"Dimitri said he had planned to make spetzofai tonight. All the ingredients are here, so we’d better get started." He glanced at her, and she nodded in approval. He hauled the sausage and vegetables out of the refrigerator. "I can handle the main dish. Would you like to make the rice and perhaps a salad to go with it?" Without waiting for her answer, he went to work, oiling the large saucepan and chopping the peppers and tomatoes for the savory sausage dish.
The man definitely knew his way around a kitchen. His movements were efficient and precise. She turned and measured out the rice, putting it on to boil.
"Were you a chef in another life?" she asked.
"My father’s family owned a restaurant on Santorini. We all helped out in the kitchen."
Francie thought about her father, so brilliant in many ways, but utterly helpless in domestic affairs. When he remembered to eat, he depended on someone else, or he went out. Alex didn’t seem to be helpless in any situation, but most of the men in this country had definite ideas about division of labor between the sexes.
She turned to him. "Yes?"
"Are you planning to do anything with that knife?"
She looked down. Her right hand was wrapped around the handle of a large chopping knife, but nothing was on the block in front of her. She had been caught daydreaming. Her mother would often say living with her and her father was like living alone. "You both get so caught up in your other worlds," she'd say, "that I might as well not be here." And then she would leave. Again.
She shook herself, mentally. "Sorry, I was somewhere else."
"Wherever you were, I hope it was a pleasant place. I’d hate to see you wield that knife when you’re angry." He went back to tending his grill.
Francie stared at him a moment. There had been no censure in his voice, only mild teasing.
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