual job, what did he do?

"How's it doing?"

Lois jumped at his question. "Good," she said. "I think."

"Is it thickening?"

"Ah … a bit."

"Good job." His compliment came with another smile. "You can move that pan from the heat now."

She slid it across, and Clark put a new pan over the heat. He added oil, and said, "Next, we're going to cook the chicken."

They stood side by side as he tipped about half of the cubes of chicken into the pan and Lois wielded the spoon.

They weren't physically touching, but she was conscious of his closeness. She could smell his aftershave. She glanced up at his smooth cheeks. Chin. Jaw.

Obviously, he'd shaved recently.

Probably in preparation for a quick getaway and rapid transformation from cooking instructor to date.

"What are you going to do after we've finished?" she asked.

"Well, there's the salad to prepare, the rice to cook, and I brought the ingredients to make something sweet to go with after-dinner coffee."

"Do we have time for all that?"

"It won't take long," he said. "I'll make them while you get ready for your date."

"Them?"

"Little treats. They're a recipe of my mom's."

"Are they romantic, too?" Lois asked, turning to eye him directly. "Like the chicken?"

"Very romantic," he said solemnly.

She leaned sideways - just a few degrees - and nudged him to let him know she wasn't necessarily accepting his definition of 'romantic'.

He grinned. "You'll see."

"Thank you, Clark," she said. "It's very sweet of you to plan such a wonderful meal."

He spooned in a few more pieces of chicken. "Mrs Spangher said this meal is important to you."

"It is." Realising she sounded irresolute, Lois declared, "It's really important to me."