Memories.mpg (Last Opened: 7 Years Ago)

Hay is for Horses (And You are For Me)

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. . .

"Dinner will be ready in five minutes, my dear!"

The familiar sound of an oven cracking open. Then followed suit was the clanging of a pan, as a radio humming filled the kitchen. Vox sat with his legs crossed, his arms placed on the mahogany of Alastor's rocking chair.

He'd always enjoyed staying over at Alastor's, finding his company rather pleasant. As well as his cooking—his cooking was astronomical. Better than anything Vox could ever cook. And there they were, having dinner in Alastor's cabin, the smell of jambalaya and spice filling his insides. Alastor was in the kitchen, apron tied around his waist and gently humming an old 1920s tune. Vox was at one of the tables outside in the bayou, the feel of the warm breeze against his body. Mud and grass coated his shoes.

"Jambalaya, is it?" Vox asked, rocking lightly in the chair under him.

He heard Alastor chuckle from the kitchen, as a flare of steam puffed from the frying pan, and a stronger whiff of shrimp and rice drifted out of the kitchen. "You know me too well, Vox! Though I've added a little extra pepper this time, just to spice up the plainness!"

"I never get tired of your jambalaya," Vox said.

A few minutes later, Alastor, carrying two hot, delectable bowls of jambalaya, strolled into the bayou outside, placing them down onto the small glass table Vox was seated next to. Steam rolled from the bowls and out to the bayou taking up half of the room, where fireflies lingered and the cicadas chirped. Vox watched as Alastor took a scoop out of the jambalaya, and ate a spoonful of hot shrimp.

"Isn't it hot?" Vox asked, watching as Alastor continued to munch on more rice.

"No, not really. Why don't you go ahead and eat?"

"The food's too hot. I'm going to get fucking burned."

Alastor snorted in disbelief, before picking up Vox's spoon and shoveling a large spoon of rice and andouille. He pressed it against Vox's mouth, and Vox felt the warmness of the food against his TV screen.

"Eat up," Alastor ordered, nudging the spoon gently towards his lips, "You're a picture box, Vox. You won't get burned."

Vox laughed, and Alastor took it as an opportunity to dump the jambalaya into his mouth. The burning flavors of sausage slices and peppers filled his tongue, and his face contorted into a grimace as his tongue was bombarded with the burn of the newly-cooked food. It was hot, sure, but the flavor was a savory sweet. Alastor's smile arched a little wider, as he leaned back in his chair and observed Vox.