“I refuse to allow you to ingest pickled eggs. It will taint my niece or nephew. Do you want a purple kid? No, you do not. So nope to pickled eggs.”
“But Brann…”
“No. Do not try to work your sisterly wiles on me. I am a brick wall. Emotions mean nothing to me. I am a rock.”
***
An hour later, I returned from the local deli with a jar of pickled eggs. Kenan found it all quite hysterical, but I knew that someday I’d get my culinary revenge.
Karma could be a real bitch.
Chapter Two
Our flight home the next day was uneventful.
Kenan dozed, his belly full of pickled eggs, as I read over another menu proposal from the man who was sleeping off a purple egg gluttony at my side. My lover had somehow arrived at the idea that the alehouse, in order to step out of the 70s food choices, should expand just a bit. I, happily ensconced in the era of artery-clogging fried foods and Arthur Fonzarelli, felt the menu was fine as it stood. Who cared if the customers wanted avocado toast with sea slugs or whatever it was that Gen Alpha-Beta-Omicron-Shotz Brewery felt was hip and trendy. I’d never eaten a fucking avocado in my life. Guacamole during football games didn’t count since that was a dip.
“What the hell is a chia seed pot?” I mumbled under my breath as we flew smoothly back into the United States. “Did I smoke some back in high school with Fenton Diggs under the bleachers?”
“It’s a jar or small bowl filled with chia seeds soaked in milk or a plant-based milk that has—”
I glanced over at my sleepy boyfriend. His long hair covered his face. Sexy as hell, that was. He woke up like that a lot and I freaking loved it.
“You can stop right there.” I held up my left hand as we hit an air pothole. The plane shook a smidgeon and then smoothed back out. “There is no such thing as plant milk. Sorry. Milk comes from a cow, or possibly a goat. I’m open to goat’s milk since Denise Lawry brought me some from her goats Millicent and Margaret.”
“Was that milk acceptable because it was from goats or because you are on a first-name basis with the milk producer?” He lifted his head from the window, threw his hair back, and rolled his head. His neck popped like corn. I winced.
“Both. Goats are cool. I’d like to have a goat someday. I’d call him Billy since I’m creative that way.”
That made him snicker. “Okay, so no chia pots. I figured that was a long shot, but I had to toss it out there. Is there anything on menu suggestion number fourteen that you would be willing to try?”
I intently looked over the neatly written picture of a page from one of his songbooks.
“Nope.”
He sighed heavily. “Then delete it. I’ll keep trying. We could at least do pickled—”
“No, do not say it. I’ve told you pickled eggs are evil. I give it another hour or two before the flatulence hits you like a milk truck on an icy hill.” I nodded at my wisdom. Kenan brushed it off with a wave of his musical hands. “Fine, scoff, but know this, if you start passing gas on the way home, Iwillmake you walk.”
“No, you won’t. You love me too much.” He puckered his kissable lips. Damn him. He knew me too well. I was about to tell him he had too much confidence in that magic peen of his whenI spied the flight attendant coming at us with her rolling tray of refreshments.
“We’ll finish this discussion later.” I loved those packages of Belgian cookies and wanted to be sure she saw I was awake. Kenan nodded along, his smile for the flight attendant sweet and kind, which was Kenan. He would work up a new menu soon, and I would shoot that down because my customers wanted beer and alehouse food. Not seed pods soaked in plant milk. Plant milk. Seriously. How do you milk a chrysanthemum, anyway?
The flight arrived in Detroit on time and our connection to Elmira left with no hiccups. We landed back in our neck of the woods around four in the afternoon, and as we departed the plane, I couldn’t help but be flooded with memories of our first meeting here several months ago. Kenan had been a wandering minstrel who had made the mistake of trying to busk inside the tiny airport during a horrid winter snow squall. When he’d been hassled by security, I, for reasons that I did not understand but my sister swore it was kismet, stepped in to help. Didn’t work, obviously, but he did agree to follow me to the bar just overnight. My kindness knew no bounds.
That was six months ago. Much had changed. He was no longer wandering. I was happy he was no longer wandering. He had bought the little cabin just up the lane from me, was working on his recovery, and was madly in love with me. And I with him.
“Hey, you remember when we met?” I asked and got a distracted nod from him as he checked that our passports were where they belonged in his snazzy little man purse. My term, not his or the manufacturer. Kenan was a little compulsive about having travel papers within handy reach.
“Of course,” he replied in that sultry Southern way he had, his attention now on me as we bypassed the twenty or so people on our flight waiting for their luggage. We’d only brought carry-on bags. “You rode to my rescue like a Texas Ranger.”
“I’m not sure I would go that far,” I countered, wholly uncomfortable with being touted as a hero of any kind. I was too cranky to be a hero. Heroes smiled a lot, tipped their Stetsons, and called everyone ma’am.
“Well, I would.” He leaned over to peck my cheek as we stepped through the revolving doors into a warm early June afternoon in New York. “You and Randolph Scott.”
I threw him a flat look as we made our way to short-term parking. He followed along, humming something that I’d never heard before until we reached my Nissan Rogue. We chucked our bags into the back and paid our parking fee. The day was a pleasant one, the clouds puffy, the sky as blue as a pair of worn jeans. Just as we were pulling out of the airport parking lot, a vile aroma filled the car. I gagged. Eyes watering, I hurried to lower my window before throwing the nastiest look I could at my boyfriend. He was smiling the smile that men smile when they’ve cut the cheese. Then the shitter giggled.
“Sorry,” he said between titters.
