Read Online No Place Like Home by Barbara Samuel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Samuel
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the wings—don’t get fancy about it, it’s just to let in a little more flavor.
In a large measuring cup or bowl, mix 2 to 3 cups of water (enough to cover wings), the juice of an orange (plus the fruit, shredded up into little pieces, if you want), a couple hard shakes of Worcestershire sauce, a couple tablespoons of vinegar, plus a dash each of pepper, salt, and nutmeg. Pour over the chicken; cover chicken with plastic wrap or foil. Have a beer or two and come back later for part two.
Put on some music. Probably best to have some southern rock, blues, or even some good bluegrass kind of gospel for this particular undertaking, though I have used K.T. Oslin to good effect some days. Also, it’s good to open another beer.
In a big pot, mix all sauce ingredients except the honey.
Simmer for a half hour. Thicken with honey, and pour over chicken wings. Bake at 350º for an hour and a half, turning halfway through, basting as necessary. Really good with margaritas.
Chapter 5
So I got my wish. Malachi got on the bike and pulled it upright, turning the ignition to bring the engine to rumbling, low-throated life. His thighs tensed, big and strong beneath the black jeans, and he handed me a helmet. “Spoiling your image now,” I said, taking it. “Don’t you want the wind in your hair, freedom man?”
“Not if it means a cracked skull.” He pulled his own helmet on and shifted forward, leaving room for me to get on.
There’s a reason bad boys ride motorcycles. They’re very dangerous machines. I put my hand out and braced myself on his shoulder, feeling giving flesh and hard muscle beneath the turquoise T-shirt, and slid behind him, settling as far back as I could to avoid pressing against him.
“Hang on,” he said, and when I put my hands on the seat, he added, “Hang on to
me
.”
So I did. Put my hands around his waist and leaned into him. No way around it.
And this is what my mother knows about me: I could pretend all day and night to be holding myself rigid, but he smelled good, even better than he had this afternoon. Soap and clean breezes and healthy man. Against my arms, his sides were hard as iron, his back warm against my breasts and belly. I relaxed into him, enjoying it, enjoying him and the rumbling engine between our legs and the soft summer night air blowing over my skin. The moments sizzled along my nerves, worked their way into my chest, and untied some tight knot that lived there. Our bodies moved, into turns, out of them, and he called over his shoulder, “Not your first ride, I take it.”
“No,” I called back, and heard myself laughing.
At the liquor store, I realized I should have done something with my hair, which had flown all around in the wind. But somehow it didn’t matter nearly as much here. I yanked off the helmet and carried it in my hand, feeling like a tough girl, like a wild woman. I loved walking in there with Malachi, too, and picking out tequila and fresh limes. He picked up a box of salt and I took it out of his hand and put it back. “Kosher salt for margaritas. He’d kill you if you brought back regular.” I picked it out and tried to remember if there was any triple sec around the house. Margaritas were my favorite, and I was picky about the way they were made, thanks to a long stint as a bartender in a Mexican restaurant in LA, back when Billy and Michael still thought they’d make the big time.
“Is it okay for Michael to drink?” he asked me suddenly.
I started to say, “What difference does it make?” but that would be too bold. Instead I looked up and smiled. “He’s feeling great today, because of you. Let him enjoy it.”
He turned his mouth down at the corners, an expression of acceptance. “I can do that.” His boot heels made a solid, reliable noise against the tiles of the floor. “Your grandma’s mean.”
I smiled. “She’s not so bad, once you get on her good side.”
“How’d you come from that family?” he asked, and
In a large measuring cup or bowl, mix 2 to 3 cups of water (enough to cover wings), the juice of an orange (plus the fruit, shredded up into little pieces, if you want), a couple hard shakes of Worcestershire sauce, a couple tablespoons of vinegar, plus a dash each of pepper, salt, and nutmeg. Pour over the chicken; cover chicken with plastic wrap or foil. Have a beer or two and come back later for part two.
Put on some music. Probably best to have some southern rock, blues, or even some good bluegrass kind of gospel for this particular undertaking, though I have used K.T. Oslin to good effect some days. Also, it’s good to open another beer.
In a big pot, mix all sauce ingredients except the honey.
Simmer for a half hour. Thicken with honey, and pour over chicken wings. Bake at 350º for an hour and a half, turning halfway through, basting as necessary. Really good with margaritas.
Chapter 5
So I got my wish. Malachi got on the bike and pulled it upright, turning the ignition to bring the engine to rumbling, low-throated life. His thighs tensed, big and strong beneath the black jeans, and he handed me a helmet. “Spoiling your image now,” I said, taking it. “Don’t you want the wind in your hair, freedom man?”
“Not if it means a cracked skull.” He pulled his own helmet on and shifted forward, leaving room for me to get on.
There’s a reason bad boys ride motorcycles. They’re very dangerous machines. I put my hand out and braced myself on his shoulder, feeling giving flesh and hard muscle beneath the turquoise T-shirt, and slid behind him, settling as far back as I could to avoid pressing against him.
“Hang on,” he said, and when I put my hands on the seat, he added, “Hang on to
me
.”
So I did. Put my hands around his waist and leaned into him. No way around it.
And this is what my mother knows about me: I could pretend all day and night to be holding myself rigid, but he smelled good, even better than he had this afternoon. Soap and clean breezes and healthy man. Against my arms, his sides were hard as iron, his back warm against my breasts and belly. I relaxed into him, enjoying it, enjoying him and the rumbling engine between our legs and the soft summer night air blowing over my skin. The moments sizzled along my nerves, worked their way into my chest, and untied some tight knot that lived there. Our bodies moved, into turns, out of them, and he called over his shoulder, “Not your first ride, I take it.”
“No,” I called back, and heard myself laughing.
At the liquor store, I realized I should have done something with my hair, which had flown all around in the wind. But somehow it didn’t matter nearly as much here. I yanked off the helmet and carried it in my hand, feeling like a tough girl, like a wild woman. I loved walking in there with Malachi, too, and picking out tequila and fresh limes. He picked up a box of salt and I took it out of his hand and put it back. “Kosher salt for margaritas. He’d kill you if you brought back regular.” I picked it out and tried to remember if there was any triple sec around the house. Margaritas were my favorite, and I was picky about the way they were made, thanks to a long stint as a bartender in a Mexican restaurant in LA, back when Billy and Michael still thought they’d make the big time.
“Is it okay for Michael to drink?” he asked me suddenly.
I started to say, “What difference does it make?” but that would be too bold. Instead I looked up and smiled. “He’s feeling great today, because of you. Let him enjoy it.”
He turned his mouth down at the corners, an expression of acceptance. “I can do that.” His boot heels made a solid, reliable noise against the tiles of the floor. “Your grandma’s mean.”
I smiled. “She’s not so bad, once you get on her good side.”
“How’d you come from that family?” he asked, and
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