And so we move to one of my favourite subjects - in literature and otherwise - food! The recipe in here is real. I originally learnt it from my aunt, although the version I make now is from Yotam Ottolenghi's book 'Jerusalem'. And yes, it really does use obscene amounts of garlic...
Next update will most likely be after New Year - so Happy New Year! Thank you so much for continuing to read.
"Food (literature tells us) is in essence proof of our common humanity: bread to remind us of the earth from which we've all come and salt to remind us of the earth to which we must all return".
-Alberto Manguel
'What's this?'
He wrapped his arms around her waist, breathing in the scent of her hair. He still hadn't quite got used to her being here, in his house. It felt very right, somehow, but that didn't stop him giving himself a mental pinch whenever he came home and she was in his kitchen, like now. Or whenever she came down to join him in the basement. Or whenever I wake up next to her in bed.….
Ziva did not turn around, but carried on chopping onions. He could sense rather than see her smile.
'Cooking, Jethro'. She threw the vegetables into a large saucepan, where they sizzled in hot olive oil, before reaching for some garlic and starting to peel the cloves.
'Umm-hmm. I can see that'. He nuzzled her neck, waiting for more of an explanation. Although he had tasted Ziva's cooking before. He wouldn't complain, whatever she made.
'Bean and lamb soup'. A handful of garlic went in the pan. 'My mother's recipe'. She turned around in his arms, knife still in hand, and smiled at him. 'She always used to make it when one of us was feeling…..how do you say? Under the clouds?'
'Under the weather', corrected Gibbs. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then her nose. 'You feeling down?'
She laughed, and pressed her head against his lips for another kiss before turning back to her chopping.
'Not really'.
He brought his hands up to her shoulders and gently began to massage her neck and shoulder blades, his strong fingers kneading the small tense knots under her skin. He rested his chin on top of her head.
'You have a lot of recipes from your mom?'
She nodded. 'She taught me to cook when I was small. I enjoyed it – although I was never any good at baking. Tali was the baker in our family'. She poked the contents of the pan with a wooden spoon. 'My mother had a notebook where she kept all her recipes. When she died, it was one of the only things I took'.
Gibbs stopped massaging, and slid his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back to his chest. He kissed the top of her head.
'Like to see it sometime.' She smiled and nodded.
'It's here. I put it on the bookcase'. She turned around again, and he could see the twinkle in her eyes. 'Next to the dictionary. You could fetch it if you like. I cannot remember exactly how much water to put in'.
He left her in the kitchen, and wandered upstairs. She had decided that she wanted the bookcase – her bookcase – in the bedroom. Our bedroom. Another mental pinch. Gradually more and more books had appeared on the shelves, but he did not remember seeing a notebook. He paused by the open bathroom door, and smiled as he took in the rose-scented shampoo and woman's razor on the side of the shower, the extra toothbrush by the sink. Haven't seen that for a while. It was a strangely satisfying feeling.
He could hear Ziva in the kitchen downstairs, humming to herself and moving pots and pans about the stove as he pulled the worn notebook from the shelf and opened it. Neat writing covered the pages, mostly in Hebrew but some in English, with clippings from magazines and newspapers tucked in between the leaves and taped to the inside of the covers. The paper was slightly yellow with age and with frequent use, and the faint aroma of spices still clung to the creases. Notes in the margins told of recipes that had not worked or that were particularly good, adjustments that needed to be made to the quantities, or timings, or seasonings. Some had been crossed through completely, while others were starred or underlined. Shakshuka. Burekas. Beef goulash. Spice cookies. He smiled as he came across one written in a childish hand, the letters larger, more irregular. Ziva? Or Tali? He started to head downstairs, still turning the pages. Wonder if this one's in Hebrew? His answer came at entrance to the kitchen, when he turned the next page and found the recipe written out in English. Cannellini Bean and Lamb Soup.
He looked at Ziva in disbelief.
'Twenty cloves of garlic?'
Even though her back was turned, he could tell she was smirking.
'Not going anywhere, are you?'
He handed her the book. 'Just as well'.
She took it from him, and handed over a bottle of beer. 'The cloves are not chopped. You put them in whole, therefore, they are not as strong'. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing and accepted the beer, watching her as she carried on preparing the soup. Cooking's never looked so good.
Finally she stepped back from the counter with a satisfied sigh. 'About an hour', she announced, and reached for the bottle of red wine on the kitchen table.
'So', she said, pouring herself a glass.
'So', he echoed, taking a mouthful of beer.
'I was thinking….'
'Umm-hmm?'
She took a deep breath. 'Tony keeps asking questions. As does Abby. McGee would but he is too polite'.
'Yeah, questions about what?'
She looked over at him, and saw the corners of his mouth twitching. You know what.
'They know I am seeing someone, Jethro, they just do not know who. All the questions…they are driving me crazy'.
She took another mouthful of wine and walked back to give the soup a stir, more for something to do with her hands than because it needed it.
'So maybe we should tell them'.
Ziva turned and looked at Gibbs, calmly drinking his beer. He saw the question in her eyes, and was glad that his own nervousness didn't show. Worried about telling the others? Or worried in case she doesn't want to?
'You mean that?' Her voice was quiet.
He looked at her for a moment, and nodded. 'Yeah'. He took another swallow. 'I mean that'.
She smiled, and moved back to perch on the end of the table. Relief flooded through her. She had not wanted to start lying to her colleagues – and friends. I want them to know. About us.
She only realized she had spoken aloud when he nodded slowly, and gave that half-smile that she loved. 'Me too'.
Gibbs had reached over to stir the soup, inhaling the warm, spicy steam that rose from the pan. She had to make a conscious effort not to think about how sexy he looked, in his jeans and hoodie. The kitchen table is really not the place, Ziva. She smiled to herself. Or maybe it is…..She drew in her breath as he moved back closer to her, his leg brushing her knee.
'Something funny, Ziva?' He smiled again as she shook her head. Blushing. Gorgeous. He moved closer, his legs now either side of her knee, and removed her glass from her hand. Leaning forward, he let his lips gently brush her ear as he whispered, 'Sit like that much longer and I might not make it upstairs'.