Rabbit in the Kitchen

Kaleidoscript magazine Published by

Despite her lack of navigational skills, Lauren managed to find Pieter’s house. When she raised her hand to knock on the door, she felt sick. Nerves, anxiety, and excitement, churned inside her by what felt like a boat propellor.

What exactly was she doing? This was Ryan’s fault. If he had not kept on about how interesting Pieter Kruger’s lessons were, and how great rugby training was now that he was coaching, she wouldn’t have sought him out to thank him. Instead, she would have remained in her classroom marking books and planning lessons.

It was awkward when Pieter opened the door, they didn’t know how formal or informal their greeting should be. It ended in a jumble of shaking hands and kissing cheeks. In the hall, under the glare of the shade-less ceiling light, he said Lauren looked nervous, her responsive laugh wasn’t as carefree as it was meant to be. “You look good in pink,” he quickly added, as if to take his foot from his mouth.

Lauren thought he looked spectacularly handsome, but she kept it to herself.

“Would you feel more comfortable if we went out?” Pieter asked.

Lauren shook her head; she would feel the same way wherever they went.

“I don’t often get an invitation to a home cooked meal.”

“The way I look at it, anyone can buy you dinner, but only an old fool cooks it for you!” said Pieter.

“I wouldn’t call you a fool.”

“But you would call me old!” They both laughed, she relaxed, felt the tightness evaporate from her body, until he said they were going to cook together. It was a bombshell; not exactly an explosion, but enough of a blast to make her uneasy.

Together sounded permanent, a couple, not acquaintances or colleagues. Lauren hadn’t been someone’s other half for years, it sometimes surprised her how many. She did not want anyone to get close enough to unbalance her emotions, or Ryan’s, he had suffered enough, but he had been eager for her to accept Pieter’s invitation.

Eating dinner was one thing, but having to help cook it was another. That was an issue for someone like Lauren who wasn’t a natural cook. How Ryan had survived so long was probably thanks to school dinners and visits to his grandmother. The preparation and cooking of food was anathema to Lauren: sharp knives, hot fat and raw meat. She couldn’t let shellfish enter her mind because the ugliness of crustaceans was abhorrent; how could something so ugly taste any good.

A bottle of red wine was breathing on the counter, a funny phrase. The first time Lauren heard her father say it she had watched the bottle expectantly, until he’d explained what he meant by his words. When she handed Pieter the bottle she had brought, he whistled.

“Very nice,” he said, opening the fridge to reveal an identical bottle. “Boschendal Chardonnay, it’s an omen we chose the same wine!”

“I confess, along with not being able to cook, I know nothing about wine except it comes in different colours. I liked the description: delicious notes of ripe mango, pineapple and pear.”

“It’ll go very well with the Bunny Chow. We’ll have the red with desert.”

“Bunny?” Lauren panicked, and brushed imaginary fluff from her sleeve.

She could not eat rabbit, they were either pets or vermin, and neither was appealing. “Is it skinned?”

Pieter laughed a wholesome, hearty laugh from the belly that seemed to make the utensils resonate on their hooks.

“Sorry, I had a vision of the bunny boiler scene in Fatal Attraction.” The same image had flitted through Lauren’s mind. She wished she had said she was a vegetarian when Pieter asked.

“Don’t worry, we’re not eating rabbit,” he said, stifling his laughter. “We’re eating shrimps.”

In a second the menu had gone from barely manageable to utterly revolting. Mechanically Lauren washed her hands and kept a smile on her face, even though her stomach felt like it was in a manual meat mincer. Pieter poured two glasses of wine.

“To first dates,” he said, offering her a glass.

She thought it unlikely there would be a second.

“You could make it with rabbit, but I prefer my grandmother’s recipe, and shrimps are usually a safe bet. There are different theories about its origin. My favourite stems from the old political situation in South Africa, if you’re interested?”

