Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook by F.L. Fowler Read Free Book Online

food?
    “You’re a sadist?”
    “I’m a Foodie.” His eyes burn with dark craving.
    “What does that mean?” I ask.
    “It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to my recipes. This is what it means to truly be my Ingredient. I want to manipulate your texture, layer your flavors, Chicken. I see you as a foam, a fricassee, a gelée … a modern craft cocktail …”
    I don’t understand any of this. Cock tail? I think I’m in shock.
    “I want to finesse you, very much.”
    His words from our first meeting come back to me. It’s all about finesse. I look around the kitchen. Suddenly the knife rack and the spice cabinet seem way more sketchy than before.
    “Were there others?”
    He closes his eyes. “Yes. But not like you. You’ve proven yourself both resilient and versatile. Which is why I think that each part of you can be cooked separately to get the doneness right, to make flavors penetrate deeper. In the end, roasting you whole leaves your breast a little less moist than if I cook it separately. These recipes will show us the way.”
    Separately? He means cut apart. It’s not just about taking me whole;now he wants to flavor me limb by limb. Am I ready for more of that? My subconscious picks up the phone to call a taxi.
    “I can’t keep up … why are you like this?” I say.
    “Ah, that’s a long story. When I was still just a boy someone showed me what cooking could be. Like they do it in Europe. She showed me that cooking wasn’t just warming something up. It’s the discipline of turning raw ingredients into transcendence. She was the turning point for me.”
    “She? She who?”
    “It doesn’t matter, baby. I had a tough introduction to food. As a child I ate nothing but TV dinners and ramen. I was inexperienced. And that’s when an older woman took me under her wing and introduced me to the lifestyle.”
    I am devastated at this image of little Shifty, just a child. And I’m appalled that Mrs. Child-temptress, Mrs. Child-warper, this—this evil old Mrs. Child-whatever figure was allowed to fuck him up so badly. It’s because of Mrs. Child he’s unable to just make dinner like everyone else. A boy who knew only Salisbury steak and Tater Tots, then some herb-crazed tart shows up with a chicken chasseur and has her way with him. The thought depresses me.
    “Is that the reason for your shifty moods?” I ask quietly.
    “Oh, Chicken, I’m fucked up and shifty as hell. But I’m hungry for you.”
    Hungry for me! My Shifty Blades hungers for me.

Flattered Breasts
    H ow many were there?”
    “What?”
    “How many Ingredients were there, before me?”
    “Do you really want to rehash that conversation again?” He’s becoming ruffled.
    “Yes! I think I have a right to know.”
    “Fifteen.”
    I wasn’t expecting that. Fifteen? Holy shit. He’s really been around. He’s so secretive. I feel anger bubbling up inside me.
    I glare at him and he glares back. Despite the anger, I feel it, the attraction—irresistible, drawing us together like kitchen magnets.
    My breast arches involuntarily toward his touch. Suddenly he seizes me and lays me out on the counter, claiming me hungrily. His fingers pull me taut, the palms of his hands grinding my soft white meat into the hard granite, trapping me. I feel him. His stomach growls, and my mind spins as I acknowledge his craving for me.
    “Why must you always challenge me?” he murmurs breathlessly.
    “Because I can.” My pulse throbs painfully.
    He grabs a fistful of kosher salt.
    “I’m going to season you now.”
    “Yes.” My voice is low and heated.
    He reaches for a rolling pin, then hesitates, looking at me.
    “Yes, please, Chef,” I moan.
    The first blow of the rolling pin jolts me but leaves behind a delicious warm feeling.
    “I. Will. Make. You. Mine,” he says between blows.
    Adrenaline is pounding thunderously through me—and so is he.
    Fighting is rough, but making up could be the end of me.
    sautéed chicken