lost in the simplicity of this task. It was like the old Buddhist “chop wood and carry water” thing—and it had saved me from heartbreak, depression, and stress time and again.
I assembled the meat loaf and put it in the oven, then started working on the glaze. Ketchup doesn’t usually excite me. I use it, I do put it on my burgers, and I like to dip my fries in ketchup and mayonnaise sometimes, but as an ingredient, it doesn’t normally make my heart sing. As an ingredient in the meat loaf glaze, however, it is operatic. I mixed together the ketchup, molasses, cider vinegar, and a few spices in a small saucepan, turned up the heat, and waited for it to start bubbling and reducing down to a thick confection.
Slowly it morphed from orangey red to deep mahogany, and the smell—tangy and savory but with that hint of sweet—filled the kitchen. This was the real key to meat loaf—the almost candied glazing on the top. My ideal meal would be the semi-chewy top of a broiled glazed meat loaf; the crispy, buttery, cheesy top of macaroni and cheese; and the fragile, sweet, crumbly top of brownies.
I also save the top of Hostess cupcakes for last because that’s the best part.
I’m a topper, I guess.
I tasted the glaze. It was perfect. Bliss. So I turned the burner off and looked around for something to do.
It would still be an hour before the meat loaf was ready, and I would normally go out and get shopping and whatnot done in the neighborhood while I waited, but since he needed me to be here for the courier, I went into the living room to look for something to read.
There were two large dark wooden bookcases full of books. Hemingway, Joseph Conrad, a few Kinky Friedman mystery novels, and a bunch of tomes on economics and investments.
There was also a photo of an unbelievably hot guy standing in a tropical setting with his arm around a ridiculously thin, pretty blonde. Mr. Tuesday, I assumed, though I didn’t know who the woman was. I hadn’t seen any obvious signs of a feminine presence here, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t have a drawer in his bedroom and maybe a few inches of closet space.
Even though much of my work involved having a key to my clients’ homes and going in when they weren’t there, I had firm rules about not snooping. For one thing, it’s wrong. Obviously. And for another, you never know when someone has the equivalent of a nanny cam hidden away, waiting for you to slip up. For all I knew, Mr. Tuesday’s edition of Heart of Darkness could have a pinhole camera in the spine, recording everything I did every Tuesday.
Actually, it was a creepy thought, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t that interested in what I did.
But standing here, looking at the picture, speculating … there was nothing wrong with that.
It was impossible to tell how tall he was, but easy to tell that under the tropical print shirt and linen pants he wore in the photo, his body was pretty effing solid. His shoulders were broad and the fabric clung just enough to show that he had a muscular chest. His arms were also powerful looking, wide at the biceps but not flexed. I hate it when guys do that thing for pictures where they’re flexing but they think you don’t know it. For me, the masculinity lies in the guy’s self-confidence in knowing he’s got it, rather than the needy urge to prove it.
Mr. Tuesday had it. His hair was dark and glossy, his jaw strong and square without being cartoonish. His smile was more beautiful than a movie star’s, and his eyes—I couldn’t tell the color—crinkled with laugh lines, which I’ve always found pretty hot.
In short, he was one good-looking man.
Obnoxious, though. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him a lot, but I could tell from our interaction that he’d be a pain in the neck to date.
Not that the option was on the table. Like I said, I don’t date clients. Besides which, even if he didn’t still have the picture of this gorgeous girlfriend
I assembled the meat loaf and put it in the oven, then started working on the glaze. Ketchup doesn’t usually excite me. I use it, I do put it on my burgers, and I like to dip my fries in ketchup and mayonnaise sometimes, but as an ingredient, it doesn’t normally make my heart sing. As an ingredient in the meat loaf glaze, however, it is operatic. I mixed together the ketchup, molasses, cider vinegar, and a few spices in a small saucepan, turned up the heat, and waited for it to start bubbling and reducing down to a thick confection.
Slowly it morphed from orangey red to deep mahogany, and the smell—tangy and savory but with that hint of sweet—filled the kitchen. This was the real key to meat loaf—the almost candied glazing on the top. My ideal meal would be the semi-chewy top of a broiled glazed meat loaf; the crispy, buttery, cheesy top of macaroni and cheese; and the fragile, sweet, crumbly top of brownies.
I also save the top of Hostess cupcakes for last because that’s the best part.
I’m a topper, I guess.
I tasted the glaze. It was perfect. Bliss. So I turned the burner off and looked around for something to do.
It would still be an hour before the meat loaf was ready, and I would normally go out and get shopping and whatnot done in the neighborhood while I waited, but since he needed me to be here for the courier, I went into the living room to look for something to read.
There were two large dark wooden bookcases full of books. Hemingway, Joseph Conrad, a few Kinky Friedman mystery novels, and a bunch of tomes on economics and investments.
There was also a photo of an unbelievably hot guy standing in a tropical setting with his arm around a ridiculously thin, pretty blonde. Mr. Tuesday, I assumed, though I didn’t know who the woman was. I hadn’t seen any obvious signs of a feminine presence here, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t have a drawer in his bedroom and maybe a few inches of closet space.
Even though much of my work involved having a key to my clients’ homes and going in when they weren’t there, I had firm rules about not snooping. For one thing, it’s wrong. Obviously. And for another, you never know when someone has the equivalent of a nanny cam hidden away, waiting for you to slip up. For all I knew, Mr. Tuesday’s edition of Heart of Darkness could have a pinhole camera in the spine, recording everything I did every Tuesday.
Actually, it was a creepy thought, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t that interested in what I did.
But standing here, looking at the picture, speculating … there was nothing wrong with that.
It was impossible to tell how tall he was, but easy to tell that under the tropical print shirt and linen pants he wore in the photo, his body was pretty effing solid. His shoulders were broad and the fabric clung just enough to show that he had a muscular chest. His arms were also powerful looking, wide at the biceps but not flexed. I hate it when guys do that thing for pictures where they’re flexing but they think you don’t know it. For me, the masculinity lies in the guy’s self-confidence in knowing he’s got it, rather than the needy urge to prove it.
Mr. Tuesday had it. His hair was dark and glossy, his jaw strong and square without being cartoonish. His smile was more beautiful than a movie star’s, and his eyes—I couldn’t tell the color—crinkled with laugh lines, which I’ve always found pretty hot.
In short, he was one good-looking man.
Obnoxious, though. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him a lot, but I could tell from our interaction that he’d be a pain in the neck to date.
Not that the option was on the table. Like I said, I don’t date clients. Besides which, even if he didn’t still have the picture of this gorgeous girlfriend
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