Should posted this three weeks ago when it was done. But, well, clearly that didn't happen. Thanks to Lauren for all the help she gave.
Thinly-sliced carrots, garlic, a teaspoon of black pepper, salmon, mushrooms... Bake for an hour at three-hundred and fifty degrees... makes four servings...
Cauliflower florets, broccoli, fine dry bread crumbs, onion, a dash of paprika, prepared horseradish... bake at three-hundred and fifty degrees for fifteen minutes. Makes... far too many servings for him to eat.
Grissom was adjusting as well as he could.
But things weren't going as smoothly as he wanted them to, as he thought they might, as he hoped they would.
He continued to make double portions; after he had spent two hours cooking up his own spinach quiche, he'd halved it, keeping one half for himself, placing the other in Tupperware, and tossing it into the refrigerator alongside various other meals that he'd cooked for the both of them.
There wasn't one part of him that didn't think he was being irrational, but he couldn't help it. There was quite literally a hole in his heart... and he was filling it with food. Good food, gourmet food, things that took much too long to prepare and only a few moments to consume.
Grissom purchased saffron for a vegetable dish she'd always wanted to try though she could never seem to find the time to make it, and spent one Saturday morning-while watching the Packers game-whipping it up. Zucchini and squash and onions and saffron with rice and it was so, so good that he'd almost had to eat her plateful. Restraining himself, he'd shuffled to the sink and snatched up a spare container and spooned the remains inside, sealed it with a click and put it in the last available free spot in the refrigerator.
Staring at it for a moment as Joe Buck announced a Favre touchdown behind him, he hung his head and allowed the door to swing itself shut. The pain was becoming almost unbearable; her bi-weekly phone calls were almost making it worse. Each and every time after she would disconnect, all of the things he wanted to say would come tumbling unceremoniously out of his mouth in a tangle of words.
It quite literally felt as though he was wasting away.
It looked it too. When he had been preparing for work one evening, he'd slid on his belt and been able to fasten it a slot tighter than normal. Grissom knew what it was; it was her food. Her organic, low fat, crap that she'd brainwashed him into buying. Changing him, she was always trying to change him whether he knew it or not and when he fooled himself into truly believing that, that's when the resentment began to present itself.
That's when he decided that though Rome wasn't built in a day, it was time to begin weaning himself off of the parts of her that were sustaining him.
Cakes, cakes he took a swing at. Large, thick, frosting-covered monstrosities with at least a pound of butter. They were confections that she would never had allowed him to eat (unless it was eaten off of her). And colors too, they were brashly colorful. blue and pink and orange and he'd only take a slice before he slid the rest into the garbage.
Because he couldn't taste the sugar, and he couldn't enjoy the texture. It was like swallowing air.
Every week or so, he would empty the contents of the fridge and begin a whole new batch of culinary masterpieces; eventually, there were intricate garnishes, and thoughtful desserts and more than once he let Hank go to town on her "leftovers".
After nights sleeping on his side of the bed-although Catherine had been sure to quietly tell him that sleeping in the middle was much healthier-he would get awaken and prepare cheesy omelets with enough butter to cause a massive coronary. Eating them with ketchup he couldn't really taste, he would listen to the evening news and pretend not to feel the dog's longing gaze on his back.
He wanted the lights of the Strip, a nice scotch and anonymity.
But what he really wanted was a night on the couch, some Vitamin Water and someone regulating his diet.
There was a reasonable flow to things, and he knew he needed to grieve, he just wasn't sure that re-eating the twenty-nine pounds that she had helped him lose was it. But it seemed like the right way to go.
With every successive bite he took, he was regaining a bit of flavor, allowing himself to taste things once more. He stopped purchasing sprouts and organic lettuce, began buying meat in larger quantities. Porterhouse steaks, legs of lamb, chicken breast.
Portion control went out the window and he would spend long minutes cooking himself an elaborate feast and sitting down to eat all of it, even when he wasn't sure he could fit another bite. Grissom would clean his plate and eat dessert and go to bed with a full stomach and empty heart.
Catherine told him when she realized that he was packing on the pounds, but he paid her no mind and went right back on to eating his meatball sub.
Every single ounce he'd lost, he gained back in the span of a month, his cheeks and tummy filling out once more, making him look much jollier than he felt. Sides of mayonnaise, helpings of ketchup, snacks of pickles and potato chips and he began tasting every fleck of flavor, his taste buds latching onto the food greedily in an attempt to fill up the spaces that she had left inside of him.
By the time January rolled around, there was virtually no trace of her left in their cabinets, and he'd cleaned and reorganized all of the Tupperware. Her cookbooks were placed in a box at the back of their closet and her heavy, top-of-the-line spaghetti machine went into a bin in the darkest corner of the garage.
Back leading the solitary life, Grissom thought that he'd farmed most of her influences out of his life…
Until he saw that tofu was on sale that week and thought that she might like to freeze some for later…