#(// *beating RL responsibilities back with a stick* Let. me. have. my. fun!!)

[memoirofanowl]

🔥- Her Cook

‘Goddess’

Now Sanji has always possessed an ingrained tact for lavish words and splendid praise, there was no doubt about that. However, beneath the fatuous banter, there inlaid a sense of genuine belief. And it was this connotation that stunned her-- the collection of misaligned cards in Serena’s hand stopping short from the surface of the table. 

Sincerely, what had she done to deserve such admiration? Goddesses, to a believer or no, are attributed to tangible changes to the world or even the prevention of atrocities to her people--an ill-suited parallel, in her opinion. Given, if it had been this once or even a rare occurrence, she could brush it off as simple, flirty affection but it was more than that. With each show of blatant favoritism : every sweet treat, every fawning compliment, or cutesy nickname over her male counterparts--people that he has known longer and, is in fact, closer to--, there came a figurative narrowing of the precarious pedestal she found herself perched. Drawing the line ever closer to the two options that come with such a predicament, discomfort or disappointment, neither the fledgling wished to dwell on. 

So when those blond locks turns to her, she takes it as a chance to change the mental narrative, aligning the cards into an even deck before shoving them into their box (along with those thoughts), “Oh, yes. Back home...on Crescent Cliff Isle, it was just my papa- and I. I would get home from school before him more often than not, so I would take it upon myself to cook!” 

The tip of her tongue trips over the back of her teeth, in contrast to bare feet that follow effortlessly after her crew member, instinctually wanting to correct herself to ‘father’; Something less familiar, less intimate to keep that comfortable distance from others. Yet she doesn’t, she wants better for him. Instead the witch’s words flow naturally, laced with the excitement of possibility. What was she going to choose to cook?

Given there are parameters to keep in mind: Unsure with what was on the menu tonight it would be irresponsible to take up too many utensils or resources. Plus, it would be inconsiderate to choose something that would take time. No need to cut more into his prep time than she already had...

‘Papa!! Papa, stop that tickles!!-flower’s going to get-klukukukuku!! Pa-pa!!’

A gentle clap accompanies the spark in memory and off she goes to rummage through the kitchen, uncertain where everything is that but making due. “So, what’s on the menu for tonight? Anything I should avoid to make your prep go smoothly?”, Serena calls from over her shoulder, the balls of her feet aiding her to grab a bowl form one of the higher shelves. A quick dip into the refrigerator reaped some well-cultured yogurt, butter, and a contented smile his way. 

With newfound abandon she slips into the pantry, nostalgia guiding her hands to those ingredients needed. A well-instilled song reverberates through her throat as items are coaxed into the crook of her elbow. Though, curiously enough, no matter how this newcomer riffles through the shelves, every foodstuff is replaced just as it was found—down to which way the label on the packaging was facing from her particular angle. Something akin to muscle memory that leaves no trace of her passing. 

A calloused heel props the door back open as her arms tend to balancing the array of goods. Intrinsic footwork pivots herself out and around the door to give it a firm hip-bump to ensure it closed properly. The tune now carried through the open space, unchanging as each ingredient is lined up along the cooktop. Pewter eyes scan the selection and she just knows something is missing. 

“Sugar, sugar, sugar, butter...”, is muttered in a hushed tone, now giving words to this sentimental melody while the rest of her continues mulling through her mental list: Flour, yogurt, yeast, sugar, salt...traditional butter (substitutions are expected in a unfamiliar kitchen. After all not everyone has ghee butter casually on hand when its counterpart works just as well). She would get the water, a cutting board, and a cast-iron skillet in a moment...what was missing?!

In a fluid movement, mocha hands rested on cocked hips, fingertips tracing the wildflower pattern of skirt that hugged that defined curve. Paired with furrowed brows, a foot begins to tap along to her tune. It is then Serena turns to ask--it would be foolish to not ask the expert in the room-- only to still again as she is met with her answer, found nestled within encouraging, eager eyes. Of course: Someone to share the experience with. Krish Todd taught her as much. 

The pensive body language eases, replacing itself with something more playful. Her gaze breaking from Sanji’s to give a brief glance down his form, “Happen to know any good dips that would go well with nann bread?”.