“That’s how you end up with cinnamon chili,” Walker said, wincing at the memory. “Recipes are exact for a reason.”
“Cinnamon chili? Now, that sounds experimental,” Mal said, grinning.
“It was inedible.” Walker sighed. “I warned Ferdie, but he flew too close to the sun.”
Janelle laughed, grinning like a loon. “I kind of want to try it.”
“I do too. That might make it into my experiments this week. If dinner isn’t good, I can blame it on Fernando.”
Walker winced again, feeling like he had tossed his omega under the bus.
“Now, this chicken comes from a local ranch and is free-range. There are no preservatives or chemicals in this lovely meat. Simple ingredients mean healthier living,” Mal said.
Walker tilted his head, intrigued as he watched Mal cook.
“Walker, pat these chicken thighs, please.”
Walker did as he was told, Mal, looking over his shoulder. “Pro tip,” Mal said. “Dry skin equals crispy skin. Moisture is the enemy of crunch.” Mal guided Walker through the rest of the process. “Slide the chicken into the bowl of marinade and coat each piece thoroughly.”
The scent grew deeper and more delicious. Walker breathed it in and smiled. Maybe it wasn’t working with explosives, but cooking was still interesting. And less deadly.
“Let it sit at least twenty minutes,” Mal said. “Which is perfect, because that’s exactly how long it takes for Bianca to start arguing about something.”
“I don’t argue,” Bianca protested.
“Sorry. I meant that you debate aggressively,” Mal corrected.
Janelle crossed her arms. “What are we debating aggressively about today?”
Mal smiled. “Best summer food.”
“Tomatoes,” Bianca said instantly.
“Grilled corn,” Janelle countered.
“Hot dogs,” Walker said. “Classic. No notes.” He had very few good memories of his childhood, but one of them involved one of the nicer foster families he had been with and a trip to the state fair. Hot dogs featured prominently in that memory.
“Oh, I don’t know. Hot dogs are a good summer food, but watermelon is cold, sweet, and perfect in the summer.” Mal placed the marinated chicken, skin-side up, in a cast-iron skillet, carefully arranging it.
“That’s dessert,” Bianca protested.
“It’s emotional support fruit.” Mal stuck his tongue out at her.
While they waited for the chicken, Mal showed Walker how to put together the roasted potatoes. It was easy. The potatoes went into a bowl along with olive oil, salt, and cracked pepper.
Walker tossed them with his hands, trying to be gentle. “Am I doing this right?” he asked.
“There’s no wrong way,” Mal said, patting his shoulder and giving him a soft look.
Bianca raised an eyebrow. “That is absolutely not true. You tell me I do it wrong all the time.”
Mal shrugged. “Okay, there are wrong ways, but Walker isn’t doing any of them.”
Walker ignored Bianca’s indignant squawk and spread the potatoes around the chicken.
“Perfect, Walker.” Mal slid the skillet into the oven with a practiced motion. “Now,” he said, dusting off his hands, “we make the salad.”
Tomatoes in shades of red and gold hit the cutting board. Walker sliced them cleanly, juice pooling bright and glossy.Aww, knives,he thought happily. He had thoroughly enjoyed his close combat training, especially knife-fighting.
