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"Smaller, huh?" He teased, pretending to squint at the pepper as if it was an intricate piece of art. "You're being bossy, you know."
I stuck out my tongue at him. "Only because someone needs a strict teacher," I shot back.
Next came the task of stirring the pasta sauce. He approached the simmering pot with confidence, but it soon evaporated as he managed to spill some of the sauce onto his apron.
"Daddy!" I reprimanded him, holding back my laughter. "You're such a chaotic chef."
“That makes me sound way cooler than I am.” He crossed his arms, a feigned look of offense on his face. "Besides, I'll have you know, that a little mess is the sign of a good cook. It shows that the cook is battling the ingredients, fighting the lively sauce in its natural habitat. It's a dance of dominance and submission, a battle of wills. Today, the sauce may have won, but next time, I'll be ready for its lively tricks!"
"Oh, Daddy, you can be so ridiculous and silly sometimes," I said with a giggle.
Finally, it was time to season the dish. He confidently reached for the salt, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You know, Mike always loves it when Joe does this," he said, lifting his hand high above the pan, trying to mimic the famous 'salt bae' gesture. However, his aim was off, and he ended up sprinkling most of the salt onto the counter rather than the pan.
Despite the hiccups, I couldn't have been more pleased with our cooking session. "Daddy," I declared, "you're the best student I've ever had."
A beaming smile spread across his face as he puffed up his broad chest in pride. "Only because I have the best teacher.”
When I moved to help him set the table, he gently pushed me back into my seat. "Let me take care of it, Little one," he insisted.
My gaze followed him as he continued moving around the kitchen, his large frame an intriguing contrast to the delicate intricacy of our culinary endeavors. His muscular forearms flexed and relaxed as he worked. I found myself entranced by the play of muscles, and the way his shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. I wondered how it would feel to be held in those arms again, to feel those hands caress my skin, to press myself against his strength and lose myself in his warmth.
"I don't believe that's the look of someone focused on dinner, Little one," Daddy’s voice cut through my daydream, startling me. I had been so lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice him finish setting the table and catch me staring at his bulge. A playful chuckle escaped his lips.
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. I tried to form a witty comeback, but all that came out was a stuttered, "What are you laughing at?"
He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Oh, nothing much," he said, his voice deep, the hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just thinking about how lucky I am to have such an attentive Little."
Any lingering embarrassment evaporated, replaced by a warm glow that spread through me.
"With great pleasure, I present to you," He then began, raising a silver dome covered plate high in the air, "the finest culinary masterpiece of the century!"
With a flourish, he whisked the cover away, revealing a colorful, appetizing plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The pasta was swirled high on the plate like a soft-serve ice cream cone, a meatball precariously balancing on top, while the vibrant sauce painted the base of the plate. He set the dish down in front of me, giving a deep, exaggerated bow.
As his self-proclaimed princess, I took on my role with gusto. I pursed my lips, narrowing my eyes at the plate of spaghetti. "This dish," I began, trying to keep my tone serious, "it contains tomatoes, does it not?"
He nodded, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Yes, Your Highness, only the finest for you."
"And these tomatoes, were they imported from Italy, as befits a princess's palate?"
An easy grin spread across his face. "Indeed, Your Highness. Imported from the exotic aisles of our local budget grocery store."
My eyes widened dramatically at his reply. "How dare you!" I exclaimed, struggling to keep my laughter in check.
Undeterred, Hank gestured towards the mound of pasta. "And, the pasta," he announced, "handcrafted this very morning under the harsh glare of the Tuscan sun."
"Indeed?" I inquired, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "The Tuscan sun, you say?"
"Indeed," Hank retorted, matching my skeptical tone. "Though, to be precise, it was the harsh glare of our kitchen lights."
A laugh bubbled out of me. But to keep the game going, I quickly schooled my expression back to a semblance of annoyance.
"Insolence!" I exclaimed, pointing a finger at him. "How dare you mock a princess with such audacity! I should have you whipped as punishment. Instead, I hereby bar you from the royal kitchen for a week."
"Oh, but fair Princess," He began dramatically in a thick British accent, laying a hand over his heart and bowing his head, his voice holding a layer of remorse. "I am but a humble servant, errant in my ways, daring to jest in your august presence. I beg your forgiveness for my transgressions and promise to amend my ways."
He glanced up from beneath his lashes, eyes sparkling with mirth. "In my defense," he continued, his voice gaining a hint of defiance, "one cannot silence the voices of wit and humor when they dare speak so loudly. They beg to be heard, to entertain, to inspire laughter in those who would listen. But rest assured, fair Princess, I'll strive to be the humblest servant, only to fall into my old ways moments later. After all, a chef has got to season the world with his flavorful humor, right?"
I shrugged. As we prepared to start our meal, I put on my haughtiest princess voice. "I protest! There are no silver cutleries! A princess deserves nothing but silver."
