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“This town is unbelievable!” David exclaims, storming through the front door of Rose Apothecary. Patrick is leaning on the counter, the corners of his mouth turned down in his fond smile that he reserves for David’s (frequent) ridiculousness.
“You literally walked across the street to the cafe. What could have possibly happened?” Patrick asks, taking the bags of food from David and brushing a kiss across his cheek.
“Um, you’ve been there! You know what kind of nonsense happens! It’s like the theatre of the absurd in there!”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“So get this,” David says, ignoring Patrick’s comment and forging ahead. “Twyla was so excited to tell me about her Hanukkah special so I ordered it.” He opens one of the takeout containers he brought back from the cafe. “This is supposed to be latkes, applesauce, brisket, and challah. Those aren’t latkes, Patrick! Those are just hash browns!”
Patrick has learned by now that it’s easier to let David rant, so he just watches David’s flailing arms in amusement.
“And this? This isn’t challah!” David practically yells, waving the slice of bread. “This is just a slice of toast! It’s like she googled “what do people eat for Hanukkah” and then just used whatever was in the kitchen that was remotely adjacent.”
“That’s probably exactly what she did,” Patrick chimes in helpfully. David gives him an exasperated look. “You know you don’t have to eat it, David.”
“What? Of course I’m going to eat it! Doesn’t mean I’m not going to complain about it.”
Patrick laughs and gives David a light kiss on the temple.
They spend their lunch hour sitting next to each other on the back room sofa, their meal punctuated with occasional grumbling from David about how incorrect his lunch is.
“You know I’ll eat potatoes in any form, but it’s just so violating to expect latkes and get hash browns.”
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“They’re supposed to be crispy and fried! Not this!”
“You know, I’ve actually never had a latke,” Patrick says, attempting to derail David’s rant.
“They’re actually the one thing I know how to cook,” David replies.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” David says thoughtfully. “Adelina and I learned how to make them together.” Patrick waits. The childhood stories don’t come often or easily, but Patrick has learned if he waits, David will open up. “I had a bar mitzvah, as you know, and I went to Hebrew School, because it was required for the bar mitzvah, but we didn’t do a lot of the other usual traditions.” David sighs, but continues. “My parents weren’t around, really, and Hanukkah always got overshadowed by the lavish Christmas parties, not that I’m complaining, they were fun.” Patrick laughs.
“I think the Number overshadows a lot of things,” he says with a smirk. David glares at him.
“I thought we agreed never to mention that monstrosity ever again.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that, David.”
“It was an unspoken agreement! Anyway, do you want to hear this story or not?”
“Sorry, David. Please continue.”
“Hmph. So, anyway, yeah, we didn’t do any kind of big traditional Hanukkah celebration. We had a menorah, but I’m not even sure who would light it because Alexis and I weren’t allowed to touch it.” Patrick slips his arm around behind David to rest lightly on his lower back, a comforting gesture, and David hums in response, leaning into him.
“I just remember some kids in my class at Hebrew School talking about the meals they had with their families and I was mad I didn’t get to have them. So I asked Adelina if she could make latkes.”
“And could she?” Patrick asks.
“No, of course not, she came from a Mexican Catholic family. But she said we’d figure it out together.”
“You miss her a lot.” It’s not a question--Patrick already knows--but David answers anyway.
“Yes. She was…she was the only person who cared about me back then.” Patrick rubs small circles on David’s back, gritting his teeth. He loves the Roses, they’re part of his family now, and he knows they’ve changed immeasurably, but it’s still hard to hear David talk about his childhood without feeling a deep ache somewhere in his chest.
“She found a recipe. I think it was from an old cookbook that belonged to my dad’s mother, but he never used it. We made them together and they were delicious. We started making them every year, our own little tradition, until my parents decided we were too old for a nanny and let Adelina go.”
David leans his head against Patrick’s shoulder, lunch forgotten, and Patrick wraps his arms around him, kissing the top of his head.
“What if we made it our new tradition?” Patrick says quietly after a few minutes.
“What?” David raises his head to look at Patrick.
“I mean, it’s our first holiday season as husbands, so we get to make our own traditions. We could make this one of them,” Patrick replies, eyes bright.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to, David. If you want to share it with me, I mean.”
David leans up to plant a soft kiss on Patrick’s lips.
“Nothing would make me happier.”
Later that evening, after a quick dinner and an emergency trip to Brebner’s for supplies, David and Patrick are in the small kitchen of their cottage, side by side at the sink, preparing potatoes, Patrick peeling and David grating, one of David’s favorite playlists playing from his phone. Thanks to David’s ongoing obsession with putting grated cheese on everything, they actually did own a box grater.
“Ugh, I remembered why I stopped making these by myself,” David says, taking a break from grating and flexing his wrists. “I hate grating potatoes.” Patrick laughs.
“I’m done peeling these, I can take over.”
“Oh, thank god,” David says, handing over the grater and the potato he was working on. “I’m not used to all this manual labor. Plus I like to watch you work with your hands,” he adds with a wink. He moves off to start peeling an onion, trailing his hand across Patrick’s back as he goes.
“What’s next?” Patrick asks, after they finally get all of the potatoes and onion grated into a bowl.
“Okay, this part is kind of gross, but also oddly satisfying?” David lines a bowl with a dish towel and takes the bowl of potatoes and onion from Patrick, dumping it on top of the towel. “You have to squeeze all the liquid out of the potatoes.” He picks up the edges of the towel and brings them together in his long, elegant fingers and squeezes the blob of potato with the other hand. After a few squeezes, he hands the towel over to Patrick.
