A/N: This may turn into a series of one-shots; I haven't decided yet. This takes place at the E-house, shortly after Jeb has rescued the flock from the School. Inspired by the following excerpt from Like Lambs ch. 15:
"What is this?" Gazzy waved a finger with a dollop of cannoli filing on it in the air. "Is this, like, cheese? Sugary cheese?"
Angel giggled and ate another buttered roll. She looked more carefree than I'd seen her in days. I was desperate for her to stay that way.
As Iggy dove headfirst into what sounded like a rehearsed speech on the versatility of ricotta [...]
"What's this?"
Iggy runs his hand over the cool plastic tub, swiping off a row of condensation as he does. It's something new. Unfamiliar.
It is worrisome.
Nothing is ever new or unfamiliar here. Iggy isn't sure if Jeb does it for himself, or for Iggy, or without realizing it, but it's a fact: this house, tentatively cantilevered on structurally unsound stilts in the shape of an E, full of marvels of science that have no right to exist, runs on consistency.
Every Sunday at twelve o'clock, Jeb compiles a list. Every Sunday at one o'clock, Jeb goes to the store. Every Sunday at two o'clock, Iggy helps Jeb unpack the groceries. And every Sunday at three o'clock, the two of them prepare enough food to get one adult human man and six non-adult, non-human recombinant life forms through another week.
It is a lot of food, Iggy knows. But it is always essentially the same food. Granola bars. Eggs. Milk - so much milk. Broccoli, green beans, onions. Boxes upon boxes of pasta, because it's cheap. Frozen salmon and chicken drumsticks and 80% lean hamburger and, when they have it on sale, steak, because protein isn't a want, it's a need. And ice cream - always ice cream - because it's just as chock-full of calories as it is irresistible.
There is some variety, of course. But even that is consistent. Jeb has it down to a science. It seems that way to Iggy, at least.
He might only be ten years old, but Iggy knows it's expensive to feed them. He tries not to feel guilty or worry about it - he didn't ask to be rescued from the School (okay, wait, maybe he did, but that's not the point he's trying to make here) - but it's hard not to.
Where does Jeb get this money from? How much of it is left? Is Jeb going hungry so they can eat more? Is he safe? Are any of them safe? And what the hell is in this tub?
"Cheese," says Jeb, jarring him from his thoughts.
Iggy rubs the drop of condensation between his thumb and forefinger and frowns. "Cheese?"
"Cheese," Jeb repeats, but with a laugh this time. "Ever heard of it?"
"But it's in a tub. And cold. It's... liquid cheese?"
There's a pause that's only filled with a curt exhale of breath - a sound of disgust, Iggy's willing to bet, although the context of Jeb's face would surely help.
"Trust me," Jeb says, and Iggy's right, it was disgust, "you don't want cold, liquid cheese."
"Then what is this?"
"Cheese. Cold and in a tub, yes. But not liquid. It's called ricotta. Here." Jeb tugs the container from Iggy's reach. A moment later, it's back without the lid. "Dip your finger in."
Iggy does, swiping a glob of the goop up and bringing it to his tongue. And then he grimaces.
"Gross. Who the heck wants to eat this?"
Jeb laughs. "My fault. You're not supposed to eat it plain. Well, I guess technically you're not supposed to just eat shredded cheddar plain, either, but you guys seem to have no problem with that."
Iggy knows his ears are turning purple at this but is helpless to stop it. One of their biggest rules is no stealing food, and realistically, Iggy knows they aren't stealing it, they're just funneling it into their mouths at two in the morning by the light of the fridge without permission, but still - He knows? How does he know we -
"I don't blame you. It makes a great late night snack," Jeb says in a bit of a stage whisper with a shrug. "Anyway, ricotta is used in things. Pasta dishes, quiches, pastries, desserts - you name it."
"Pastries and desserts?" Iggy says, intrigued.
"Cakes and cannolis and cupcakes and pudding -"
"It's cheese."
"It's versatile, is what it is," says Jeb. When Iggy's face doesn't change, Jeb laughs again. "The world of cooking is not one of many borders or rules, Iggy. Lots of grey area. Don't look so surprised."
"Teach me," Iggy blurts.
The conversation lulls, and Iggy knows he has said the wrong thing. It is his job, of course - Max and Fang do the cleaning and the laundry and the firewood-collecting and a thousand other things, and Iggy does the cooking with Jeb - but he's just an assistant, a warm body that can be told exactly what to do, because he can't see, so why would he ever be able to do something like cook?
"Sorry," Iggy mumbles, shaking his head. He turns, counts the steps to the refrigerator, and pulls it open, depositing the tub of cheese inside. When he tries to close the door, though, something stops him.
It's Jeb. "Lasagna."
Lasagna? "Like Garfield, from the funnies?"
This draws Jeb's biggest laugh yet. "Yes. Exactly like Garfield from the funnies. It's one of my favorites, and it's made with ricotta. That's why I bought some. Want me to show you how to make it?"
By five o'clock, Max is at their elbows. She knows better than to demand answers, but she's obviously frustrated that their Sunday dinner is late.
"What are you making?" she grumbles. Iggy can feel her trying to peek over his shoulders, but he's four inches taller than her, so she struggles. "It smells like sauce. Spaghetti?"
"Something like that," is Jeb's answer, but he bumps his shoulder to Iggy's to block her from seeing. "Max, why don't you and Fang take the kids to the lake for a swim?"
Under any other circumstances, Iggy would be furious. Jeb never lets them go to the lake by themselves. But as the rest of them race out of the house, Iggy realizes he is having the time of his life right here, right now, in this kitchen. He has never felt so competent, so confident, so capable.
"Another pinch of oregano," Jeb says, and Iggy obliges perfectly, because you don't need eyes to pinch.
It takes almost three hours altogether, after it's all said and done. At six o'clock, though, Iggy pulls two huge, steaming dishes from the oven and is assaulted by the aroma of pasta and ground beef and tomatoes and ricotta.
Max and the others aren't back yet, but Jeb cuts a corner off anyway and plates it for Iggy.
"But we're supposed to eat together," Iggy says. It's incredibly half-hearted, but rules are rules: they're all still working through their animalistic territorialness when it comes to food, so mealtimes are always very strictly enforced. Always.
Until right now.
"You're the chef, Iggy," says Jeb. "Can't serve it until you know it turned out okay, can you?"
For a split second, Iggy worries that it's a trick question - this house runs on routine and consistency, doesn't it? - but then Jeb slides the plate a little closer and it doesn't matter.
It is the best damn thing Iggy's ever eaten.