Annihilate Me by Christina Ross Read Free Book Online Page A

on broken glass.   Leaving him now would be difficult, but
not as difficult as it would if months had passed.   If we invested in each other for a long
period of time, it would tear my heart out if we finally decided we couldn’t be
together because of mere conflicts in our schedules.   But we each had our own lives to live.   He didn’t have to worry about his next
meal or the next month’s rent—I did.   So, which would win out?   The
potential for a meaningful relationship or work?
    I
had a feeling that too often in this particular city—by far one of the
most aggressive and challenging of cities—it was work and that saddened
me.
    “How
about an omelet with fresh tarragon, salt, and pepper beaten into the eggs,
roasted asparagus tucked inside, and a bit of Parmesan cheese on top?   Fresh orange juice, obviously.   And a croissant and good coffee?”
    “Are
you sure you haven’t ordered in?”
    “With
the exception of the croissants, I’m positive.   You’ll witness all of it.”
    “It
sounds fabulous, but do you have time to make all of that?”
    “It’s
quicker than it sounds.   That’s what
I love about French food.   Some of
it is time consuming to prepare, but much of it is actually simple because they
don’t use a lot of ingredients.   It’s all about the preparation and the execution—in this case, you
cook the eggs very slowly.   Protein
should be cooked on the lowest heat for the tenderest results.   When I was growing up, our cook,
Michelle, who is French, taught me a lot.   To escape from my mother, which I did as often as possible for reasons I
won’t bore you with, I spent a lot time with Michelle in the kitchen.   I enjoyed learning from her because she
was kind to me, because she loved me, and because I could hide when I was with
her.   She was an amazing chef.   Sometimes, I think she had more
influence on me than my mother.   She
was a sweet, loving woman, but stern when she needed to be.   ‘Not like that, Alex—like
this.   Pay attention.   You’re making too much of it.   Why do you harm the food like that?   You should love it.   Caress it.   It’s not that difficult, mon chéri .   Treat it like a woman.   You’ll see what I mean.   Yes,
that’s right.   Just like that.’   That sort of thing.”
    Why did he need to escape from his
mother?   “I would love to meet Michelle.   Is she still alive?”
    “She
is, but she’s in a nursing home.   Parkinson’s.   She doesn’t
know me anymore, but I visit as often as I can anyway.   I just like being near her.   I wish she was well enough to know you,
but in her condition, that’s impossible.”   His throat thickened when he spoke, but he quickly cleared it.   Wherever she was, I had no question that
he was taking care of her.   “Let’s
go to the kitchen.   Sit at the
bar.   You’re the business
junky.   Read the paper.   I’ll do the rest.”
    “Can’t
I help?”
    “Not
at all.   You’re my guest.”   He raised his eyebrows at me.   “Maybe one day you’ll cook breakfast for
me.”
    “Shakespeare
never came up with more tragic words.”
    He
shook his head at me, but I could feel his affection.   “Oh, come on.”
    “I
can do frozen waffles and toast.   And coffee.   I totally can do
coffee.”
    “So,
you don’t cook?”
    “Well,
not at the level you’re about to cook, and certainly not French.   But I am a good homestyle cook.   I can cook like my grandmother used to
cook for me.   It’s very rustic, but
delicious, if you like that sort of thing, which I do.   I can make a killer apple pie.   And I know how to make a good
steak.   As an additional bonus, roasted
chicken and vegetables are a snap for me.   I’ve got those covered.”
    “I
remember having lunches and dinners with my friends when I was a boy summering
in Maine.   None of it was
stuffy—but all of it was good.”
    “ That I can do for you, Alex.”
    “When
it gets colder, can you