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Log Title: Batiste Cooks

Log setting: Walker’s home on Moss Street.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Walker

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*** Log start at 07:19pm on 11-25-98

Home. Maybe that's the first thought you think, when you wake up. Or maybe, considering your home life, you think, instead, that you are -finally- home. As your consciousness starts fine-tuning itself, you realize where this thought must have come from - the house smells...divine. The smell of chocolate and baking mix sweetly with supper smells, a rich brown scent (roast, perhaps?) with fresh bread and butter and all of it's swirled together to just send out a siren-song of -home-.

Batiste is, of course, in the controlled chaos that is the kitchen. Lining the counter are dozens of tarts, all in neat rows. Peach, blueberry, blackberry, apple, and some sort of chocolate kind. He's currently tearing up a head of lettuce into a large bowl, humming absently to himself as he works. Well, shouldn't call it work, really - he looks rather content.

Soft footfalls and the 'shh' of his palm sliding along the railing can be heard as Trace decends, padding barefoot. When he comes into view of the kitchen, he's rubbing his eyes a little, but already wearing a small grin. Called down like a rat following the piper, he couldn't possibly have resisted coming downstairs and poking his head in the kitchen to find the source of such a delicious surprise. Loitering in the kitchen's entrance, he hesitates, not wanting to disturb the magic you're creating. "Smells so good.." he says with a soft smile, leaning his cheek to the wooden frame. It does smell like home, though not the worn down house in Jarreau. This is the home of school mates, neighbors with open windows, or the quaint homes dreamed up in his pictures and fantasies. He breathes it in with a contented sigh and just watches you.

The door creaks slowly open, letting in an eddy of fresh air. With no small amount of rustling Walker makes it over the threshhold, front almost completely hidden behind the large plastic bag he carries. Behind the bag-laden fellow the door eases shut again, nudged along by the heel of his boot.

Jean-Batiste looks up, towards Trace, and smiles serenely at him. "Hey, you. Feeling hungry? Everything's almost ready." He finishes tearing up the lettuce and sets it aside. On to the tomatoes, which he starts chopping up. "I got you a surprise, but you have to promise it won't ruin your appetite if I give it to you now..."

Mmm... yummy smells. That's always a nice thing to smell on coming home, though for just a brief instant Walker can't avoid the feeling that he's just wandered into his mom's house by mistake. His house never smells yummy. He detours into the living room to unload his arms, figuring the kitchen would probably be a bad choice right now, considering the scents and sounds of cooking. Rattling plastic ensues.

Trace gives a sleepy, beaming smile, stepping away from where he'd been leaning with his cheek pressed to the frame of the kitchen's entrance to venture in closer to where his friend attacks the tomatoes with precision. "I *promise* I'm gonna eat," he chuckles. "It all looks real, real good... Ain't nothin' keepin' me from my share of it now!" He peers down at the flashing knife and fruit, watching slimy seeds ooze as the red flesh of the tomato is cut, then lifts his eyes again to ask with anticipation, "So... what's the surprise?"

Jean-Batiste cuts the tomatoes into wedges, then cuts the wedges in half, and dumps them into the salad. Green onions are shredded in no time, and radishes follow. As he works, he looks towards the living room, calling, "Walker, that's you? Sorry I slept in..." He chuckles - and here he was so certain he'd be the first one up. "I hope you're hungry? I made a big supper so there'll be leftovers for a couple days..." He looks back to Trace, then, and grins. "It's in the fridge, you can't miss it. It's got a spoon taped to the lid."

Walker emerges from the living room to cross into the kitchen, a white paper sack clutched in one hand and two books tucked under the other arm. These he deposits on the table before turning his attention to what transpires. "S'up, y'all?" He greets, forcibly restraining his smile. The source of the restraint is readily apparent in the form of a brand-new stud gleaming just below his bottom lip.

Inside the fridge, with a spoon taped to the bright red lid, is the source of unnatural, impossible, unearthly sweetness - a glass jar of marshmallo creme.

