Epicurean Delights

Epicurean Delights

The two men of the house sat back from the kitchen table and surveyed their handiwork. One frowned and rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. The other occasionally flicked his tail, possibly in irritation and possibly in amusement. Ron had never doubted Crookshanks's ability to find entertainment at his expense - the old fleabag was just that kind of lovably evil creature.

The kitchen was not a mess, although it should have been. It would have made the Ron feel slightly better about the whole thing. There were dishes piled in the sink and an odd scent lingered about, but there wasn't anything dripping from the ceiling, nothing was slowly burning, melting or clanking and worst of all, he hadn't compromised the structural integrity of the kitchen. A disastrous kitchen would have indicated that yes, he had failed, but spectacularly so. Ron did not like to do things half-arsed, especially when Hermione was concerned.

The table looked nice though. Indeed, it was the only redeemable quality about the whole fiasco. The light from the candles cast a romantic glow over the equally romantic table-settings. Ron had methodically placed the dinnerware and more silverware than he could imagine using upon the table. He had located the linen napkins that were a wedding gift and it had taken him nearly half an hour to figure out how the damn things folded together. In the end, he had just folded them into neat little squares. The champagne was chilling in a bucket of ice next to the incredibly over-priced bouquet of orchids. It had been perfect - all a man could hope for in an anniversary dinner.

But then, Ron had gone and put the food on the table, and now it just looked rather sad - a pathetic attempt at romantic seduction from an ill-advised male. The only food stuff that actually looked good was the cake his mother had made them for their special day. His first instinct had been to send it back because it didn't fit into the theme of the evening. As far as Ron knew, there was nothing particularly erotic about cake, but he and Hermione liked cake. Besides, he really wasn't keen on the idea of passing up cake, so Ron had decided it was fully acceptable. He was now quite glad he'd kept it as it was probably the only thing that tasted like it should, apart from the peaches and cucumber. Ron sighed and thought he heard Crookshanks snicker, but it was only a lovely little hack that indicated Hermione had become lax in administering his hairball potion.

Ron really should have known that this wouldn't work. He wasn't that kind of man and they weren't that kind of couple. He'd gotten the idea from Adrian Pucey of all people. Adrian might have been a poncey git were he not, as Ginny had delightfully informed Ron, "pure sex." The man had somehow kept himself out of the Voldemort debacle and risen to prominence in Hermione's department at the Ministry. At a recent Ministry function, Ron had reluctantly found himself conversing with the ex-Slytherin about his latest seduction. Ron was told tales of epicurean delight and the erotic power of food. Ron hadn't listened all that well because he had been chanting the word "epicurean" in his head so he could remember it when he got home and consult Hermione's battered dictionary.

The idea had all seemed a little shifty to Ron at the time, but it had stayed with him. Ron had never really consciously seduced Hermione. Back in their seventh year, he had simply given up all pretense of maturity and informed Hermione that she would no longer be dating that dark, brooding tosser of a Slytherin, Blaise Zabini. There had been some tension and some amazing rows, but eventually, everything had worked out in the end. Since then, they had just come together when one of them felt like it. Hermione sometimes turned Ron away, and Ron had even once turned Hermione away. Hermione still teased Ron about it sometimes. In his defense, he had been trying to make a point - a completely forgotten and probably insignificant point.

Planned seduction seemed kind of dishonest to Ron. He and Hermione didn't need to play such games with each other and Ron was exceedingly thankful for it. Had Hermione been that type of woman, Ron had no doubt that he would find himself in a constant state of confusion and unease. Neither of them harboured overly romantic ideals, finding them to be all too soppy. They were happy and comfortable with each other. Ron trusted her more than anyone else and he believed she felt the same way. Their marriage had ups and downs like any other, but they always seemed to work through things without too much shouting or too many tears.

Sometimes though, Hermione's ideas on love and marriage, and her expectations of him were awfully confusing to Ron. Often, after she thoroughly described things, sometimes with a nice little diagram, he would pick up on what she was talking about, and her suggestions were generally reasonable. So, Ron had thought that his wife might appreciate a seductive meal for their first anniversary. She had never dropped any hints that she wanted her husband to cook such a meal for her, but that didn't mean she wouldn't love it if it was presented to her. Ron didn't really know of course. Ron didn't want to admit it, but it was quite obvious that Pucey knew a few things about women that Ron didn't, and Pucey had been adamant that any woman would appreciate such a meal. However, things didn't always go according to plan. Ron was quite sure the food on the table was edible, but it didn't look tasty and it certainly didn't look seductive.

