Page 28 of Nomad

“This is pretty clever,” she said. “Cooking food in a fireplace.”

“Yeah. Imagine that. Quest for fire.”

“Well it may not be new to humanity, but it’s new to me.”

By the time Cann walked over to the cooler, the ice had melted. He took one of the cans of biscuits out, greased the second skillet and placed them in the pan snuggled up close together, unlike what the directions said to do. But of course, the directions talked about baking in ovens.

He brought the pan of biscuits back to the fire and set it off to the side where, he estimated, it would be exposed to just the right amount of heat.

“Bacon’s done,” she said as she forked it onto the wood tray that had been lined with a paper sack and paper towels.

“Okay.” He used the ancient oven mitt to pick up the skillet, walked it outside a ways from the house and dumped the excess grease into a rocky crevice, leaving just the tiniest bit in the pan.

When he returned she said, “What’s next?”

He nodded toward the kitchen area. “There’s a bowl over there with some eggs whisked and ready to go. Bring it over here if you please.”

When she saw that he intended to dump the beaten eggs into the skillet, she said, “NOOOOOO!” He looked up at her and smiled just before pouring the eggs into the bacon grease. “How could you do that?”

“You’ll see.”

“I’ll see what? Inedible eggs.”

He laughed. “You know you have the makings of a drama queen.”

“Do not.”

“Do.”

“Oh my God! Look what you’ve done to those perfectly good perfectly yellow eggs. They’re disgusting!”

“They’re not disgusting. They’re called dirty eggs.”

“And that’s exactly what they look like! No thanks.”

“Tastin’ before judgin’.”

“Is that a policy statement?”

“I don’t know what a policy statement is.”

“It’s a rule you live by.”

“I don’t make rules about food, but if I did, that would be one of ‘em. Up. Biscuits are ready.”

“Are those plates and forks clean?”

“Caretaker. Everything’s fine. Just take the bacon over there and sit down at the, uh, table.”

“Do we have any juice in that ice chest?”

“I think I saw some. You’re welcome to hunt around.”

While Cann carried a skillet of eggs and a skillet of biscuits, Bud was bending over the ice chest looking for juice. One look at her heart-shaped derriere pointed in that position had his cock twitching in his pants. He scolded himself for the inappropriateness of that and looked away, suddenly on a mission to find the salt and pepper.

“Eureka!” she shouted, holding up a pint bottle of orange juice like it was a prize. “Want some?”

He could see by the look on her face that she was hoping he’d say no. He shook his head after biting into a piece of thick slab bacon and used a booted foot to invite her to sit by pushing her chair out and away from the table.

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