Jean-Batiste finishes cutting up the radishes and adds them to the salad, then looks over towards Walker. "Wait until you see -your- treat...you already know what it is, though. So you went to-ohmygod!" He sets down the knife and scampers towards Walker to gawk at the new piercing. "Does it hurt? It looks -so- great..." He reaches out to touch it, then decides better of it, and just gawks some

"Slept in.." Trace snorts. "I think crack'a dawn's too late fer you sometimes... Me, I *like* sleep!" He giggles and pads over to the refridgerator curiously, but he glances at Walker and pauses with his hand on the handle. "Oh! Too cool, I always wanted a piercing there... It looks good! Hurt lots?" He tugs open the friedge now and peers inside, spoon, spoon... ah! He snatches up the container with the bright red lid and blinkblinks at it. Ooh... A grin blossoms as he rips the spoon off the top and peels the red lid back, peering inside. He picks it up and tilts the label his direction once more. "Hmm! I had marshmellows b'for, but not creamed ones... Can I just eat it plain, or does it go on stuff?" he asks of the resident cook eagerly, setting the tub back down and holding his spoon poised over it.

Walker gives a tight smile, eyes doing most of the real work for him. "Smarts a li'l when I smile but 'side from that it didn't even hurt s'much as doin' th' cartilage in m'ears. prob'ly be all healed in like three days." He tugs open the bag and digs through waxed paper sheets to extract a prailine patty before settling into the nearest chair. "Speakin'-a surprises..." he drawls, nibbling gently at one lumpy edge of the treat to draw out suspense. "I got somethin' for ya Bat... an' somebody surprised me." Can't beat that.

Jean-Batiste looks back at Trace, grinning widely. "Yeah, try some of it plain. You can melt it and use it on ice cream, too. I bought some to make banana splits with, later." His eyes positively -shine-. Life is good again. He heads back into the kitchen, setting the salad aside after mixing it, then peers into the oven. He breathes in the waft of scented air, and draws out a loaf of fresh bread. (No, he didn't make the bread. He cheated and bought the frozen self-rising kind. But he ain't 'fessing up to that until someone compliments him on it.) "So what'd you get me?" he asks, sliding the bread onto the countertop to cool. "And who surprised you?" Teasingly, he adds, "You're not supposed to have so much fun without us." He sniffles dramatically, then giggles.

Walker would apologize for having fun but it sure wouldn't come off sounding genuine. So he doesn't bother. "I'm not? I didn't know that... I'll try ta rememba that next time," he jests. The prailine begins to diminish in size just a little as he works his way full circle around it. "I picked ya up th' only book on voodoo Celticbahd had. Saw it while I's there an' grabbed it for ya." He frees a slightly sticky hand to tug the book out from under the other, giving it a cursory show to Bat before its set back down on the table. "While I's there Ayita an' me got ta talking an' she gave me..." The sticky fingers move to the chains and cords strewn about his neck to lift the topmost one. "This. For free. Can ya believe it?" Hi eyes move from the delicate pendant to Trace, a chuckle surfacing as he fights to keep from grinning too widely. "Tasty?"

Upon getting permission, Trace dives his spoon into the white cream dramatically and comes up with a huge, heaping gob of it, some of which plops back down into the tub. He quickly crams the glob into his mouth before more can escape, and the white cakes his lips and dribbles a little down his chin, because honestly, he took too big a bite and it doesn't all fit in his mouth. The spoon is carefully exptracted, his cheeks puffed with the marshmellow stuff. As he wipes at his chin with the back of his left hand, his eyes are bright and merry, holding back mirth because ithere'd surely be an even bigger mess if someone got him to laugh with such a mouthful.

Jean-Batiste watches Trace cram himself with marshmallow creme and laughs, "Don't ruin your appetite, geez!" as he watches the supernaturally sweet substance dribble down Trace's face. A fit of whimsy seizes him, and he darts over, grabbing Trace's hand in both of his, and licks the runaway creme off it before darting away towards Walker. Oh, no. Beware hyper cooks. He looks down at the book, smile threatening to split his face, then reaches carefully to hold up the pendant Walker singles out so it's freed from his praline-sticky fingers.