“Your turn. You really need big muscles like yours to get the liquid out,” he says, caressing Patrick’s bicep with his clean hand. Patrick laughs again and takes the towel from David, who watches him work the potatoes for a while, then turns away, actually blushing.
“David? What?” Patrick asks.
“Nothing!” David moves around the kitchen, intentionally not making eye contact with his husband. Patrick smirks. They’ve been together long enough for him to recognize the awkward way David is shifting in his tight jeans and the way his eyes keep darting back to watch Patrick’s hands.
“See something you like?” David tilts his head back, scrunching his eyes closed for a second.
“You just...you have very nice hands,” he answers, sliding up behind Patrick and resting his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. “And I may have been thinking about last night.” Patrick hums appreciatively. Last night, he’d taken David apart with only his hands and David had been very vocal about his enjoyment. David is pressed up against him, chest flush with his back.
“My hands are a little busy right now, David,” Patrick says with a chuckle.
“Mm, but mine aren’t,” David replies, resting his hands on Patrick’s hips.
“Maybe they should be.” David hums in agreement and slips his hands under the waistband of Patrick’s jeans, but Patrick pulls away. “Shouldn’t you be gathering up the rest of the ingredients?”
“You’re such a fucking tease,” David groans, “I hate you so much.”
“That’s not what you said last night, David.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t be held accountable for anything I said last night. I temporarily lost my mind.”
“Noted.” Patrick smirks again. “I think these are ready.” David gives a final, put-upon sigh, then takes the towel holding the potatoes from Patrick and dumps it into an empty bowl.
“So now we need to add the matzo meal, eggs, and salt,” David says, dumping the matzo meal into the bowl. “Can you get the eggs?”
Patrick does, and in between kisses and casual touches, they manage to get the mixture together.
David pours oil into a skillet and turns on the stove, grimacing. “I hate this part. The oil gets everywhere. This is a McQueen sweater!” he says, gesturing at himself. Patrick gives him a fond smile.
“You can either borrow one of my shirts or just tell me what to do and I’ll do it so you can stay out of splatter range.”
“Mmm, as much as I know you like to see me in your clothes,” David says, raising his eyebrows suggestively, “I think I’m going to let you handle this.”
“I guess I’ll just have to get you an apron for next year.”
“Yeah, that’s not necessary.”
“Maybe I can get Roland to help me find one with a sassy saying for you.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s legal grounds for divorce.”
“I don’t think it works like that.”
“Yeah, well. The oil looks like it’s ready, so you should probably get started frying.”
“Okay, David.” Patrick gives his little upside-down smile and carries the bowl over to the stove.
“Just put a big spoonful in the pan and then flatten it with the spatula. They only take a couple of minutes on each side.”
Patrick scoops up a spoonful of the potato mixture and plops it into the pan.
“Okay, that’s way too small. Who are you cooking for, the Lollipop Guild?” David says. Patrick rolls his eyes and scoops up an extra large pile that nearly takes up half the pan. “And that’s way too big. Are you provoking me on purpose?”
Patrick sends an exasperated glare in David’s direction. “David, either tell me what to do or get over here and do it yourself.”
“Ugh, fine!” David groans, pulling off his sweater and carefully laying it across the back of the chair. The sight of David in his undershirt and the strip of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his pants that’s exposed makes Patrick’s brain go briefly offline, as if this wasn’t a sight he was already privy to every single day. David takes the spoon from him, bringing Patrick back to focus on the pan of hot oil in front of him rather than the equally hot man next to him.
“You still have to flip them, though,” David says, poking him in the side. Patrick flips the two unevenly-sized latkes while David glares at them, muttering “incorrect” under his breath.
Eventually, they end up with a plate of reasonably-sized, golden brown latkes, and David eyes the plate with pride, carrying it to the dining room table while Patrick brings over small plates and silverware. David returns to the kitchen to fetch the applesauce and the sour cream they bought earlier. Once settled at the table, David fills his plate with several latkes. Patrick smirks but doesn’t say anything, taking a much more reasonable number for his own plate.
“These are delicious, David,” he says. David beams at him.
“Well, they’re certainly better than the travesty Twyla served me earlier.”
“Please don’t tell her that,” Patrick laughs.
“Fine,” David grumbles. “As long as we can keep making these.”
They eat their way through most of the batch of latkes, David insisting that to get the “full experience”, Patrick has to try them with applesauce and sour cream each alone, and then together. By the time they’re finished, they are both content and full of potatoes.
“Hey,” David says softly, reaching across the table to grasp Patrick’s hand. “Thank you for doing this for me. You didn’t have to.”
“I promised I’d make you happy here, David.” Patrick shrugs, as if this is a small task.
“No, I know. I just...I just want to make sure you’re happy, too.”
“I am, David. Very happy.”
“Are you sure?”
“What did I tell you before?” Patrick laughs, rolling his eyes. “C’mere.” He pulls his chair out from the table and tugs David over to sit on his lap. David immediately wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.
“It makes me happy to do things like this with you,” Patrick says earnestly.
“Me too,” David whispers.
“So, does that mean we’re making this a new tradition?” Patrick asks.
“I mean, as much as I like sitting in your lap, I don’t think that this counts as a tradition,” replies David with a grin.
“You know what I mean, David.” Patrick leans up and pulls David’s face down for a kiss.
“Yes, I think it does.”