![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Heading home from the art festival, James instructs the cab driver to swing by the market near the boardwalk. When he does remember to shop, he prefers to shop here because they had good produce and they sold seafood fresh from the coastal waters surrounding town. There was no better place to find seafood. He quickly finds everything he needs and goes home.
Soon after leaving moira earlier, he had realized that the only thing he truly knew how to cook, that was reasonably appropriate, was lobster. His mother taught him once, when she was throwing some beach shindig for a few family friends, and she had insisted on preparing the food herself. Something nearly unheard of considering their kitchen staff. But, his mother had said her mother and grandmother had passed the recipe onto her. James remembers being fascinated by the tradition, and he makes the dish more than once a year when he found a reason. Sometimes just to remember....
As he looks around, he once again thinks maybe it's too much food. His kitchen is full of pots and pans, his stove clarifying butter, the oven heating a crusty loaf of bread. He places the salad he finishes into the fridge, knowing there's nothing he can do now. He just kicks himself, not knowing what the fuck he's doing lately. Cooking dinner for Moira, excited by the idea of her company for the evening. How was he going to explain this if anyone found out?
He can't do anything about it now. Might as well accept that he's put himself in this position. He manages to make it up the stairs reasonably easy. He showers quickly, needing the hot summer day and the cab ride rinsed away from him. He changes into a pair of jeans and a navy henley. He puts on his walking boot again but just sticks a sock on his other foot. It is seven o'clock when he gets back downstairs. He finishes the last of the food until his guest arrives.
Soon after leaving moira earlier, he had realized that the only thing he truly knew how to cook, that was reasonably appropriate, was lobster. His mother taught him once, when she was throwing some beach shindig for a few family friends, and she had insisted on preparing the food herself. Something nearly unheard of considering their kitchen staff. But, his mother had said her mother and grandmother had passed the recipe onto her. James remembers being fascinated by the tradition, and he makes the dish more than once a year when he found a reason. Sometimes just to remember....
As he looks around, he once again thinks maybe it's too much food. His kitchen is full of pots and pans, his stove clarifying butter, the oven heating a crusty loaf of bread. He places the salad he finishes into the fridge, knowing there's nothing he can do now. He just kicks himself, not knowing what the fuck he's doing lately. Cooking dinner for Moira, excited by the idea of her company for the evening. How was he going to explain this if anyone found out?
He can't do anything about it now. Might as well accept that he's put himself in this position. He manages to make it up the stairs reasonably easy. He showers quickly, needing the hot summer day and the cab ride rinsed away from him. He changes into a pair of jeans and a navy henley. He puts on his walking boot again but just sticks a sock on his other foot. It is seven o'clock when he gets back downstairs. He finishes the last of the food until his guest arrives.
