A/N: Recipes are real, from http://www.foodtv.com/foodtv/recipe/0,6255,25159,00.html
(bread) and http://www.cooks.com/rec/doc/yEdGGGGGpGfGsGfhdGfhyGfhhshAEsGsGsEswsTsUhdAOATsGsysOsfh/ (quiche)
Chapter 8
Grissom knew better than to let her up at that moment. If Sara got up, she was just going to take another swing at him – and she would probably win a real pillow fight between them. No way, he wasn't going to get himself beat up just yet. He rolled her over until Sara was beneath him. "No way, Sara. You win – but if I let you up now you're going to make sure you win!"
She tried wheedling. "Oh, come on Gris. I'm not going to hit you once you've conceded defeat." He smirked and shook his head. "I promise! I won't. I just want to get dinner started so we can eat before it's time to go to work!" This seemed to hit the mark, and Grissom gave her a suspicious look and rolled off her, pulling Sara to her feet.
"Now behave, young lady," he warned as they finally made it into the kitchen. Sara stuck her tongue out at his back, but refrained from any more tackling.
When she saw the already-unpacked groceries, Sara raised an eyebrow at her worthy opponent. "Well at least you're good for something," she quipped. "Now . . . you get to make the bread. That's harder to mess up." She pushed a pile of measuring cups and spoons toward Grissom, then handed him a battered recipe card.
"You're – I'm – actually going to make bread? From scratch?"
"Guess your investigative skills didn't hit that bread flour as hard as I expected they would. Yes, Grissom, we're going to bake bread. I do it regularly. Too many preservatives in that store-bought stuff." She dug a jar of honey out of a cabinet above his head and passed that to him as well. "Now measure these out – here, Grissom, look at the recipe," she said in exasperation. "I thought you cooked!"
"I do. Just not bread."
"Ok, fine. Well let me get this quiche going and then I'll help you. Just sit tight and don't break anything in the meantime."
Grissom gave her a dirty look, but put down the recipe and watched her prepare her . . . ugh, he could barely think it . . . quiche - which he was expected to eat!
"You're just lucky I use pre-made crusts, or you'd be tearing your hair out." Sara grinned as she chopped the broccoli and lined the crust with it. "Here. Keep busy – mix these up," she said, handing him a bowl, the fake eggs, fake milk, salt, and pepper. Grissom awkwardly obeyed her orders and managed to get everything into the bowl together without spilling or wrinkling his nose too much. "Now dump." She indicated the pie pan, which currently held the crust and the broccoli. He dumped the contents of his bowl into it. Sara reached for the cheese grater and the soy cheese, grating the latter to cover the egg mixture. Walking over to preheat the oven, Sara chirped, "Good. Quiche done. Now that wasn't so hard, now was it?" Grissom grunted.
"Well thanks for your enthusiasm," Sara continued. "Now, let me teach you how to make bread. I do not want to hear you ever make fun of my cooking abilities again, Mr. 'bread?'!" Another grunt answered her. Sara snorted. "Don't be bitter just 'cause I've proved you wrong, bugman."
Sara did the measuring and mixing, then handed the dough and the package of bread flour off to Grissom. "Since you're the man," she explained sarcastically, "you get to knead. Knock yourself out." She put the quiche in the topmost of her two wall ovens, then leaned back against the counter with a smug grin.
Grissom grimly began kneading. He would get her for this. His eye fell upon the open bag of flour he was sampling from. "Oh . . . this will be good. Watch out, pillow-girl," he thought smugly. He turned to Sara. "Can you come give me a hand? I can't get this flour all mixed in."
Smiling magnanimously, Sara returned to the counter. She dusted off her hands and began in a lecturing tone, "You're not kneading right. You have to fold and turn, fold and turn."
When she had her hands firmly in the dough, Grissom made his move with the handful of flour he was holding. Grabbing Sara around the waist, he ground the flour into her hair and down her face. For the second time in an hour, Sara squealed.
