'lo friends. Sorry for the delay in this posting...got a little behind thanks to work picking up big time.
This one is a glimpse into the aforementioned night that led to Rossi and Prentiss agreeing to never share a kitchen again.

"Food is our common ground, a universal experience." – James Beard

"I, for one, think it's a great idea," Garcia says happily.

Reid's expression turns thoughtful. "They are the two on the team with the most experience."

"And with Prentiss there too we won't just get Italian," Morgan chimes in.

"Hey," I protest with a frown. "What's wrong with Italian?"

"Nothing," he answers quickly, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "You just want options sometimes. You know?"

"Variety is the spice of life…" JJ says without looking up from the file on her desk that she's scribbling notes in.

"Oh, good point, Jayje," Garcia says. "Come on, Rossi. It's been forever since we last got to enjoy a meal all together."

My eyebrow arches doubtfully. Sometimes these folks can be awfully selective with their memories. "I know I'm getting a little up there in years, but I'm pretty sure Prentiss just hosted us all at her place a couple of months ago…"

"…and?"

I frown at Garcia's response. "And that kind of disproves your "it's been forever" point," I explain, but realize very quickly that it's a fruitless effort. Once that woman makes up her mind, lord help whoever dares stand in her way.

"Actually, given that Garcia is more familiar with modern culture's vernacular, it's not that surprising to hear her using words in such a fashion. It's become common practice for people to use words like 'forever' and expressions like 'in ages' to reflect circumstances that aren't consistent with their authentic meanings."

We all just blink once Reid finishes his rambling. Even after all these years of knowing him, it's still a shock sometimes when he comes out with these fact-laden monologues. He smiles sheepishly when he realizes he's just about shocked us all into a stupor.

"I maintain my point – I think it's a great idea," Garcia reiterates. "Oooooh! If we're gonna have twice the food, let's make a true extended family affair. Bossman can bring Jack, and Jayje, you can bring Will and Henry."

I arch an eyebrow at Garcia's plans to include extra people. I stay quiet and let out a heavy sigh when I realize I'm not going to be able to get out of this one. "Fine. But I'm hosting; Prentiss' place is too small for all of us."

"Works for me, man. Good food, and good wine," Morgan says with a grin. "And maybe we can even break into that fancy whiskey you keep telling us about."

"Let's get one thing straight – the food and the wine are both going to be better than good," I say seriously. "And you would do well to keep your hands off my whiskey, thank you very much."

Morgan holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right."

"This weekend?" JJ suggests. "Assuming we don't get a case that is…"

I shrug. "Works for me."

"I'm good," Morgan says.

"I was going to watch a marathon of Doctor Who, but it's on again in a couple of weeks, so I can make it."

"Good, so we're all in for this weekend. I'll talk to Bossman," Garcia says happily. "Rossi – can you let Emily know?"

"Me? Why me? It's your event."

She shrugs. "You're hosting, and you two have to hammer out what food you're preparing for us all."

I just stare at Garcia, a distinctly unimpressed expression on my face. "You're orchestrating the whole thing – you tell her."

"Are you scared of telling our raven-haired warrior?" Garcia teases.

"Are you?" I reply with yet another arched eyebrow.

"Oh, answering a question with a question…"

"Oh, don't start with me, Penelope," I warn. "This is not a thing. I'll talk to her. But you all owe me big time."

"Your kitchen is gorgeous," she says with a look of awe as she drops her bags of ingredients and various kitchen utensils onto the counter. "There's so much counter space for prep work!"

"Finally! Someone who appreciates more than just the marble countertops and top of the line appliances!"

She lets out a laugh. "Rossi, I'm hurt that you thought I was just as shallow as the rest of the world. I thought you knew me better than that."

It's me who chuckles this time. "Forgive me," I reply. "Let me make it up to you," I finish as I hold up a bottle of her favourite wine.

"Apology accepted," she replies with a nod.

"You know, I never pegged you for the type to appreciate a good kitchen," I say as I turn to retrieve some glasses and a bottle opener.

"Most people don't. Truth be told, I wasn't really until college."

"Oh?"

"I was living on my own and I had to learn to cook. And I, unlike my friends and fellow students, was not satisfied with mac and cheese 7 days a week," she explains with a chuckle. "I learned the basics and started expanding my repertoire, but it wasn't until I went home for the holidays that I really realized what a luxury a good kitchen is. My mother's cook was kind enough to impart his wisdom onto me."

"Ah, hence the intimate knowledge of French cooking?" I say, holding out a glass of wine for her that she accepts with a smile.

