The meat sizzled on the stove, a cloud of smoke rising above it. She grabbed the proper seasonings, sprinkling them over the chicken at her own liking. The cooking oil bubbled around the poultry, each tiny bubble exploding with bits of hot splatter which hit her skin and gently singed it. But she didn't mind the heat. What was that American saying? If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Well, she had no intention of getting out of the kitchen anytime soon so she had no choice but to get used to the heat. Besides, she liked heat; it reminded her of home.
With a utensil, she gently turned the meat over in the pan and sprinkled her seasonings on the other side; there was nothing worse that under-seasoned meat. On a whim, she grabbed the bottle of lemon juice from the refrigerator and splashed it in to add a bit of acidity. She despised the tart taste of the citrus fruit, but it wasn't so strong when absorbed by the moist skin of a chicken.
As she was putting back the juice, Ziva paused and smiled. How many of her co-workers were surprised by her talents in the kitchen? It wasn't a hobby that many people would connect with a Mossad officer—an assassin, as some preferred to call her. She couldn't deny that the shoe fit.
Food made sense to Ziva. You were given a recipe with strict instructions and you followed those instructions to create the divinely delicious meal. In a way it was like her Mossad training; you were given your assignment and you followed those orders. If you did not follow them the results could be disastrous, even fatal. The difference between cooking and Mossad was that the former left room for the chef's creativity while the latter left no room at all for anything other than the exact orders given. Perhaps that was what had appealed to her; the freedom.
She stirred the noodles as they softened in the boiling water. Her mother had always told her not to add salt to her carbohydrates, but Ziva liked a little kick to her noodles. Her mother would never know that she'd add a pinch of salt (as well as a little bit of pepper) to her spaghetti. The sauce was thin—a cheap, store brand sauce—so she needed the extra seasoning.
There was something therapeutic in cooking. It wasn't just that a person's mind became so focused on the food that she ceased to think about any other problems in her life; the cooking—the smells, the tastes, the painstaking motions—was simply relaxing, calming her tired body into a sweet lull before she sat down for her meal. She couldn't imagine sticking a frozen dinner into the microwave and nuking it to a lukewarm temperature. Those so-called meals never tasted right, never had the right flavors and right textures. It wasn't a proper meal. How could someone relax from a hard day at work with a gooey mess of preservatives that tasted like rubber and gunk?
Ziva removed the peas from the stove top and added a little butter to give them a rich creamy taste. She was breaking another of her mother's rules, but she couldn't serve peas without butter; something about it didn't taste right to her.
A knock at the door pulled her away from her feast. The clock above the stove showed it to be 7:35, forcing her to wonder who could be at the door. After wiping the excess butter from her hands, she calls out, "Coming!" lest her visitor should become restless.
"You are early," she admonishes as her guests enter the apartment.
"Didn't want to miss out on the grub," Tony said as he placed a bottle of white wine on the counter.
"You will have to wait as it is not yet cooked."
"Can I help?" Tim asked while trying to find a good place for the cheesecake he'd brought.
"No," Ziva said firmly. "You go sit and relax. The food should be ready shortly."
Abby put her salad on the counter beside the win and peeked into the hot frying pan. "Oh, this looks good! And it smells good," she added with a long inhale.
"Not my best," Ziva said modestly, "but I do try. Now go sit." She gave Abby a push toward the moderately-sized table, lest the Goth girl should try to resist. When Ziva gave a dinner party, she didn't like for her guests to feel it necessary to help. She was the host; the cooking was her responsibility.
Abby did as she was told, good-naturedly commenting, "I've forgotten what a stickler you are in the kitchen."
The words made Ziva smile as she returned to her food, nearly cooked to perfection. It wasn't a five star meal or the kind of thing someone would find in a high scale restaurant, but it didn't matter. They would eat it up all the same, thanking her for her hospitality and her praising her for her culinary talents.
In truth, the best part about cooking was sharing it with close friends.