Love's Paradox

Chapter 23: Leaning Tower of Penis

The boat, named Untamed, is an opulent vessel indeed. The cabin on the second floor holds a kitchen and a living room. All the walls in the common areas are made of tinted glass, so I'm easily able to watch from the balcony as Parker gathers ingredients to cook in the kitchen.

It isn't long before I realize he has no idea what he's doing. It's actually quite adorable, to be honest. The frazzled look on his face, the way he constantly turns one direction, then the other, then back again without moving more than a couple of inches, has me in stitches. After finally picking a course of action, he cracks an egg over ground beef, and I laugh as he endeavors to fish out an eggshell for what seems like several minutes without success.

I enter the kitchen. "Are you making meatloaf?"

He nods. "Well, I'm attempting it anyway."

"Here, let me." I grab the fork and remove the eggshell, then I go about adding spices and onions.

"That's not what the recipe says," he informs when I add a dab of soy sauce and more ketchup to the Worcestershire sauce. He's looking over my shoulder; I can sense his nervous tension.

"Where's the trust?" I say, pretending to be offended while bumping him out of the way with my butt.

"But the recipe—"

"Is not as good as what I'm making. Trust me. Now here, I'll let you mix it." I shove him toward the bowl.

Parker stares at it for a few confused seconds before he grabs a fork to mix the ingredients. I watch him struggle with the lumpy mass, entertained, before stopping his useless efforts.

"You know," he says, "I'm supposed to be making dinner for you. Not the other way around."

"Yes. And a valiant effort you have put forth, my wonderful minion. But now, it's time for the professional to show you how it's done." I stick out my tongue, and he grins despite himself. "You'll break the fork trying to mix it this way." I toss it into the sink. "You have to use your hands," I explain, flexing my fingers. "Now go forth and learn the ways of kneading ground beef with your hands."

"That's disgusting," he says, staring at me as if I've lost my mind. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yup. It's the best way to make meatloaf. If your fingers are clean, you're doing it wrong."

He shrugs and digs in. The concoction oozes between his fingers with a slurping noise.

"Gross," I say.

He glances up, then comes at me with his gooey fingers. "What? You don't like my meat?"

"Ewww." I back away.

He pursues me around the kitchen until he seizes my hands with his slimy ones and throws me up against the counter right beside the bowl of ground beef.

"Stop it," I screech, giggling.

He forces me to put my hands into the meat and spices. We laugh and carry on while mixing. The Play-Doh eating four-year-old in me decides we should make little meatloaf sculptures. Parker accepts the challenge with little kid glee, and we spend the next fifteen minutes sculpting statuettes.

"Mine kind of looks like that one statue, The Thinker," I say proudly, turning my pan for him to see the final product.

His eyes squint as he studies it. "Naw," he says, head shaking. "Looks more like Charlie Brown fell down and dislocated his elbow."

"Whatever. It's better than your penis meatloaf," I counter.

His eyebrows furrow. "What? Mine's the leaning tower of Pisa." He swivels it.