TITLE - Napoleon Complex (1/1) AUTHOR - campylobacter FEEDBACK - camps@LikeIGiveAFuck.com RATING - R (naughty word, food sex) CATEGORY - SH (Story, Humor) SPOILERS - (TIMELINE: Empedocles / Tango de los Pistoleros) KEYWORDS - let Gossamer figure out this one SUMMARY - Frohike makes sweet love to a pastry. DATE - 1 January 2004 SIZE - 4k / 409 words DISCLAIMER - Pray for my soul. DEDICATED TO - 1,000,009 and fran58 (see notes at end) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .NAPOLEON COMPLEX
by campylobacter
Always trust Byers with your grocery list; Langly will buy a tub of margarine from the corner gas station, even though you write "1/4 pound unsalted butter you fucking punk" on the list.
Remember: the butter can't be allowed to melt while you're working it into the dough. So when you lower the temperature of the marble board, rolling pin, dough scraper, fork, knife, and fingers, don't get beer on them. That is, don't stick them in the cooler. Or at least dry them thoroughly when you have no other choice.
You pretty much have to make it the same day, or else chilling your rolled dough in the fridge here will never survive for more than a few hours. Someone's gonna set a bottle of Labatt or a jar of mayo on it.
Two hours of care will yield a decent, baked dough. Three hours will give you Napoleon Puff Pastry: stacked, flaky layers of baked goodness sandwiching creamy thicknesses of vanilla whipped cream above a modest smear of strawberry jam in the lowest layer, a dusting of powdered sugar on the top.
And just to haze Byers, you play "Come on the Cracker", using a three-inch square of Napoleon as the cracker. Byers always loses. While you and Langly are victoriously tucking yourselves back into your pants, he's standing there exposed and red-faced, nowhere near an orgasm, pretending to dread eating that spunk-coated dessert.
"You really learned this game in the Boy Scouts?" Byers asks, delaying the loser's fate.
"Yeah, but we used a graham cracker instead."
You gotta take pity on him. The man was an Eagle Scout, for pete's sake, earning badges for community service, instead of dropping out of the Boy Scouts after four years. He nevercircle jerked around with other sexually ambivalent adolescent boys at summer camp. He never learned how to avoid eating that cracker.
Watching him wrestle homophobic anguish and Susanne Modeski guilt is freakin' sad.
So you grab an un-spooged slice of pastry to show him how to eat his.
"Pretend it's a woman," you say.
Then you go down on Napoleon by holding the pastry sideways and licking out the cream filling using the tip of your tongue.
. . .
"Wow, Frohike," said Jimmy in awe, shifting sideways in his chair. "If I pour you another fifth of scotch, will you tell me the recipe for Beer-Braised Sausage?"
[end]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AUTHOR'S NOTE - This story was inspired by a Why Incision discussion about the effects of fanfic on fandom: "Got a fixation on Frohike food porn? Chances are there are five or six other people online who also have a yen to see everyone's favorite dirty old man make sweet love to a perfectly coddled and iced napoleon. With any luck you will all wind up on a board encouraging each other." - 1,000,009 THANKS TO - THE JOY OF COOKING by Irma Rombauer 24 Hour Food Poisoning Hotline: camps@LikeIGiveAFuck.com Botulism Support Group: campylobacter's X-Files porn shack.