Clarice smirked as she slipped downstairs at about four in the morning. Hannibal was upstairs taking a shower and getting ready for work. He worked at a nearby museum, like most of his choice professions, it was a position of high prestige and required great intellect. Already his peers were remarking on his abilities, which outstandingly surpassed the previous curator. She was exceedingly proud of her lover's accomplishments.
However, there was a downside. She felt constantly overshadowed by his many talents and, if she were to allow herself to admit it, bothered by his sarcastic taunting. Clarice did not much like being belittled and her retaliation often amused her lover. That was probably why he so loved being an instigator. Her temper must do something for him.
Anywho, he was allowing her this retaliation because of last night's teasing. Once again, her rustic background had come up in conversation and he'd remarked how he couldn't see how she'd managed to grow up on the less than elegant dining choices of her poor family. How in the world did she stomach the embarrassment of wanting to be more than trailer trash if she was forced to eat instant mac and cheese every Thursday instead of caviar?
Well, now it was her turn to cook. And she was going to make him the most fattening, most Southern-styled breakfast that she could make.
"Where is that cornstarch?" She fumbled around in the cabinet for a full three minutes before finding a small can pushed to the back. Satisfied, she reached for the milk and the sausage she'd been thawing overnight. She smiled evilly. This was gonna be great payback!
stared down at the goey grey mass on his plate. It had been spooned over two hulking pieces of homemade bread. "May I ask what this is supposed to be?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at his dear Clarice.
She couldn't suppress a grin and snicker. "Sausage gravey."
"Oh, I see." He allowed her to see his aversion to this crude breakfast, for her own sake, of course. She did enjoy her revenge, did Clarice. "And the orange juice is also from concentrate, I believe?"
"Yep, no fresh-squeezed today, H." She cut and speared her toast. "Oh, and one more thing. In the South, we eat with our elbows on the table." He shot her a disapproving look. "It just makes things taste a bit better.
Well, anything to make this gloopy stuff taste better, but he wisely and politely kept his words to himself. "When in Rome, Clarice." He replied curtly, nodding his head.
"And when in West Virginia, do as the hillybillies do." She grinned and enjoyed her breakfast. Goodness, she hadn't eaten this way in years! She missed it so much. "Oh," She said as another thought broke through. "Hannibal, I thought that you'd like to know a fact about my accent. You know, since you love to learn an' all."
He forced down a forkfull of the overly seasoned meat and bland gravey, blotting at his mouth with a napkin. "Yes?"
She chuckled and took a swig of OJ. "Appalachian accents are actually much closer to true Elizabethian English than the modern Europeans' and other Americans' speech patterns." She nearly lost it when, for a moment, he appeared slightly shocked. "Yep, it's because of our long-term isolation. So, what do you have to say about my accent now? Am I still a rube?"
At first, he only stared at her with an approving smile. "Touche, my love." He finished his last (thankfully!) bite of breakfast. "Excuse me, my dear, but I must now go brush my teeth." Hannibal could still feel the greasy residue on his tongue and the aftertaste of the spice was terrible.
Clarice called after him, barely managing to talk between her bouts of laughter. "I thought you said it was always good to try new things!"