"That, and I inherited my grandmother's cookbook. Every time I went home for the holidays I'd learn a few more recipes and revel in the large kitchen in my mother's house. When I went back to school, it was not fun going back to the tiny little kitchen I could barely turn around in."

"Well, I'm happy to share my kitchen with a fellow food enthusiast," I reply with a smile and hold up my glass in a toast. "To good food, and good friends."

She smiles and clinks her glass against mine before taking a sip. "Oh, that's even better than I remembered."

"Well, at least I know your weakness now," I say with a laugh.

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "So what time is everyone coming over?"

"I told them to be here between 5:30 and 6, but I'm expecting Garcia around 5, so we have a little over an hour."

"Garcia still trying to learn the fine art of Italian cooking?"

I let out a sigh. "Yes, but she keeps substituting the meat in my recipes and it messes with the flavours."

"But she's convinced that it's because of her cooking," Emily guesses.

"You got it."

"So she's hoping to learn some secret trick that will reveal where she's going wrong?"

I nod. "That's what I'm thinking, yes."

"She's dedicated. I'll give her that."

I let out a laugh. "You don't know the half of it."

"Don't think I want to either," she quips with a widening grin. I shake my head at her comment and take a sip from my own glass. "So how are we going to tackle tonight's menu?"

"I figured we'd each cook our own dishes," I answer, hoping she agrees. I'm not exactly keen to have someone messing around with my recipe. Garcia's alterations already make me cringe, and I don't want to have to deal with any more changes to the recipes that have already stood the test of time, even if she's a little more experienced in the kitchen than most people I cook with.

I watch as her eyebrow twitches and I see the faintest smirk begin to appear before she tries to hide it by bringing her wine glass to her lips. "What? What's with the smirking?" I ask, pointing to her face.

"I'm not smirking," she protests with a frown that is far from genuine.

"Don't start with me, Miss Prentiss. I know a smirk when I see one. Now spill."

She stays quiet for a brief moment before she offers a response. "It's just so predictable."

"What is?"

"You're a huge control freak. Of course you don't want to have someone help you out with your dishes."

"I resent that. I'm not a control freak."

Her eyebrow shoots up and her expression tells me she's expecting a revelation. I'm not getting out of this one so easily, it seems. "Okay…so maybe I like to control things in the kitchen," I admit. "But I'm not a control freak. That is a very strong term, and one which is not at all fitting for me."

"Whatever you say, Rossi," she replies, an amused expression settling on her face.

I let out a sigh and shake my head. This is going to be a long night.

"Ratatouille on top of parmesan polenta?" I say doubtfully.

"Don't knock it, 'til you've tried it," she replies as she pulls out various fresh vegetables from her bag.

"I'm not judging-"

"Yes you are," she interrupts with a cheeky grin. "But it's okay, because it'll be even more satisfying when you have to admit it's delicious."

"We'll see," I say, arching an eyebrow.

"So are we actually going to do everything ourselves, or can we work together on this?" she asks, stopping her movement and turning to face me.

I consider what she's suggesting very carefully. It's not an insignificant thing to share a kitchen, and recipes, and to let someone else help with cooking said dishes. I haven't had anyone else work with me in the kitchen since Carolyn, and I still believe that it was a major contribution to our eventual divorce.

Still…I think if I can work in a kitchen with anyone I know, it would be Emily. Oh, to hell with it. Why not?

"I suppose we could help each other out a bit. We can live dangerously tonight," I say with a half chuckle.

"The great David Rossi is letting someone into his kitchen and letting them help with his treasured Italian recipes? Pigs are flying. They must be!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let's get to work, Agent Prentiss."

"So, chopping vegetables and herbs first?"

I nod in agreement and point to where I keep my knives. "Knives are over there, and I'll grab us some cutting boards."

We set to work peeling, chopping, and dicing the various vegetables. Both of us have an idea of what the other is making, so it would follow that we'd have an idea of what kind of cut the other is looking for. At least, that's how it should be…

I feel her eyes on me and I glance up, but as soon as I try to meet her gaze she looks back down at the tomatoes she's dicing. I let it go and swing my gaze back down to the peppers I'm chopping up for her ratatouille. But just a few seconds later I feel her gaze on me.

"What?" I say, looking up and catching her red-handed this time.

"Nothing," she says with a shake of her head.

"Liar," I accuse. "What is it?"

"It's- Just- I usually don't chop them so tiny. You want to be able to bite into a chunk of vegetable and get the flavours, you know?"

I look down at my peppers and resist the urge to shake my head. And she thinks I'm a control freak? I decide to take the high road. "Got it. Bigger chunks. No problem."

