AN: I guess it wasn't clear, but I started the fic off on the morning after they said I love you… the ILYs were said before the story began. b long explanation when I was a lot younger, and had read pretty much all the books we had at home, my dad gave me one of his books to read, and I don't remember the name, but I remember that it started off somewhat in the middle of the story, leaving the reader to gradually pick up on the back-story. Soo, ever since them I've really liked that method, and I tried to utilize it somewhat because I think it's very interesting to somehow inform the reader of what happened, without actually describing or explaining the event. How well it comes out is usually the mark of a good/bad writer, imo. /long explanation /b The recipe thing was an idea I had based loosely on one of Kurt Vonnegut's books (because I like, worship him). There were short recipes scattered throughout the book. I think it was Dead-eye Dick, but I'm not sure. Thank you so much for your reviews, they mean a lot. Keep 'em coming! ;)
A million thanks to George Eliot for beta-ing.
Almond Biscotti
Ingredients: 1 cup granulated sugar, 1 cup light brown sugar, 2 eggs- beaten, 1/3 cup oil, 2 tablespoons water, 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 2 teaspoons baking powder, ½ teaspoon powdered cloves, 2 ½ cups flour, cup slivered almonds or almond pieces, 1 extra yolk.
She can remember dragging photo albums to her parents when she was a little girl. Blue eyes wide, curls bouncing uncontrollably, she would run down the stairs, clutching the brown leather-bound album, her tiny feet pattering on the stairs. Sometimes it was a mission; sometimes she tried to find her parents before they had left for yet another event or function. Usually she would bound down the stairs, too late, reaching the landing only in time to hear the swish of fabric on Emily's dress, the creak of Richard's shoes on the floorboards, and to catch only a glimpse of her parents' backs as they swept out of the house.
Although her tears and whimpers were often met with condescending stares as the maids wandered off to smoke or watch television, giving no thought to her at all, sometimes the maids were kind and sympathetic. Lorelai could remember once or twice when she had stopped short in the foyer after the door had slammed, album clutched tightly in her puffy fingers, and the maid leaned down and dried her tears, taking her into the kitchen and making her tea. Back then she didn't know what coffee was, and was content to slurp her lukewarm fruity tea, gently hitting the silver teaspoon against her cup, making music.
She likes the idea- sitting down with your family to reminisce about old times while gazing at pictures of people physically gone but still remembered. A sort of drinking-hot-cocoa-on-Christmas-Eve, hanging-stockings-together tradition she fantasizes about. At the Gilmore house, Christmas was about appearance, about stiff formalities. It was coming into the kitchen, lured by delicious aromas, to find not an apron-clad mother but a uniformed maid.
Someday she'll have it, the hot cocoa, the stockings, the whole package. But in the meantime, she enjoys what she has—a terrific kid, a loving boyfriend, and a whole town of crazy but caring friends.
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Mix together first five ingredients
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Every once in a while, Lorelai pulls out the photo albums. With Rory, she pulled out the baby albums around the Christmas holidays, and occasionally at other times when she felt Rory was down or unhappy. She could expect laughter, sometimes tears, when they paged through the albums, these emotions of course accompanied by the consumption of massive amounts of junk food.
With Luke, his photo album was somehow more than an album. She remembers the first time she saw his album and the pictures of his parents. She wanted to see them, and there was fluttering of eyelashes (On her part. Luke is much too manly for eyelash fluttering, don't you think?), kissing, and other romantic endeavors (Lorelai had many extremely effective methods), until one evening he brought over tha album. It was small, black, worn. She half expected it to have a flannel cover. They sat together on the couch, Lorelai wrapped in Luke's arms, cuddling against his warm body as she thumbed through the album, incessantly asking questions. Well, cautiously at first, then more rapidly, as she saw that he enjoyed the questions. The last picture in the album was of Luke's parents on their wedding day. i They look beautiful /i , she had said. i Yeah /i , he had agreed, his voice (she thought) throaty and hoarse. Someday she'll make a copy of the picture, and make it really big, and frame it. And hang it where Luke will see it every day.
Luke had been especially tender with her that night, his kisses gentle and sweet. That night felt different—their movements, their whispers, their breath took on new meaning. She knew it was cheesy, but she was certain she had felt the change in Luke. She didn't press it, for once, and instead silently savored and enjoyed the new-found comfort and ease between them. The photo album stayed at Lorelai's house after that. Luke's presence has gradually become more visible around the house, the photo album a constant reminder. And Lorelai likes it.
Today she wants to look at the album again.
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Sift together cinnamon, baking powder, cloves and flour. Add to first mixture along with the almonds.
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"Luuke, why did you stop?" she complained, her hand stroking his thigh. Lorelai was lying on the couch, her head resting on Luke's lap, eyes partially closed, as Luke scratched behind her ears. The photo album lay discarded on the coffee table, his parents' faces smiling up at him. It still felt a little weird to be sharing this part of his past with Lorelai, but it was soothing at the same time.
Really, this is ridiculous! muttered Luke to himself. He was rather annoyed at himself for his inability to say no when she asked him for something. Not now with the ear-scratching, not ever. He shifted around slightly. "Ahh but you like it, don't you? wheedled a voice in the back of his head. In fact, Luke did like it. A lot. Lorelai's slender body was sprawled out on the couch, jeans tightly hugging the curves of her body, her feet curled up at one end, head resting in his lap. He ran his fingers through her luscious brown curls, pausing abruptly.
