"I can't believe you just said that to me" for the one sentence prompts? (I'm thinking Toby and Andy for reasons but. Anyone could work)
I fear you were inspired by thoughts of the tragedy of Them but the only thing my brain could conjure was sweet.
“You're butchering the marinara sauce.”
Toby’s volume was not loud, but the tension in his voice might have led an eavesdropper to believe that he was coaching someone through a life-or-death procedure, and not, in fact, hovering at his wife’s shoulder as she cooked.
Andy’s affronted gasp completely matched his tone. “Excuse me? First of all, Ziegler, it's been five seconds.” She stirred pointedly, sloshing the bright red sauce. “It's not even blended yet. It hasn't even boiled!”
“The steps before the boiling are crucial. Eighty percent of the cooking comes before the boiling and the reducing,” her husband argued back. His right hand settled briefly on her stirring arm and immediately retracted, knowing how that would be interpreted, and a second later his left hand crept along the hem of her shirt, right at the base of her spine, and slid slowly to her waist. He shifted closer. Andy felt his breath warm on the side of her neck, and she arched slightly into the heat, feeling some of the tension ease from her shoulders. “Mrs. Ziegler,” he added, much more appreciatively.
Then he said: “You're not even stirring right.”
Andy jolted out of his embrace, tossing her loose red hair in a way that ensured he got smacked in the face. Toby stepped to the side, his gaze moving between the sauce, with distinct disapproval, and then Andy, with a smug sparkle to his dark eyes.
She withdrew the spoon from the pot, tapped it once to shake off the excess sauce, and then pointed it at him, still dripping with the improperly stirred mix of San Marzano tomatoes, diced garlic, chopped onion, and herbs.
“I can't believe you just said that to me,” she enunciated sharply. “While I'm standing between you and dinner.”
“You were stirring incorrectly.” Toby said again, and tilted his head at her. Egging her on.
“Oh, would counter-clockwise have suited you better?”
“Some proper technique would have. You were leaving the center completely unstirred. How can you expect a consistent marinara if you don't stir half the sauce?”
“I was getting the center just fine, you’re just used to stirring sloppy to compensate for the fact that you've got the heat up too high!”
“Are you accusing me of burning sauce?”
“I'm accusing you of not being able to tell when something is hot without some smoke.”
“That's ridiculous,” said Toby with genuinely appalled expression. “You're the one who can't make a decent batch of fudge.”
“Fudge? We’re making marinara —”
“You know what I mean, it's a dish that requires good instincts and a functioning candy thermometer—”
“So you don't have that good of an instinct for temperature, then?” A glob of tomato fell off the spoon and splattered unheeded to the floor. Steam billowed off the unattended pot.
“There's a narrow window between threading and soft-ball stage when you're cooking sugar!”
“And there's a broad definition of stirring! You can pretty much do whatever you want so long as everything gets, you know, stirred!” Andy gestured wildly and more tomato was flung off the spoon, this time splattering across the countertop.
“Which you weren't doing —” Toby reiterated.
“Wasn't your problem, not two minutes ago, with the eighty percent of marinara preparation that came before this?”
“Yeah. That was pretty bad, too. But don't worry. I love you for other things than your cooking.”
Toby stepped closer. “You didn't let the onions sweat long enough before you added the garlic.”
Andy took a step closer too. “Yes I did!”
“You did use baking soda…” said Toby, musingly, taking another step.
“Of course, only crazy people put sugar in their marinara,” said Andy, lip curling in disgust at the notion. She was inches away again, now, but facing him this time. Her cheeks were flushed from cooking and his poking and prodding, but her eyes were full of mischief despite her expression.
“Well, you're crazy,” he told her.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But in the fun way. In the cool, exciting way that makes me clever and sexy.” She was very close now.
“Very clever and sexy.” Toby’s next breath was so close that Andy’s eyelashes fluttered. He leaned in, but she pulled back at the last second, just far enough that their lips did not touch.
“And good at cooking,” she suggested, softly.
His lips twitched. “And good at—”
The distinct smell of burning cut him off. Both of them turned at the same moment to see the half-stirred sauce bubbling ominously, already blackened at the edges. One of the bubbles popped menacingly and splattered tomato and onion over the edge of the pot and onto the stovetop, where it hissed and began to burn, smoke going up.
Andy and Toby both swore simultaneously and lunged for it at the same time. They collided hard — once, twice, a third time, elbows and chests bumping together and Andy’s foot somehow coming down hard on his toes, and between repeated cries of “ouch!” and “sorry!” and “honey!” and much bumbling, they somehow got the pot off the burner and the sauce off the stovetop.
They stood there for a moment, looking between the sink full of prep dishes, the still-steaming pot and lid on their trivets, still bubbling ominously and smelling of both tomatoes and tar, and the smudges and splatters of red that had somehow accumulated on several walls, the floor, and Andy’s cheek.
Andy tossed the spoon into the sink.
“Takeout?” she suggested.
“You order and clean the countertops, and I'll do the dishes.” Toby offered generously.
Andy’s lips turned down. “Because you don't trust me to clean them properly?”
“Hey, why don't you order and clean the countertops, and I'll do the dishes,” he said again.
“You love me,” she reminded him, stepping into his space again and wrapping her arms around his waist as if she belonged there. “I'm clever and sexy and good at cooking.”
“You are all of those things,” agreed Toby. He kissed the marinara sauce off her cheek and watched with delight as her face flushed again, still charmed by him a year into marriage.
Andy kissed the tip of his nose and then unwound herself from him and went off in search of the phone and the stack of menus, and Toby reflected that he could deal with a thousand batches of half-stirred marinara for the next few decades to include little kisses like that. He tasted marinara on his lips, smiling slightly. Then he looked down at the still-steaming dishes and sighed.
