F.L. Fowler - Fifty Shades of Chicken

Copyright 2012 by FL Fowler

All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Clarkson Potter/Publishers,
an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random
House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
www.clarksonpotter.com

CLARKSON POTTER is a trademark and POTTER with colophon
is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

eISBN: 978-0-385-34523-1

Design by Stephanie Cluckwork
Photographs by John von Pamer
Cover photography by John von Pamer

v3.1

For Snowqueens Icedragon

H ow have I gotten myself into this? I glance around the spotless, meticulously organized kitchen: trussing twine, skewers, malletsis that a cleaver ? Holy crap.

I dont even fit in. I share a shelf in the fridge with a ham so enormous I have to huddle up against the door, even though its a double-wide Sub-Zero. The other shelves are stuffed with bags of leafy greens, neatly wrapped paper parcels of what might be fish or fancy cheese, and uniform rows of carefully labeled condiment jars. Down in a crisper all by itself is a radish, aloof and flaunting its freshness. Then theres me, mundane, scrawny, and shrink-wrapped.

Im closest with the enormous ham, even though shes so much cooler than I am. She hogs the shelf, but shes my nearest, dearest friend. Shes piquant, smoky, salty, pigheaded, bodacious, and always seems to know whats cooking. Shell make an exceptional holiday dinner.

SUDDENLY THE FRIDGE DOOR Im resting on swings open, and I find myself rolling off the shelf and falling toward the kitchen floor. Crap. My plastic wrapper bursts as I land, and my giblet bag slides halfway out. Double crap. Damn my cheap packaging.

Instantly I feel hands on me, lifting me carefully from the tiles. Long, powerful fingers cradle me from underneath and expertly tuck my giblets back in place. Holy cow. Something clenches deep inside me.

My rescuer lays me gently on a countertop. Hes wearing jeans and a clean white apron. Hes young and handsome, with a rakish mop of hair. He has muscled arms and clearly works out. But its his hands that have me mesmerized. Theyre smooth, pale, perfectly manicured, and beyond competent.

The kitchen is all sleek white tile, blonde wood, and black granite. Theres no clutter on the shiny counters and the ceramic backsplash is bare, except for an incredibly long magnetic knife rack. Its filled with gray steel blades of all kindsfat, thin, long, short, curved, and straight, and all of them obviously sharp as hell. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. He notices my attention fixed on them.

You like my collection? he asks coolly.

Extraordinary. Like an artists tools, I say slowly. He cocks his head to one side, and then to the other. He looks at me in a way that sears my gizzard.

I couldnt agree more, he replies, his voice suddenly soft, and for some reason I find myself blushing.

There m-must be four dozen knives up there, I stammer. Im hypnotized by their gleaming edges and his hands at the same time.

Fifty blades, to be precise, he intones. This kitchen is my domain. I need to have complete control when I prep.

Holy shit. The way he says it shakes my liver out of place again. Mr. Blades can prep me any time.

I can imagine, I manage to say.

Its all about finesse, Miss Hen. Whoa, he keeps shifting direction. Hes so weirdly formal. Who calls a chicken Miss Hen? But then nobodys ever really taken the time to talk to me before.

I have enormous respect for food, he continues. To derive deep satisfaction from the mundane: tourning a radish, cutting a potato, portioning a syllabub. These form the foundation of what I do.

Raising the mundane to the extraordinary, I say, mesmerized. I really shouldnt look at his hands, its unsettling.

He cocks his head and gazes at me. I blush again under the burning force of that stare. Hes cooking me with his eyes. How does he do that?

His words continue to echo in the secret darkness of my soul. Its all about finesse. Chickens dont do finesse, my subconscious sneers at me. I flush at my foolish, inward thoughts. But a girl can dream, cant she?

H es clearly not into me. I wait quietly on the counter and watch his skillful, knowing hands work. Desire pools way down in my cavity and in spite of myself I start to daydream while he preps a radish.

He cocks an eyebrow. Penny for your thoughts, Miss Hen? He appears focused on his task, but theres a sly glint in his eye.

I flush. Oh, I was just imagining your hands traveling up my thighs and your teeth nibbling my breast.

You seem to have a lot of little bowls, I say as calmly as possible.

He has arranged a dozen tiny ramekins in an orderly row on the counter. He fills each of them with a spice, an herb, or a chopped ingredient carefully portioned from a measuring spoon.

Youre a very sharp-eyed chicken, he says, and that look returns. I exercise perfect control over everything that happens in this kitchen. I require exactitude from my ingredients.

What a control freak. And arrogant to boot. But the apron hes wearing hangs off his hips in a way that turns my bones to jelly.

So, what are you whipping up there? I ask hopefully.

Well, what Im whipping up, as you put it, is a salade compos, he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I create experiences. Its my belief that a meal can be a transcendent experience, like a Bach concerto. Its all about finesse. I know what makes ingredients tick. I find the best ones, and then take them beyond themselves. The bottom line is that it always comes down to ingredients that know what I want. He stares at me intently.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? Hes constantly shifting. One minute hes all foxy looks and hungry smiles, the next hes curt and sharp. His fridge is packed with exotic foods, but he seems to have eyes only for the radish. Could it be?

Are you a vegetarian? I blurt before I can stop myself.

He draws a sharp breath. I am mortified beyond words. Double crap. Why cant I keep my head on for once? My agonized subconscious is begging me on bended knee to stop gabbling.

No, Chicken, Im not. He cocks his head to one side and stares coolly at me. He is not amused. I cringe. I feel the blood drain from my entire body.

Im sorry, I stammer, it just popped out.

A timer goes off, saving my skin.

You know, I could find a use for you in this menu, he says suddenly. The preparations would be minimal enough for a novice, with relatively uncomplicated flavor profiles.

Is he considering me for an entre?