My first story of 2013! I hope y'all enjoy it!
Un bon diner cajun excite l'espirit tandis qu'il adoucit le coeur.
Even Gibbs can't remember when his team has ever been called out to a worse crime scene. Young Petty Officer Wallace had been shot in a drug deal gone wrong beneath a highway overpass, and his body was half-buried in snow by the time Gibbs's team arrived in the pre-dawn darkness. The temperature was almost freezing, the wind was fierce, and they'd had to shout to each other just to make themselves heard.
A pale, watery sunrise is breaking through the clouds when they step off the elevator and trudge back into the bullpen. Tony is brushing snow from his pants, McGee is stomping frozen mud off his boots, and Ziva is unwinding her scarf from around her neck. Even Gibbs is shaking off the sleet that's fallen on his head, making his hair look even more silver than usual. Someone has turned the monitor on to ZNN, which is broadcasting the morning weather report; the snow and winds are expected to continue through the week. The metallic scent of cold is heavy on their coats, but Gibbs can make out a warm, spicy smell, beckoning them into the bullpen.
When they come around the corner from the elevator, they see Abby, standing with her back to them in her long black coat and platform shoes. She's leaning over McGee's desk, her head bent and her hands busy with something. The meaty, spicy smell grows stronger — Tony can identify sausage and onions, and he almost shoves Gibbs out of the way to find its source. McGee cranes his neck to peer over Gibbs's shoulder, his mouth watering.
"Abs?" Gibbs calls.
"Oh, good!" their forensic scientist exclaims when she turns and sees them. She has a large, stainless-steel pot in one hand and a ladle in the other. "You guys got back just in time! I made you all some gumbo. Eat up now, while it's still hot."
Abby doesn't have to tell them twice. Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva each find a steaming bowl of thick, dark stew on their desks, and they fall to it ravenously, while McGee pulls off his gloves and flexes his hands, trying to work feeling back into his frozen fingers. Abby ladles some more gumbo into his bowl and thrusts it at him, and he grips it tightly with both hands, the warmth of it soaking into his palms.
"Ah, that's better," he sighs. Then he smiles and jokes, "Hey, I might not even eat this stuff. I might just hold onto the bowl for the rest of the day."
Abby points a warning finger at him. "Oh no, you're going to eat it if I have to spoon-feed it to you, McGee. You guys look frozen to the bone, and this is just what you need." She hands him a spoon, and he digs in. For a moment, the only sounds are of chewing and swallowing, and an occasional moan of pleasure, as the team eats on their feet, too intent on filling their appetites to even sit down. Steam rises from Gibbs's bowl and melts the flecks of sleet at his hairline.
Tony is already half-way through his bowl. "Mmm, this hits the spot, Abs," he praises, pausing to cut a hard-boiled egg in half with the edge of his spoon. "You make it yourself?"
"Yep," Abby answers proudly. "I found this recipe online for a microwaveable roux, and when I heard about that crime scene you guys got called out to at the crack of dawn, I decided it would be a perfect time to try it. I made my favorite combination — chicken, sausage, and egg."
"It is delicious, Abby," Ziva says. "What is it called again? Gumbo?"
"Yep," Abby grins. "I can teach you how to make it, if you want — it's not hard. Ooh, and I put some extra Tony Chachere's in your bowl, Ziva. I know you like spicy foods."
Ziva opens her mouth to ask who Tony Chachere is, but then she notices that the guys look as confused as she does by the mention of his name. So she just shrugs and eats another heaping spoonful of gumbo instead.
"That's good stuff, Abs," Gibbs says. He drops his spoon into his empty bowl with a plink.
Abby beams proudly. "I knew you would like it, Gibbs. I always make a big pot gumbo at this time of year, and then I say, 'Bring it on, northeastern winter. Bring it on.'"
Gibbs wipes his mouth with a napkin, balls it up, and tosses it into the bowl, too. He's clearly ready to get back to work, but first, he pulls Abby to him and kisses her hair. "We owe you one," he tells her, then turns expectantly to his field agents and pins them with a look that clearly says, And what do we say to Abby, kids?
Tony tips his head back to get the last dregs of gumbo from his bowl, then straightens up. "Mmm... you are a lifesaver, Abby. That was just what we needed."
"Thanks, Abby," McGee says, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "No other team in the Navy Yard has it so good."
"Aw, shucks," she answers sweetly. "That's only because no other team in the Navy Yard is as good as you guys."
"Thank you, Abby," Ziva tells her. She pauses to wash the gumbo down with a sip from her water bottle. "This was great. It... sticks to your ribs, yes?" She glances around at her team for confirmation on the idiom, and the guys nod.
Abby clicks her tongue, touched. "Aww, Ziva, that's exactly what my grandma always used to say. That gumbo sticks to your ribs when it's cold out. Of course, back in Louisiana, only about one week of the year is really cold enough for you to say that." She pauses and sighs, a bit nostalgic. "If only my grandma could see me now, stomping through snow and scraping ice off my windshield just to get to work."
"And speaking of work," Gibbs cuts in, shooting his agents a warning glare. They wipe their mouths and return to their desks, while Abby returns to her lab downstairs. They don't see her for a few more hours, as they work pulling records on Petty Officer Wallace and looking over crime-scene photos in the bullpen. But for the rest of the day, even as the snow continues to fall, and the temperature drops to freezing, they all feel warm inside.
FIN
P.S. Remember, gumbo with hard-boiled eggs is the best, hands down.
P.P.S. This story is in memory of my grandmother, who was the most generous person I've ever known, who made the best gumbo I've ever tasted, and who died one year ago this week. I pray that I can always find the warmth of her kitchen in my heart.