"Lorelai, did you just bite me?" he asked.
"Luke, I'm a cat, and cats bite. Besides, it wasn't that /b hard." she responded, snickering. "And I bet you liked it! Luke, didn't it make you all h—"
" Lorelai." he warned, an edge in his voice.
"What, Luke, I didn't say anything!"
"But you were going to."
"Oh, so now I can't say anything to my boyfriend? Well, for your information, I was going to say that I wanted some coffee! And now, you'll miss out on the pleasure of bringing me coffee, and before you know it, I might have to look elsewhere for my caffeine-fix. So you better be careful, or you might have competition." Grinning slyly, she moved around a bit until she was looking up at his face. They were silent for a few moments.
"Hey Luke, tell me about your mother." Lorelai asked, softly.
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Separate dough into 3 parts and roll each part into a rope. Place on greased or oiled cookie sheet and flatten.
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"Well, she was a pretty amazing woman," recalled Luke. "Sometimes…. Sometimes she would draw. Mostly nature and stuff, she liked to draw while my father
fished by the lake. I still have some of her old pictures, but I haven't looked at them in
years, you know kind of like the boat, before you… bought it. Pretty stupid, huh?" He paused. I haven't talked about this with anyone… She was quiet, and when she responded, her voice was faint and melodious.
"Luke, you don't have to tell me this unless you want to."
"No, it's ok. Good to get it out every once in a while, you know? he responded.
"Yeah, I know."
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Brush with mixture of egg yolk and water.
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Two beers (each) later, Luke and Lorelai were still on the couch, Lorelai playing with Luke's hands, rubbing his rough fingers with her soft palms. She had just finished telling Luke about Michel's antics at the inn that day: he had lost Paw-Paw's collar and searched through all of the Inn's rooms (occupied and unoccupied) to find it. Results varied; customers ranged from slightly annoyed to extremely annoyed, most fitting into the latter category. It took a lot of sweet talking on Lorelai's part, and some offers for free dinner, but thankfully the matter had been resolved without fisticuffs. 'I'm the female Kofi Annan,' Lorelai concluded proudly."
"Remind me to do something evil to Michel tomorrow though, ok? And I mean, completely evil." Lorelai added. Her chin was slightly digging into Luke's lap, a constant but reassuring sense of pressure.
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Bake at 375° for 20 minutes or until center is slightly firm
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"Luke, do you know how hot you are right now?" Lorelai asked, resting her chin on her hand, gazing thoughtfully at the man in her kitchen.
"I mean, it's taking a lot of strength not to jump at you like I'm a tiger and you're Roy," she added.
"Lorelai, stop it" he interjected.
"Oh Luke, don't be so modest. I mean, the way you just grabbed that spatula, and took control of all the utensils in my kitchen! The force with which you shoved the biscotti into the oven, the ferocious look of pride on your face!" Her voice low and seductive, she gave Luke her best come-hither look. He sighed in exasperation, loving every second of it.
"Lorelai, I have to clean up the mess in the kitchen. Don't even try to distract me."
"Fine. You men and your weird kitchen rituals…" she began, shrugging her shoulders in mock frustration.
"This isn't a 'ritual'. I'm cleaning up." He gave the counter a few swipes with a damp cloth, turning around to look Lorelai in the face.
"Seriously, soo much strength and self restraint!" whined Lorelai, her mouth fixed in a concentrated grimace. He chuckled inwardly. She looked so damn cute. And he knew that she knew it.
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Cool slightly on rack.
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"Oh my God. This is amazing!" she gasped, looking up at him from her plate of almond biscotti.
"You seem surprised," he teased good-naturedly.
"No, I'm not surprised, I'm just… wow. Seriously, this is heaven on earth! And this is so delicious I may just not be stay mad at you for long." His face initially registered confusion, although, he thought wryly, this was Lorelai, and he should be used to this. This, being, well, everything that was so different about Lorelai and unlike anyone else.
"Because mister, you've known me for what, 8 or 9 years? And you never shared this with me. You're- you're Deep Throat, that's who you are!" He rolled his eyes.
"Ben Bradlee, maybe. Deep Throat, no."
"Whatever." Luke reached his arms across the table, gently grasping her hands in his, with much less protesting on her part than he had expected. He was, after all, getting between Lorelai and her dessert. Her blue eyes wide, she gazed back at him, fingers gently caressing his hands, a smile flickering on her face. This was one of those moments. One of those moments to remember and treasure for the rest of your life, to reflect upon during tough times. A memory to remain unscathed and untarnished, perfectly preserved for all of eternity. A single moment, a melodic note on which to begin a song, the first step of a long journey. A lone snapshot, the humble beginning of a weathered photo album, to be lovingly and carefully handled by many, passed down from generation to generation.
"You know Luke, I don't think I've ever loved you as much as I do now," she whispered, drawing out each word.
"Me neither," came his reply. His voice faded, and a supreme silence filled the kitchen. The dishwasher hummed in the background, and a few drops squeezed from the faucet into the sink. But for them, there was only silence. Silence and the two of them gazing at each other, eyes interlocked.
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Slice diagonally with sharp knife. Serve.
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AN2: reviews greatly appreciated :)