The pendant is a small silver hawk frozen mid-flight, a multi-faceted crystal clutched in its talons. Simple yet elegant.

Trace blinkblinks as his hand gets licked, and then does giggle aloud, though fortunately he'd already swallowed much of the mouthful by that point. The last of it gets sloshed around and savored on his tongue before he sets the spoon down and decides that more must be had after he's kept his promise to Batiste and sated his appetite on the real supper. He replaces the top on the lid and gets up from the table, moving over to where Batiste and Walker are standing to examine the two gifts for himself. The pendant, while pretty, holds far less interest for him than the book and he peers down at it very curiously, crouching a little for a better look, before peeking up at Batiste. "Do ya think... maybe we could look it over together sometime?" he asks, before dropping his eyes again to the voodoo book's cover.

Walker reaches for the other book as his non-prailine-holding hand is freed up from pendant duty. Pulling the dark blue book close he flips it open and begins thumbing through the crisp white pages. "Ayita said it was sorta like a dreamcatcha," he remarks about the necklace. I just think it looks nifty. I also grabbed some incense an' candles taday." He nibbles more on the slowly diminishing treat he holds, skimming over the blockprint pictures in his soft-cover book as he eats.

"It's beautiful..." Batiste murmurs enviously, admiring the metallic shine of the silver feathers and the clear glitter of the crystal. "It reminds me of her tattoo, a little." He smiles at Walker, carefully setting the pendant back down with its friends, then drapes an arm over Trace and peers down at the book again. "Yeah, definately. You bet. I want to see if there's stuff on Erzulie in it." He smiles back at Walker, then, brilliant as sunshine. "Thanks, Walker." And then he's off to the kitchen again.

Trace peers down at the book for just a few more moments before looking up and flashing Walker a grin before padding back into the kitchen and moving to put his marshmallow cream back in the fridge carefully. "So did ya go grocery shopping this mornin' or what?" he wonders, sliding back into his seat at the table and watching the cooking from there.

Walker nods as he sets his prailine aside, glancing up briefly from his study of the other book before him. "Yeah..." he murmurs thoughtfully. "It kinda does look like her tat." Which makes it all the more better because he can't help but be reminded of her when he sees it. To anyone passing it would simply be one of a jumble of other strands, but to him each and every one of the necklaces has its own inherint meaning. "An' ya welcome. When I saw it was th' only book there I figga'd it might be best ta grab it up." Flip-flip-flip through the pages of the book. Hmm... further reading will be required to know if this is simply hokey theory or applied practice. "Bat did.." he murmurs as he allows himself to get a little further engrossed.

Jean-Batiste carefully draws a heavy-seeming roaster out of the oven and slides it onto the stove, then turns the oven off. A moment later he withdraws the lid, and in curling tendrils of steam, a rather large roast is revealed. Roast beef sandwiches for a couple days, that's for sure. The roast itself is carefully lifted out from its drippings and set on a plate for carving, then the potatoes and carrots and onions around it are heaped into a bowl. Last, but not least, gravy. Of course. Flour, water, a few shakes' worth of spices, and a lot of stirring. While he's stirring, he looks back at Trace and grins. "Yeah, soon as I got up. It wasn't as expensive as I thought it would be...and I figured there'll be lots of leftovers. Cheaper to make treats, than to go buy them, anyways."

Trace nods. "Yeah.. totally," but his eyes are on that roast. "Man..." He giggles and bounces up to his feet again, meandering closer and trying to do his best to peek over Batiste's shoulder without getting in his way. "Only time I ever got food like this was in restaurants and stuff... Wow. Was it your ma that taught ya to cook like this? Or that one lady you talked about that one time...?" He subtly reaches a hand over to the salad bowl to try and snatch a tomato on the sly.

Whatever Walker's reading earns a nose wrinkle as he sets it aside. Definitely more hoke, he's thinking. Ah, well. What did he expect? He pulls himself out of the chair and heads for the refridge, digging a bottle of water from the shady depths. "Smells great, Bat," he seconds. Back to the table, water in tow. Once resettled he digs his mini clock from the pile of necklaces to give it a quick look-see.

