#now catch me recycling it for this insignificant drabble kjfjds

[chayscribbles-archive]

FINNPETRA FLUFF FEBRUARY ❃ DAY 18: COOKING

i’m writing a little fluffy prompt piece set around my wip muddy roads & foxgloves every day for the month of february. see all FinnPetra Fluff February posts here!

POV: Petra.

setting: post-series. they’ve been dating for some time + living together.

synopsis: Petra and Finneas try out a special recipe.

words: 794

other notes: this takes place literally right after yesterday’s piece, but you don’t have to have read it to understand this one.

Not long after the grocery bags were set on the kitchen floor was the cutting board out of the cupboards and the stovetop heating up in anticipation of an evening spent cooking.

Donning her old flimsy apron, Petra rolled up the sleeves of her sweater and spread out onto the counter the crumpled piece of paper on which she had scribbled the recipe her mother had given her over the phone. Skimming through the list of ingredients and instructions, she let out a sigh.

Finneas came up next to her, holding an onion and a head of garlic. "Did we forget to buy something?" he asked, peering over her shoulder.

"No, that's not it," Petra said. "I’ve been trying not to think about it too much, but… I don't know if we can do this recipe justice."

"Why not?"

"The instructions my mom gave are super vague," she explained, rubbing her temples. "Like, what is ‘to taste’ supposed to mean? How much is a 'pinch' of cumin, objectively? Is that a teaspoon or—"

"It’s how much you can pick up when you pinch it," Finneas said, going over to the other side of the sink to begin peeling the onion.

"And don't get me started on the timing of it all," Petra went on. "She told me to 'let it simmer for a while' and didn't bother to give me a specific amount of time.”

“Just wing it,” Finneas suggested. “Go with your gut.”

“Listen,” Petra said, whirling around to face him. “I cannot do that. If I mess up and it doesn’t taste anything like my mom makes it…”

She ducked as Finneas reached over to open the cupboard above her and pull out a plate. “It doesn’t have to taste exactly the same,” he reassured her.

“Well, I want it to.”

“It’ll be our own version. The Finneas and Petra version.”

“Wouldn’t it be the Petra and Finneas version? It’s my mom’s recipe, after all.”

He laughed. “Okay, fine. The Petra and Finneas version. It’ll taste fine. Don’t worry about it.” He planted a quick kiss on her forehead before going back to his side of the counter.

With that little piece of reassurance, they got to work. The vegetables they had bought at the Buhaki store went through the chopping board, with Petra explaining the origin of each foreign vegetable—kerro, for example, being a tuberous root used in many Zangolese dishes. Once cut up, the ingredients then made their way into the pot and were mixed with pieces of cured fish; the thick, fragrant oil from the fruit of the awanuwu—ice palm—tree; and an assortment of seasonings. The kitchen was soon filled with the gentle bubbling of the stew and the smells of the spices intermingling in the broth, and amongst it all, Petra caught a whiff of home. 

But it wasn’t the same old, familiar feeling of her mother’s kitchen growing up. It was a new kind of home, one she was forging now in that tiny apartment kitchen with Finneas by her side.

Suddenly overcome with feeling, she sauntered up behind him as he stirred the stew and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the rough fabric of his sweater.

“What’s up?” he asked without turning around.

“Mm, nothing,” she murmured into his back. “I love you, that’s all.”

There was a pause, a break in the rhythmic clinking of the spoon against the side of the pot. Then, Finneas’ hand covered Petra’s, his fingers filling the spaces between hers.

“Love you, too."

The spoon resumed its stirring for a few quiet moments as the two dwelled in the cozy bubble created by the intimate exchange still lingering in the air.

Finally, Finneas announced, “I think it’s done. Wanna taste?”

Petra unwrapped her arms from around him as he took a scoop of the stew into the spoon. Cupping his hand beneath it to keep it from dripping onto the floor, he gently blew on it to cool it down, then turned around and brought it to Petra’s lips. 

She leaned forward to carefully close her mouth around the spoon. Her eyebrows knit into a slight frown as the warm stew hit her tongue.

Finneas retracted the spoon from Petra’s mouth with an apprehensive grimace. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s…” Petra began, running her tongue along the roof of her mouth to get the taste of the spices from every angle. She swallowed properly before speaking again. “It doesn’t taste like when my mom makes it.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” Finneas asked, taking another scoop for himself.

“In a good way.” Petra took his free hand and interlaced her fingers into his with a smile. “In a Finneas and Petra way.”

thanks for reading! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for future FPFF posts! 🥰