Chapter 19

“I Smell Parmesan.”

David poked Jackie out of an REM sleep.

“Parmesan?” The look was ‘you woke me for that?’

“Yes.”

The look went from pissed to lust.

“Ooo ... spaghetti ... now I’m hungry. Do we have everything?”

“Let’s go look.”

Sure it was a ski resort, sure there was a lodge with rooms ... but Jackie had chosen an area with small cabins. Since she seemed to have it together, David went along.

The small cabins were self sustaining. You made your own bed, cooked your own food and rode the ski lift to play...

Well ... I couldn’t say ‘rode the lift to work.’

The place came stocked for play and dining. If you wanted ... the lift was ‘just over there’ and went past the lodge. The lodge had an excellent restaurant, making it a year round destination for the wealthy of Christchurch and its environs. The cabins were ... not timeshare ... but built by owners and leased or rented when the owner wasn’t using it.

Having ones own private dwelling meant no nosy or noisy neighbors. One could and did spank to their mutual satisfaction. Jackie loved it.

They padded over to the kitchen and checked supplies.

Warm floors ... gotta love ‘em. No slippers to sully the view. Feet are as nude as the rest.

In the fridge they found a paper wrapped package of ½ lb ground Italian sausage and ½ lb ground beef, several ripe tomatoes and a couple of sweet onions. There was a mesh of garlic bulbs, a bottle of Worcestershire sauce and several mild and sweet Italian sausages. There were assorted fresh vegetables ... salad makings and a whole door shelf of dressings ... and most importantly ... a block of parmesan cheese and cheese grinder hanging on a string next to the fridge.

The pantry had sea salt, pepper in a grinder, a 6 ounce can of tomato paste, sugar, fresh basil on a string, and a glass jar with noodles besides the normal denizens. You know ... the normal contents of a pantry. Things that would save a life in case of snow.

The Spice Rack held Italian seasoning, parsley and red pepper.

Water they had in abundance. There were pots, pans and an indoor grill in case one wished to float a sausage on a plate of something.

There ensued an orgy of food. Knives sliced, pans rattled, wine was sipped and ... well ... they WERE 19 ... and sorta not related ... and ... yeah.

That.

And plenty of it.

No carpets to sully with drips.

And no parents to forget that THEY were 19 once.

The difference between canned parmesan and ground parmesan is like the difference between decaf and Starbucks. The meal was a major hit ... and there were leftovers.

“You know what’s missing?” Jackie said.

“Yeah ... garlic bread sticks straight from the oven and marinara.”

“That too. No ... checkered tablecloths and candle light ... and the smell of pizza wafting out of the kitchen.”

“Yes ... and someone else to do the washing up.”

“At least it wasn’t lasagna.”

“Ooo ... so hard to get the pan clean...”

“Well ... jar up the leftovers, toss the pans in the sink and come fuck me.”