Yay out for the summer!

NEW CHAPTER TIME!

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FILE #4: England Cooks…Well.

It was well known among all the countries present (and also among most of the ones not present) at the world meeting that England could not cook. It was so well known, in fact, that no one bothered to make jokes about it anymore, as that was viewed by the other countries as reaching for the low-hanging apples on the joke tree. Germany had banned England's creations from the meetings ever since Italy made the mistake of biting into a torched English muffin which crumbled in his mouth. It took the small man back to the days of being a British captive and he wept for all the horrible puddings and gravies he encountered, disturbing the peace and effectively ending negotiations that day. Even under the threat of Germany's wrath, every so often England would slip in a plate of…well, no one could ever quite tell what it was…and hope it would go unnoticed and perhaps be found to be ever so slightly appetizing by the group (It never was.)

Such was the case on this day. England rested his chin in his fist and alternated between trying to look aloof and uninterested in the discussion and eyeing the dish of curry he'd stuck on the table before the other countries arrived. It was nestled comfortably between a mound of sticky rice from China and salted cabbage from Russia (a popular vodka snack.) He was particularly proud of how it ended up next to the rice, because as people reached for the rice, they would be confronted with a delicious-looking dish of curry and think to themselves, "Gee, I should try some of that curry. I don't know who brought it, but I think it could be delightful!" Once one person tried it, he or she would tell whoever was next to him or her how tasty it was and then it could spread all around the table and soon every country would be jostling for a taste of the magical curry beside the rice. Eventually someone would ask who made this exceptional food and, to the surprise of all present, nay, the entire world, England would stand up and take responsibility, thus clearing his name forevermore from the scourge of bad cooking. Why, even Italy would be impressed. England forgot to look detached from the situation and grinned, causing his head to slip off his hand, jerking him back to reality.

As it was, the entire meeting passed and still the curry remained untouched. Long after the other countries retired to their homes, England remained, leaning heavily on the table in shame, irked that he had once again failed at the art of cooking. And to think-France was so proud of his own culinary skills! Though England considered himself far above his competitor in all other aspects of life, this was one hurdle he just could not overcome. And he'd tried-oh, had he tried! After all this time, he still didn't understand what the problem was. Everything he made tasted just fine to him! Nothing too heavy…nothing too spicy…nice, simple, humble dishes that filled you up and left you satisfied. Flattened with the weight of defeat, England collected his curry off the table and headed home. This was ridiculous. Tonight was the night. Tonight he would cook something delicious no matter how long it took!

Standing in his kitchen, apron donned, cabinets flung open, England realized that he didn't know what he was doing. He needed a method to his madness. "Say, America, I have a nice shiny…er, hero's award I'll give you if you do me a favor," he found himself saying on the phone a few minutes later. Ever intrigued by the idea of getting an award (from his favorite person, no less), America arrived and sat at his former mentor's kitchen bar at six o'clock that night. "Listen. I need to do some cooking tonight," England explained to the big nation, wagging a wooden spoon in his face. "and you are going to help me."

America sighed happily. "Gosh, I'm sure glad you've decided to get some help. I have this GREAT recipe book from McDonald's that's called One Hundred and Twelve Ways to Use Chicken Nuggets that I think could really solve some of-"

"No!" England rapped his companion smartly on the top of the head with his spoon. "I'm not interested in your fast food rubbish! I'm going to make real food!"

The big blonde rubbed his head. "Where am I supposed to come in, then?" he pouted.

"Well, someone has to taste the food, right? I mean, I'm obviously biased so I can't taste it myself."

"What?" America asked, his voice rising in pitch. "You want me to be your taste-tester? That wasn't what it sounded like on the phone!"

England glowered back. "You didn't give me time to explain on the phone, you great bumbling duffer! As soon as I said 'hero's award' you threw the phone down and ran here!"

"I was excited!"

"You can still be excited!"

"About what?"

"Trying my food!"

"You want me to be happy about suicide?"

England stood stock-still and glared at America through narrowed eyes. "Fine. Get out."

America was halfway to the door before he turned around. "Wait, do I still get my award?"

"NO!" England yelled back.

"But I sat and listened to you for a while…I think that should count for something."

"OUT!"

"Fine, fine!" America stuck his tongue out at the island country before ducking out the door. In the end, he did not need an award to know that he was a hero.

Now alone in his kitchen, England tapped his toe on the tiled floor and frowned at nothing in particular. What now? He flipped open his contact book and rifled through the pages. Eh, I'll ask Japan. He would give me unbiased feedback. He leaned on a counter and dialed his friend's number. "Moshi moshi," Japan answered, seated on his back porch.

