A/N: I made it just in the nick of time with this one! Almost missed the deadline, but here it is--a silly little piece for the November Cullen's Bullpen Challenge. Most of the song lyrics used here are mine, with the exception of the last quatrain, which belongs to George Gershwin.
Enjoy!
Seeley Booth was nervous.
Standing in the middle of his kitchen, faced fully with the enormous task he had taken on, he suddenly realized just how little experience he had. He had cooked before, sure. Lots of times, in fact. He'd even prepared a few rather upscale meals in his time. But this was different.
This was Thanksgiving dinner.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and took a deep breath, surveying the scene. He wasn't an intuitive cook, so he had to work from recipes, carefully chosen for both the level of simplicity and maximum taste. That part had actually been kind of fun, and he had smiled cheerfully when he laid them out on the countertop. The groceries necessary for each dish had been purchased a week ago in anticipation of the day, and even battling crazed housewives and grandmothers for the best turkey hadn't been terrible enough to discourage him. This was, after all, just food, and he could handle food. He was a Special Agent with the FBI, not some weak-willed pansy.
He took in another breath and let it out slowly, making his way over to the row of recipe cards neatly arranged on the counter.
"Okay," he told himself out loud. "Let's start with an easy one."
Cherry pie. Just the ticket. Cherry pie was easy, only two ingredients—cherry pie filling and pie crust. Pour one in the other and bake. No sweat.
He pulled the can of filling from the cupboard and rummaged through a drawer looking for the can opener, drawing it out with a look of triumph on his face. "Okay," he said again, this time with more confidence. "Found the can opener."
In no time flat he had the store-bought crust rolled out on the counter, holes and weak spots repaired, and gently transferred it to the pie pan waiting on the other side of the kitchen. In went the pie filling, the second crust topped it, and he even remembered to make vent slots—in the shape of the letters "FBI"—so the pie didn't explode while baking.
"Nicely done," he commented, turning the completed pie around on the counter. "An FBI cherry pie. That wasn't too hard…"
He popped the pie into the oven and felt himself relaxing a little. "Next up, pumpkin pie. You can't have Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie."
That, too, turned out to be a manageable task. He rolled out another pie shell and mixed the ingredients together, humming the theme song from some old cooking show his mother used to watch as he worked. Pouring the mixture into the crust and cleaning up some of the mess he'd made, he smiled brightly as he slid the pumpkin pie to a place next to the stove.
"You're going in next," he told it sternly. "And while we wait for that, it's on to the apples!"
He was singing now, a nameless tune with words he made up as he went along, peeling and coring apples as he crooned.
"I'm bakin' a pie
Bones didn't think I could do it!
She says men can't multi-task
But I'm doin' just fine
Me and my pie…"
The peeled apples were chopped, some more carefully than others as he began to dance in time with his song, holding his knife like a microphone and shimmying across the linoleum between cuts.
"Cherry, apple, pumpkin
I hope she brings her appetite!
They're gonna be great
And she'll have to agree
That I did a good job
Bakin' my pies..."
"Woops!" he chuckled, yanking a finger out of the way of a slipping knife blade just in the nick of time. "That was a close one. I know Bones isn't afraid of blood or anything, but I doubt it's a taste she'd appreciate in apple pie."
That settled him down a bit and he finished compiling the dessert in a slightly more serious manner. The timer on the stove dinged, and he grabbed his "kiss the cook" hot pads from their drawer.
"Ah, here we go…" He opened the oven door and pulled out the cherry pie with a flourish. "Beautiful!"
He found an out of the way spot for the pie to cool and quickly popped the pumpkin into the oven in its place, adjusting the temperature to suit the baking needs of the new occupant. Spinning on his heel, he flipped the oven closed with his foot and sauntered back to the apple pie, shifting it to the "on deck circle" where the pumpkin pie had been moments before.
Standing in the middle of his kitchen, Seeley Booth surveyed the room a second time. Three of his carefully chosen recipe cards had been removed from their places on the countertop, filed away for future use. A pile of dirty dishes rose high out of the sink, a testament to the work he had accomplished, and the aroma of freshly-baked cherry pie filled the room.
He grinned broadly. "See? No sweat. And tomorrow all I have to do is the turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, the sweet potatoes, the rolls, the cranberry sauce…"
The wave of anxiety that had gripped him early crashed over him again, and the color drained from his face. But he steeled himself against it.
"I got this," he decided, his voice cool as he shook the tension from his shoulders. "I got my recipe cards, I got my cookbooks, and I got…" The grin returned to his lips and he threw back his head.
"I got rhythm
I got music
I got my gal
Who could ask for anything more!"
He laughed heartily at himself. "But now I have to figure out how to keep Bones from finding out I sing when I cook…"