Southern Comfort: Chapter 13

Southern Comfort

Chapter Thirteen

Edward's kitchen consists of a sink, fridge, stove, a microwave and a toaster oven. All of which are provided by the leasing office. He's probably used the stove five times in the past two years he's lived here because the man can barely cook anything palpable. His mother taught him a few things, but the only successful dish he's able to crank out at will is a pot of chili, cornbread from box mix and berry cobbler.

He uses blueberries, blackberries and strawberries from a can and Bisquick mix, but I love it.

Five and a half years ago for Thanksgiving, my mother decided to spend the holiday at a homeless shelter up north so that she could get a feel for the piece she was writing for her local newspaper. My father was currently trying to make sense of his triple bypass and the fact that he was moving into a house with a woman ten years his junior that still had children living at home, so he neglectfully forgot to invite me up north. My brother and Rosalie had just gotten married and were up in Alaska with Rose's family, so I was alone.

Edward and Alice insisted that I go home with them for the holiday, but not one to want to intrude, I bowed out last minute and planned on spending my Thanksgiving alone in a booth at City Diner.

That was the first year I learned what I real family was.

Edward's mother showed up at my dorm by herself and told me that I was to get in the car within five minutes or she'd tan my hide. I spent the two hour drive listening to Esme go on about how her children were sulking around her house because I refused to come.

The Cullens were traditional people. Thanksgiving was a giant deal in their household, complete with the huge turkey and a hundred different sides. Another tradition ended up being Edward's berry cobbler.

Every year after that I spent most holidays with the Cullens, unless my mother happened to be in the area and then I'd invite her to my house. More than once I've showed up on the Cullens doorstep in the middle of their holiday dinner because my mother conveniently forgot that she had plans with me. And every time I showed up, there would be a plate in the oven waiting for me to join in as if I'd been there the entire time. I stopped crying in gratitude around the fourth time that had happened.

Right now I'm sitting on a stool watching Edward as he paces around his kitchen, gathering all of the proper utensils and ingredients.

"How did you learn how to make berry cobbler?" I ask, opening the cans of berries he'd placed in front of me, along with a manual can opener.

"Truth or lie?" he asks as he opens a can of steamed tomatoes and dumps it into the pot on the stove.

"Truth." I lick the lid of the blackberries as he begins chopping up the onion at the sink.

"Well, when I was a sophomore in high school and Alice was a freshman, she came home with a little baggy of marijuana that one of the kids in her class had given her." The tips of his ears turn pink. "She convinced me to partake and I did, resulting in a ridiculous case of the munchies for me and an annoying as hell case of the giggles for her."

He begins mimicking a stoned Alice giggle that has me clutching my stomach and wiping tears of mirth from my cheeks. He smirks at me before turning back to his onion. "Anyway, Alice was too high to cook anything; she kept holding a loaf of bread and laughing and I didn't want cereal, the only thing I knew how to cook at the time," he winks. "So I pulled out a bunch of stuff and just sort of threw it together and berry cobbler ended up being the end result."

"Are you lying?" I ask quizzically, because the story sounds a little fabricated.

"God's honest truth. Call Mouse if you don't believe me," he challenges, knowing too well that I'm not calling his sister. She's far too nosy for her own good and has already called both of our phones three times, resulting in us putting them on vibrate and leaving them by the front door.

I sit back and watch him put together a pot of one alarm chili because I'm a wuss and am not good with spicy foods. He puts me to work when I make fun or critique something he does, so I soon find myself stirring the Bisquick mix with a fork and brute strength or shredding a block of cheddar cheese.

"I can't believe you actually have a cheese grater," I snort.

"Shut it, woman."

"Really Edward," I giggle. "How is it that you have a cheese grater, but no pot holders?"

The man almost burned the shit out of himself pulling the cornbread out of the oven using an old T-shirt.

"I don't know." He shrugs. "If it wasn't for you and your well stocked kitchen, I'd be living off take out every night instead of the six out of seven."

"Hey, I cook."

"I know. You cook exceptionally well. It's just not very often. Here. Taste this," he directs, holding out a spoon of chili.

"Is it hot?"

"No, I blew on it," he snorts, pressing the spoon to my lips. "Open up."

I groan as the chili slides down my throat. "How do you do that, Edward? I've watched you burn chicken noodle soup from a can and almost start a fire in my kitchen making a grilled cheese, yet you can make chili from scratch with no problem."

"I don't know," he laughs.

I watch him put the cobbler together and place it in the oven before dishing out two bowls of chili. I grab the bottle of Strawberry Hills Boone's Farm wine that I brought here a few months ago as a joke. Edward doesn't have any wine glasses, so we're using mason jars to drink crappy wine while we eat our food.

Edward makes cheesy toast, mentioning something about many more dinner dates to come, with the exception that I cook, before we tuck in to our meals.

His socked foot rubs against mine in the same pattern as his hand ticks, but I don't say anything. He laughs when a string of melted cheese gets stuck to my chin and it's like nothing's changed. I realize that Maggie was right.

"What?" Edward asks, rubbing his mouth. "Do I have chili on my face?"

"No. I'm just glad you're my best friend," I smile.

"Me, too, darlin'."

The oven timer goes off while I'm washing the bowls out. Edward uses his home made pot holder and manages to get the cobbler out without burning himself. We both break out in applause when the pan is safely on the counter, and the fact that we're so in tune with each other makes me laugh.

Edward serves me a big helping before pulling a small tub of vanilla bean ice cream out of his freezer. He dollops some on each bowl and I watch as it begins melting immediately into the steaming cobbler.

"Back to the living room?" he asks.

"No. Let's take it to the bedroom." I grab my bowl and hop off of my stool and head down the hallway.