"Hullo there, Japan, England here."

"Igirisu-san, I hope I find you well."

"Quite so, thank you. Listen, I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Is that so?"

England wound the phone cord around his finger nervously. "Here it is: I've been trying to improve my cooking lately and I'm going to make a real bang-up effort tonight. Thing is, I can't taste my own dishes because, you know, I'm a bit biased. I was wondering if perhaps you would be a chap and come have a taste of what I make tonight?"

Many miles away, Japan stiffened and his eyes grew wide. Ah, we've come to it. This task is far too much for me, even if I do my very best…I must diffuse the situation politely and with great care… "Eto…Igirisu-san…I'm sorry, but tonight is a little…inconvenient for me."

The other side of the line was quiet. "Oh, I see. Thank you anyway."

Japan sighed silently with relief. "Again, I express my apologies. The pursuit of self-improvement is a noble one. Do your best, Igirisu-san, and I am sure your efforts will be rewarded."

England was touched by Japan's confidence in him and immediately dismissed the idea that Japan was saying these things in order to thoroughly rid himself of any guilt associated with turning down England's plea for help. "Thank you, Japan. Good night."

"Konbanwa, Igirisu-san." Japan hung up the phone and shivered, knowing that he had successfully avoided certain doom. The occasion should be celebrated with a pickled plum.

America and Japan are negatives…who is left? I have to have someone taste my food tonight; I feel the cooking genius flowing through me! England stared at the phone. A horrible thought slunk over his shoulder. I suppose…I suppose I could call France…I mean…his food is rather good. He would be able to give sound criticism… Ah! Dash it all! Not France! Even though he sought to improve himself, his current state of cooking mediocrity (mediocrity being a generous term to apply) was a failure that would gall him to display to his rival! But…what help was there to be had? Surely none of the other allies would come to his aid, with the possible exception of Russia, and that was the scariest scenario of all. France would have to do. Before dialing France's number, England reached for a bottle of brandy that he kept in his cabinets. He'd be needing that tonight.

The aforementioned French gentleman was seated in a well-lit drawing room, dabbing paint onto an expensive canvas. Having mastered most of the other forms of art, painting tasteful nudes was France's next venture. When the phone rang, he dunked his paintbrush into a glass of water and picked up the receiver. "Bonjour, you 'ave reached ze 'ouse of love. Zis is love speaking."

England almost hung up the phone right there, but restrained himself. "Eh, hullo France."

France jumped out of his seat. "Angleterre! What an 'onor! 'ow may I assist you?"

"Funny you should ask that…I do need some help over here. I'm going to cook something tonight."

"Oh no. Do you want me to keep an eye on your 'ouse and call ze fire department when I see flames?"

"No! Bloody…ugh, no, I need someone with good culinary sense to taste the food I make and tell me if it is any good or not."

France laughed heartily. "Ohon hon hon! So zat is it! And you are calling Big Brother?"

"Don't get so excited. It's only because everyone else was busy," England replied testily.

Already pulling on his coat, France acknowledged England's pride with a patronizing "of course" and hung up the phone. This was a rare opportunity that he was loathe to give up. Two things France was overly fond of: food and making fun of England. To mix the two…ah, surely this was bliss in its purest form.

After hanging up with France, England poured himself a shot of brandy. The immediate burning sensation twisted his face unconsciously and he resisted the urge to gasp for breath. How old was this stuff? Wasn't it supposed to get better with age? Another shot was needed, to erase the memory of the first one. As expected, the second dose went down more smoothly. A third and fourth followed, each putting up less of a fight than the previous. He stopped pouring shots when his mouth tasted of shame and enlightenment. Drunk is the best way to deal with France, he reasoned to himself.

France suspected England's intoxication long before he caught sight of it. The air was filled with the sounds of a symphony and a pungent, sour smell. Either he's cooking with brandy (and this will be a much longer night than I anticipated) or he's drinking it. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, he glimpsed England waving a wooden spoon in the air, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Drinking it. The island country squeaked and dropped the spoon when his guest entered his peripheral vision. He twisted to turn off the record player on the counter. "Don't stop on my account, Angleterre, you know 'ow I love good music," France laughed, settling himself on a bar stool. "Almost as much as I love good food, of which I doubt zere will be much tonight."

"Don't start with me, Frog. Just sit with your mouth closed until I tell you to open it; is that so hard?" England replied, flushed from both the brandy and the shock of France's appearance. "Have you not heard of knocking before you enter someone's house?" France simply sat on his stool and smiled at his host, who flitted from counter to counter, retrieving various bottles and cans from shelves. He seemed to gather himself after a minute and turned sheepishly to the other man. "Er, would you like a drink? I don't have any wine but I do have some rather fine scotch…"

"Non," France waved his offer away. "I am fine. You keep doing what you are doing."