Jean-Batiste pours the gravy into a small bowl once it starts to bubble, and sets the empty roaster aside. He grins back at Trace, asking, "Which lady? I learned in school a bit, and my grandmother taught me the most, really. My mom cooked a little, I guess, but not a whole lot. I used to make supper when they were late at work." He shrugs a little, and starts carving up the roast. "So you two want to start on the salad, and I'll fix up plates once I'm done carving?" This is a bit trickier - the roast is feeling a little slippery. Until Batiste sticks it properly with the huge two-tined carving fork, at least. Take that! *shlunk*

Walker is more than happy to start on the salad. Snapping the strung clock shut he eases to his feet again to do just that. "I haven't had real homemade roast beef since I's about fourteen..." He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it either, till now. Helping himself to leafy greens he eyes the roast with blatant desire; that simply looks too mouthwatering. Po'boys have nothing on gen-u-ine roast beef from the oven."Thanks a bunch for cookin'. Looks absolutely scrumptious."

Trace lifts his brows, "Oh, right! Yer grandma... That's who you talked' bout before. I didn't remember, just that it was someone.." He grabs three bowls from the cupboard and sets them down on the table, waiting patiently for Walker to finish up with the salad bowl. "Do we got any dressin'?" He wonders, before peeking up a little to peer into the bowl Walker holds. "Or is it already inn't?"

Jean-Batiste looks over after sliding the first few slices of roast beef onto the serving plate, smiling bashfully at Walker. "You're welcome," he murmurs. "Figured we all needed a little soul food." Then, to Trace, "There's Italian and Thousand Island in the fridge, I figured we'd all like one or the other..." Back to the roast beef. Might as well carve it all up now. He's already thinking of hot roast beef sandwiches, or cold ones on dinner rolls, covered in salt and pepper... His stomach grumbles, and he bites his lip embarrassedly, hoping neither of you heard.

Walker tugs the door of the refridge open, rooting around for dr essing bottle. He grabs them both out and sets the Thousand Island on the counter. That done his salad gets a tsunami og Italian; oil and vinegar dousing every inch. Yum. The bottle joins the other on the counter to be abandoned by him in favor of the table. Seating himself he begins nibbling at the greens, not bothering with a fork. Salad's finger foods, don't you know?

Though he's always been a Ranch boy himself, Italian definitely works too. Trace leaps up from his spot to grab the dressing back from where Walker left it and set it down beside his bowl. He takes the salad bowl and scoops himself out a healthy bowl full of greens, greedily picking out a few extra tomatoes and dropping them into his bowl before setting the salad bowl back down and taking up the dressing. Ooh, raining Italian! He splashes it onto the table some, and gets it on his hands in his enthusiasm. Then the fork is in his hand and *crunch!* He impales a giant forkful of salad, picking it up and trying to get the whole bunch of it into his mouth. It's tough -- he's got a quarter of his entire portion of salad on that one forkful. Leafy greens hanging out of his mouth, dressing running down his chin, fork poised for yet *another* bite, he happens to look up and spy Walker. What, eating salad with his fingers? How barbaric!

Jean-Batiste makes several trips to the table, until at last the spread is complete - slices of fresh bread and honest-to-goodness butter, the bowl of potatoes, carrots, and onions, the gravy, and the steaming plate of roast beef. He sets down plates and cutlery for everyone, lingering by your side a moment, hand on your shoulder, grinning down at you as you stuff yourself on salad. One final trip, which yields a glass of milk for himself, and a glass of grape juice for you. As he sinks into a chair, he explains, "Fruitopia wasn't on sale, so I just got grape juice instead..." He sounds faintly apologetic, hoping it's still okay.

Trace just grins and immediately reaches for the grape juice, chugging down almost half of the glass as his answer. Had to wash some of that salad down too -- the big bite was sticking in his throat a little. "Don't know why I'm so hungry," he puzzles happily.

