Risotto
by Sinope
Title:
Risotto
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating:
PG
Pairing:
Teresa/John, hinted Kerry/Edwards
Summary:
Teresa Heinz Kerry thinks about cooking and about John.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.
. . . He made the best meringues in the world and the best chocolate mousse, just like my mother's. I taught him to make risotto and to make soups, to cook when I was not around. - Teresa Heinz Kerry
John learned to make risotto with your hand around his own, your cheek nestled against his shoulder, your arm embracing his waist. "Patience," you'd say, because patience is the first requirement of any good risotto, and you'd kiss his neck as you reached over to ladle the fragrant chicken stock.
"Oui, ma cherie," he would respond. (He's called you that, ever since he started courting you, and you laughed at the phrases of murmured French he'd used to snare the other girls. "I love talking to you," he'd say; "You remind me of the poet who spoke of unforgettable words, mots si spécieux, que notre âme depuis ce temps tremble et s'étonne." You just grinned and replied, "You realize that Verlaine spent most of his life pining after a teenage boy, don't you?")
The scents have always been the best and worst part of cooking risotto: savory onions, heady white wine, sharp Parmigiano-Reggiano, each ingredient gradually wafting up from the saucepan in turn, each new scent teaching you slow, savored patience. In the midst of charity balls, environmental conferences, and legislative sessions, risotto became your mutual escape. Every night the two of you could spare, you'd lean on John's shoulder for forty minutes of steady stirring, no matter how many things had to be done afterward. "I'd better not see you eating any more fast food on the campaign trail," you'd say as you ate, giving him a mock glare, and he'd respond with a garlic-tinged kiss.
"I love you," he'd say, changing the subject, and you would always believe him.
(You can still remember your own first attempts at risotto; the first time it came out crunchy, the second like glue. Patience, you told yourself the third time; patience, and the confidence to take it off the burner the moment you were ready. You taught yourself to wait.)
John called you once from Tampa, boasting of warm October weather and salty-blue seawater. "I made risotto tonight," he said, and you could hear his smile. "John loved it." You imagined him sprawled out on the motel bed, with John Edwards leaning back in an awkward wooden chair, his legs propped up on the mattress. You wondered how John fed himself when you weren't around.
Patience, you thought. Patience.
finis.
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