England eyed France suspiciously, then shrugged. "Well, don't mind if I indulge a bit," he muttered, pouring into a glass and downing a generous measure of brandy. About an hour passed this way, with England darting about the kitchen, stirring things, tasting mixtures, and drinking. He finally plunked down a plate of curry over rice and a fork in front of his guest. "Done. Taste this."

France twirled the fork before burying it in the food. A simple sniff told him this was going to be no good at all, a hunch quickly confirmed by taste. "Ah, Angleterre, zis food is…well, it is too bland. You are too careful with your use of spices…let yourself be more free and liberal with zem!"

"Eh…is that so…" England was disappointed. He collected the dish from France and scraped the food off of it and into a waste bin. "As you say, I will try again." He cleared his counters and set about the preparations once more. The level of brandy in the bottle near the sink steadily decreased and, at the same rate, so also did England's hesitations. "You're right for once, Frog! I need more flavor! More of everything!" He turned the record player back on and hummed loudly, waving the brandy bottle around in the air.

France had just started to get sleepy (and tired of dodging wayward drops of brandy slung from England's fervent dancing) when a second plate was slid in front of him. The wanna-be chef stood on nervous tiptoes in front of him, eyes slightly out of focus, and slurred out a "bon appetit." The dish smelled deliciously different…more pungent, more aromatic. Could this be…? France lifted a forkful to his lips and bit down. Mon dieu! He thought, looking down at the curry. Why…zis is…zis is amazing! I've not tasted better since I actually visited India's house! What culinary nirvana! He took a few more quick bites before remembering that England was watching his every move.

"Well? What are your thoughts? Tell me!" Big green eyes begged for affirmation.

Fork halfway to his mouth, France stopped. England had just cooked. Even stranger, he had just cooked well. What did this mean? This would change everything! How could the world handle such a drastic alteration to the status quo? England cooking well was like…America being humble, or Japan being obnoxious, or Germany becoming a cat lady while Italy did a hard day's work! Could he, France, be responsible for unleashing this force on the world? What if…OH NO…what if England became such a good cook that it was generally agreed upon that his food was better than France's own? Blasphemy! That could not happen! It must not happen! This thing must be stopped in its tracks! There was something that was just…so wrong with all of this. "Angleterre," France began solemnly, "I 'ave terrible news. Your food is…it is no good. You must stop chasing zis dream."

The man before him wilted visibly. "You're bloody joking!" He put his hand in his hands and sighed deeply. "I was so sure that this one was good…I just knew when I tasted it that I had done something right, but…I suppose my instincts are just bollocks after all…" He hid his face for a while before straightening up and reaching to take the plate in front of France. "Sorry for making you eat this rubbish."

France twitched and snatched the plate away from him. "Nonsense. I am so 'ungry zat I am willing to eat even zis. You go ahead and clean up ze rest of your kitchen." He scarfed down the rest of the food on the plate.

So depressed was the smaller country that he didn't even argue. "If you say so. You're right, you know," he added while dunking dishes into the sink and filling it with water. "I've just got to stop trying to cook. It's not good for anyone. I…I guess I'll focus on other hobbies." He sighed again and focused on the dishes.

France frowned at England's languor. "You 'ave many ozzer talents, Angleterre. Keep improving zem. For instance…aren't you into some kind of magic or somezing like zat?"

"Yes, yes, that's true."

"Zere you go! Play, er, work with zat and see what 'appens. Don't forget zat you can always come to Big Brother's 'ouse and 'ave me tutor you on ze fine arts! You are, after all, years behind me culturally. And in just about every other way, actually…" Having finished the entire plate of curry (and successfully kept himself from licking the plate), France stood up, dodged England's glare and took hold of his jacket. "I zink I shall retire now."

England turned around, dried his hands on a towel, dropped the towel and attempted to find it, but was too drunk to bend over without falling on the floor. "Listen, thanks for your help tonight. Even though nothing was accomplished, it means…something to me. Most of the time you're a real wanker, you know, but one rare occasions you can be tolerable."

"Angleterre, if zat was a compliment, it was ze worst one I 'ave ever heard."

England shrugged. "Complimenting you is not a hobby I am willing to work on." With that, he turned around and walked away.

"Ah, you never change," France laughed, heading towards the door and talking to no one in particular. "In 'undreds of years you 'ave remained the same…and zat is ze way I like you." That is why you scared me tonight. Don't ever change. I never want you to be any different from the way you are right now.

oOoOo

Not a fan of FrUk usually…but this thought is cute!