“Alright, my turn again!” Pérez hollers, swimming back to land and rushing up to the tree. “And then we’re playing some Chicken! Y’all down? Kat, you want on top or me?”
“Thinking you’re getting on my shoulders in those chonies is actually nonsensical. And Vale would beat you easy.”
Pérez does end up on Kat’s shoulders. And, just as they called it, Vale does shove my teammate right into the water. Easy.
“This is called what?”
“Orzo,” Vale says, watching me stir the large pot filled with boiling water and what he says is calledorzoas he chops up some garlic and parsley real finely, keeping an eye on a pan that’s warming up.
After a whole afternoon turned into most of an evening at the river, swimming and more Chicken and playing sand volleyball at the sandpit nearby and then rinsing each other off on the porch with the water hose, all we wanted was dinner. Showers can wait, changing can wait, food is the priority.
“I don’t know if I believe that,” Pérez (thankfully with a towel tied around his waist now) tells him, tearing off a piece of a baguette and biting into it. “That’srice.”
“They’re different. I promise.”
My teammate comes over and stands right up on me, looking into the pot, taking a wooden spoon, and scooping up some of the orzo. “I don’t see it.”
“Orlando,” Kat calls out, busy next to us finishing up this chicken piccata they wanted to make because they saw someone on their social media making it andit looked good and easy-ish. “Grab the bags of broccolini.”
“The bags ofwhat?” Pérez asks, looking behind and around us at the counter like he lost something.
“Broccolini.”
“That’s not a real thing either. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Vale tries his best to swallow his laughter, whispering, “Orzo’s done; you can empty the water and then we’ll put it in the pan,” while our friends start arguing about whether some of the words being said in this kitchen tonight are made up.
“You’ve never heard of broccolini?!”
“Yeah, it’s what they call broccoli at Olive Garden!”
“Please tell me you’re lying.I need to know you know that’s not true. Not everything goes back to Olive Garden.”
“Okay,” I whisper back to Vale, scooping our not-rice out of the pot, “but what is broccolini?”
“It’s, like, stalkier, skinnier broccoli. I don’t really know everything about what makes it different except it doesn’t look exactly the same, but they’re different. Here, keep stirring while I put everything else in.”
This whatever-Vale’s-got-us-making smells like heaven. The butter and garlic he put in the pan to get all melty before the orzo went in, the Parmesan he sprinkles in little by little, andthe heavy cream too, which he watches so it won’t, I don’t know, become soup. Some parsley, a dash of salt and pepper; I’ll take this whole pan.
“Where did you learn how to make this?”
“I’m not going to lie to you. I’m just like Kat; saw a TikTok and thought it looked good.”
“Look. Right here on Google. Longer, thinner, and more tender than broccoli with smaller florets.”
“Another made-up word!”
I step back, giving Vale more room at the stove, and go right back to my resting state, holding him from behind, head on his shoulder and nuzzling into his neck, keeping myself from getting too frisky so he won’t mess up. “I like cooking with you.”
“I like cooking with you too. Next time you find a recipe and we’ll try it out.”
“Deal,” I tell him before kissing his neck. “I’m going to make a drink. You want something?”
“Yeah, whatever you’re having.”
“Oh!” Pérez says, sounding like the lightbulb’s finally turning on. “Why didn’t you tell me to grab the cunty broccoli?”
Vale nearly coughs right into the orzo hearing that, and I almost drop a bottle of vodka. When I turn around, Kat’s staring at Pérez like they can’t even begin to figure out where he learned that from.