It had taken most of the day to make this meal. Ron had carefully selected peaches, asparagus, and a cucumber for the evening in a posh Muggle market in London. He had surreptitiously asked a clerk to help him select the best oysters. The man had positively leered at him and Ron might have been affronted had he not be doing this for Hermione.

Ron was not by nature a metaphorical man. He had been able to pick up on the symbolism of the asparagus and cucumber just fine, thank you, but the peaches had escaped him until after he'd cut them up into small bite-sized pieces. Unfortunately, he had cooked the asparagus until it looked more like bubotuber pus than asparagus. He hadn't been sure what to do with the cucumber. He'd held it in his hand for some time with a confused look on his face. He had even asked Crookshanks what he thought they should do with it, but as usual, Crookshanks was no help at all. So Ron had simply put it on a plate with a knife. After a few short moments of deep contemplation on the symbolic nature of cucumbers, Ron had decided he didn't really want a knife anywhere near the cucumber and put it safely back in the drawer.

And then there were the oysters. Ron knew what the oysters were supposed to mean, but had been horrified when he'd actually opened one up. The oyster was slimy, squishy and a sickly grey colour. He had felt insulted for Hermione that anyone might think any part of her looked like that. Hermione was lovely and enchanting; the oyster was revolting. Ron had been convinced that they needed to be cooked or gutted or something. There had been nothing about oysters in Hermione's cookbooks, Meals in Three Easy Steps and Cooking for the Daft, so Ron had taken it upon himself to boil them. It hadn't worked out well. He had picked out the shells and put them on a plate. The soupy water had been taken to the edge of their property and thrown into the woods. Ron had tried to work out an erotic explanation for the shells, but the only things he could come up with seemed rather unpleasant and quite disturbing. Still, Ron wanted Hermione to see what he'd done for her. She would think it was funny and Ron loved to hear her laugh, even if it was at his expense.

"Ron?"

"I'm in the kitchen Hermione." Ron groaned as he got out of his chair.

"Ron?" Hermione stepped into the kitchen and Ron swooped her up in his arms.

"Happy Anniversary," Ron said, and kissed his wife's nose.

"Happy Anniversary to you too," she said as she buried her face in his neck. They sighed contentedly into each other.

"What's all this then?" Hermione asked as she pulled out of his embrace and surveyed the table before her.

"Well - it's uh, your anniversary dinner," Ron said with a big smile. He dramatically spread his arms over the expanse of the table.

"Nice cucumber."

Ron coughed.

"It didn't exactly go according to plan."

"I see that. You really didn't have to do all this," Hermione said, with an awfully pleased look on her face that suggested it had been a very good idea to do this. She sidled up to him and put her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder.

"I know. I wanted to," Ron said. He smiled and rested his chin on her head. She made him so happy.

"So . . . are we going to eat all this?"

Ron sighed. "Well, the cake's probably pretty good. Mum made it for us. And I didn't do anything to the cucumber and the peaches, so they're probably alright."

"Do you want to have cucumbers and peaches for dinner?"

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Not particularly."

"How about champagne and cake?"

"Ah, now I remember why I asked you to marry me." Ron didn't want to admit that he'd been slightly worried about Hermione's reaction. He had wanted to surprise her with a nice romantic meal and he had completely botched it up. He had guessed that Hermione probably wouldn't mind, but sometimes, Hermione was just such a . . . well, such a woman. Ron understood Hermione for the most part, but he didn't understand women at all.

"Because I'll eat champagne and cake for our anniversary?"

"Exactly," Ron said emphatically.

Hermione laughed. "Sometimes, I don't understand you at all."

"Well that's okay. As long as you understand me most of the time."

Hermione stood with her hands on her hips looking at the table. "Do you want to eat outside? This isn't really," Hermione paused and looked up at Ron in trepidation, "us, is it?"

"Gods, I love you."

Hermione smiled.

Ron and Hermione packed up the peaches, cake and champagne and set them up on the grass in their back garden. They sat close together and fed each other peaches and cake. Ron taunted Crookshanks with promises of cake, and Crookshanks retaliated accordingly, as he always did. They laughed and Hermione even giggled once or twice. Ron's hands were playfully slapped away on occasion, and on other occasions, they were given free rein. They watched the sun set and laid out under the stars, neither giving a thought to the epicurean delights they had missed.