Lauren nodded. “You’re a history teacher, I’m sure it’ll be interesting.” He asked Lauren to chop prunes while he sliced onions. He began the story, stopping only to wipe tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

“The dish originated from Durban during apartheid, when migrant Indian workers weren’t allowed inside restaurants. But the migrant workers needed to eat, and the Bania’s, from the Indian Caste, who ran the kitchens, didn’t want them to starve, so they served them from the back door. They didn’t have polystyrene or foil containers, and they couldn’t give them dishes. Fortunately, some genius came up with the idea of filling a hollowed-out loaf of bread with curry, traditionally lamb, mutton, or vegetables, topped with pickled carrot salad, and sealed it with the top slice of the loaf.”

“The original take-away.” Lauren said.

Lauren was intrigued until Pieter removed a plate of shiny, slate-grey shrimps from the fridge. They were the colour of eels, something else she had an aversion to.

“I thought shrimps were pink,” she said.

“The cooked ones are, these beauties are raw.”

“But dead?”

Pieter’s laugh once again filled the kitchen, a happy sound which did little to reassure her. He took her hand and pulled it towards the plate of prawns. They did not look dead, their shells glistened too brightly.

“From that comment I take it you don’t know how to prep them?” Lauren had no idea and didn’t want to learn. He stood behind her, trapping her against the counter. Reluctantly she let Pieter guide her hands, his fingers manipulated hers which felt as if they were made from aspic.

“First pull off the head, mind it can spit juice. Feel for the gap on the underside, peel the legs and shell away, then slide the tail off, and save it all for stock. Now turn the shrimp over, and with a sharp knife, cut along its back and pull away the thread. It’s called deveining. It’s not actually a vein, it's the digestive tract. Can I trust you with a sharp knife?” He chuckled and she felt the bulk of his body move away from her.

Lauren had survived, rather stoically, her first lesson in undressing a shrimp. She’d enjoyed feeling Pieter’s square-fingered hands on hers. She imagined him massaging her neck and shoulders, relieving the classroom tension that settled on her like a weighted scarf at the end of the school day.

Pieter peeled the rest of the shrimp and asked Lauren to fry the onions, directing her on what spices to add. It might have been the wine, but Lauren began to feel there was nothing to be scared of as she sprinkled various coloured spices into the mix. The aroma from the pan as she added ginger, cumin, turmeric and chilli, made her feel as if she had only ever eaten stale bread. Garam masala and coriander were completely alien to her.

“Why is it called Bunny Chow?” she asked.

“Bunny is derived from Bania, and chow is slang for food.”

“Do all your dinners come with a potted history lesson?”

“That’s something you’re going to have to find out,” replied Pieter

There was a small table in the corner of the kitchen laid with cutlery and serviettes, two glass votives contained candles yet to be lit. Pieter set up his phone to play music.

“You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

“Do you mind?”

There was nothing to mind, no barriers to climb, no hurdles to jump, only excitement to experience. Regardless of the precautions you took, there was always the risk you might catch a cold. Sometimes it is better to take the medicine and embrace it.

“We’re nearly done, the shrimps only take a couple of minutes. Can you scoop the bread out of these for me?”

Tearing dough from the crust was cathartic. It stimulated a craving for company Lauren had previously discarded, like unwanted rubbish. The shrimps sizzled in the pan; Pieter dimmed the ceiling spots, and lit the candles.

“Three minutes.” Pieter moved towards the hob and his hand brushed Lauren’s leg, sending tingles up her spine. It felt like ants wearing stilettos were running a marathon along it. He turned, the smile of a child caught eating sweets before dinner skipped across his face. It wasn’t bright enough for her to notice if he blushed.

On the table, bread bowls steamed and shrimps, minus their armour, lounged in curry sauce, their pink bodies burnished by spices. Slices of pickled carrot salad, balanced on top of the curry, looked like the trimming on an Easter bonnet.

“Another theory about the origin is to do with golf and caddies, perhaps I’ll leave that version to another time.” Pieter tasted the curry. “Well done, it’s delicious.”

“Thanks, I’ll take all the credit!” Lauren knew that however disgusting she thought the shrimps were, she would savour every one of them.

By Linda Whitehouse

With a degree in Creative Writing from Hull University, Linda is establishing herself as a

short story writer and playwright. Her short plays have been performed in theatres in

Yorkshire, Lincolnshire and the North East of England; short stories and poetry are published on line and in print. She was the winner of the Val Wood open short story competition 2022. Linda is currently working on her first novel.

Categories: : romance, short stories