Jean-Batiste sneaks a couple mouthfuls of salad straight out of the salad bowl, but doesn't dish any up for himself. He looks over at you, laughs softly, and gets to his feet, retrieving a few squares of paper towel, keeping one for himself. He dishes himself up, pouring liberal amounts of gravy over his roast beef and potatoes, then looks to you and murmurs softly, "It's 'cause you haven't fixed in a while, I think. You're only hungry just before you fix, usually." It's a bit like the knife game, trying to pinpoint when you'll be hungry, and making sure there's food around, then.

Trace licks his lips and reaches for a paper towel before nodding slightly. "Yeah... yeah, I guess. It's good for makin' ya not hungry when there's no food 'round..." He grins a little behind the paper towel, scrubbing briefly before dropping it beside his plate in a crumpled ball and reaching over to add some thick slices of roast to his plate, then some potatoes. "But that's no problem round you, is it?" He giggles a little and finally grabs a piece of bread before dropping back into his place and digging into his freshly filled plate.

Jean-Batiste's quiet a while, filling his face with food. It's not going to get him any five-star reviews or anything, but it's still good food. Soul food, like he said. He pauses to mop up a bit of gravy with the edge of his slice of bread, chewing with blissfully half-lidded eyes. "Yep. Not a problem." He grins at you, licking gravy off the corner of his mouth. "Got to make sure you're in top shape for the mural, right? Keep those artistic juices topped up." He pokes your shoulder, as if testing your doneness, then laughs.

Trace laughs, "Oh, z'at what this is about, huh? Maintenance fer the mural." He seems to like the idea. After a few quick mouthfuls of the roast, he starts in on the potatoes, pouncing on the pieces with his fork -- thuck, thuck, thuck -- stacking them up like shish-cabobs and then sliding the whole thing into his mouth before pulling the fork away clean. A few minutes later find the potatoes on his plate much depleated, and he's now smothering the meat in gravy. As he sets the gravy back down he asks, "So we gonna work on the mural more tonight?" before his mouth is quickly occupied by roast.

Jean-Batiste grins at you as he chews another piece of bread mopped through the gravy on his plate. "Yep. No other reason, just making sure you keep puttin' out." He laughs, ducking away from you, expecting a whap for that one. The rest of his plate is quickly polished off and pushed aside for now, his smile almost drowsy as he savours the feeling of a full belly. "Well...I guess it depends if Jason's back or not, or...well, if we want to work on another part, if he's not back?" He shrugs slightly, frowning. He's torn. He wants to paint more, but...should he, without Jason? "What d'you think we should do?" he asks you, turning in his chair to face you directly.

Trace frowns thoughtfully, working over his last bite of roast. He finally swallows it down, chased by a gulp of grape juice, before voicing his opinion on it. "Well, I guess... I guess Jason oughta be here. I don't really get what happened to him. He said he was just goin' down for a drink, but... I mean, did you see him asleep down here this morning before you went for groceries?" He shrugs a little, already assuming the answer is no. Jason probably just left to do... whatever. Mysterious Jason Things can sure be frustrating at times.

Jean-Batiste steals another piece of bread and slowly butters it before he answers. He shrugs gently as he takes the first bite, and says as he chews, "He wasn't down here, when I got up. I figure he left when he went downstairs last night, but..." He shrugs. Mysterious Jason Things are frustrating indeed. "We could do parts of our own walls, or eachother's walls, if we wanted? There's..." He purses his lips for a second, then says cautiously, "There's some stuff I want to do on my wall that I can do myself."

"Well..." Trace considers, twisting one of his braids around in greasy fingers carelessly, elbows propped on the table. "Well, it's just that I know *I'd* wanna watch as you added that stuff to yer wall. I mean, 'course you could do a whole bunch've it alone, but that's not the *point*..." He stretches languidly for a moment, "Mmmmph.." and scritches at his full belly before looking back to you with a grin. "Ah well. He'll prolly' be back tonight. And anyway, unless yer carrying we ain't got the supplies fer it right now.. 'less you feel like spliting one hit of acid 'tween the two of us, or three of us, or whoever's round when we get back to painting."

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