We continue chopping and dicing for a few minutes, until all the vegetables are done, before moving on to the fresh herbs. This time I'm the one sneaking peeks at her work. I can't help myself when I realize her actions could impact my cooking in a very bad way.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

"Chopping this up," she answers defensively, clearly not understanding my concern.

"Why so tiny?"

"You get better flavour this way."

"No you don't," I argue. "Larger pieces are better – they give you a better punch when you bite into it."

"But then it's not evenly-"

I interrupt up her with a heavy sigh. "I'm gonna need something a little stronger than wine, I think," I mutter under my breath.

"I heard that," she says with an unamused expression. "And if you're so particular about how to chop this up, you do it."

"You were the one who wanted to share cooking duties tonight. I was perfectly happy to do my own dishes."

She lets out a slow breath forcefully. "Let's just keep going. We're just about done with this prep anyway."

I let out a breath of my own. "Fine."

We finished the chopping and dicing of the herbs in silence, with each of us casting scrutinizing glances to the other every so often, but it doesn't lead to any more arguments, which I think we're both thankful for.

But now came the time for actual cooking. My ravioli filling is cooking in a pot on the stove, and she's busy stirring her herbs, spices, and a few vegetables on a separate burner.

"Can you keep an eye on this? I need to make a quick phone call."

I raise an eyebrow. "Phone call?"

"Declan," she explains.

"Ah," I say with a nod of understanding. "Say no more. I'll keep an eye on it."

"Thanks," she replies as she pulls out her cell and heads toward the backdoor to make her phone call.

I pick up the spoon she had been using and stir the contents of her pot a few times, while keeping an eye on my own pot. I wave some of the rising aroma toward my nose to get a sense of what her dish is shaping up to taste like. I inhale deeply and appreciate the complex flavours she's combined.

I frown as I realize there's something missing that I can't quite put my finger on. I grab a small spoon from the drawer and scoop some of it up to taste. Hmm… Ah! Rosemary! I open the cupboard and retrieve the container, opening it up to add a tiny bit to make the flavour pop that little bit more.

But before I can add it in, Emily returns and startles me with a loud, "Hey!"

I turn around and offer my best innocent expression, but something tells me she's not buying it…

"What are you doing?"

"It needs a little rosemary to bring out the-"

"No, it doesn't."

"I'm serious, give it a taste and tell me it doesn't need something a little extra," I say, holding up another small spoon for her to use.

She grabs the spoon and scoops a small amount up, and gives it a taste. "Totally fine. Doesn't need it."

"But-" I protest.

"But nothing, Dave! Keep your hands off my ratatouille!"

"Whatever you say. But I think it needs some rosemary."

"And I think it's fine. Work on your ravioli."

I level a half-hearted scowl in her direction, which she returns, of course. The doorbell rings and I feel a small wave of worry wash over me. As the host, I have to answer the door, but that means I have to leave my ravioli filling alone in the kitchen with Emily. And who knows what she'll feel the need to add to it in my absence…

"Can you keep an eye on this and make sure it doesn't burn?" I ask reluctantly. "I'll be right back," I add for good measure.

She smiles. "Sure, no problem."

"Just stir it a little. It doesn't need any-"

"I got it, Dave. Go answer the door."

I narrow my eyes at her, not believing that she'll leave it alone, especially after she caught me trying to alter her dish. But host duty calls, and I have to just have faith that she'll leave it alone.

I return only moments later, having greeted Penelope and taken her coat from her, as well as the container of cookies she brought along. She excuses herself to use the bathroom, and I take the opportunity to check in on the goings on in the kitchen.

"I KNEW IT!" I say loudly when I catch her about to add some garlic to the pot.

"Taste it and disagree that it needs garlic," she challenges, echoing my sentiment from earlier.

I take a spoon and taste a bite of it. "Tastes fine to me," I say with an arched brow.

"You have poor taste buds then," she replies, as she picks up her casserole and puts it into the oven.

"You know what?" I say, brandishing my spoon as I gesture along with my words.

"What?"

"After tonight, I think it's best that we never cook together ever again."

"Agreed," she says firmly, meeting my gaze. "No arguments from me."

"Good," I say emphatically.

"Good," she echoes, holding my gaze.

"What's good?" Penelope asks as she joins us in the kitchen. "Ohhh, that smells so good. What're we having? Rossi, can you teach me how to make whatever it is that you're making? Emster – what about you, my newly-found-out-Gordon-Ramsay? Can you teach me some stuff?"

Emily and I share a look and let out simultaneous sighs. Looks like the fun portion of the evening is just beginning…

So...amused by their inability to trust each other in the kitchen? Find Emily's background in cooking interesting? Let me know...