Chilies Rellenos

warning: contains some graphic sexual content

Chilies Rellenos

a Branford Perry story by Stephen Brooke ©2011

“We should just quit our jobs and open a restaurant,” June told me, holding out her glass. I refilled it with the cheap, alizarin-tinted merlot I’d picked up at the Publix a couple hours earlier. It went well enough with the chilies rellenos we had just prepared.

“Sure, kid. But which of us gets to run the kitchen?” I am pretty sure each of us was thinking, ‘that would be me!’ We were neither serious, of course; maybe I was unfettered enough to consider such a move but her streak of practicality ran far too deep.

Too deep. Yes, I suspect June saw me as irresponsible, as lacking ambition. I didn’t do much to change her mind, either. I didn’t want to, perhaps, didn’t want to give the impression that I would change for her. Even though I would have.

Something of a ritual had developed. A rut, some might call it, but I like the familiar. I like things I can depend on. Okay, I’m basically a boring guy. Sunday afternoons we spent at her house outside Gainesville; I would bring a bottle of wine and we would cook.

Oh, how we would cook! We were nearly as passionate about that as we were about each other. The kitchen was small. We didn’t mind. I would hang over her shoulder as she stirred something on the stove, steal a kiss as she squeezed by to open the fridge.

It had been peppers today. June loved peppers: bell peppers and chilies, mild, hot, and in-between. For me, they were always an invitation to heartburn and gas. No matter how many times I told her so, she ignored me and kept right on preparing them. And I loved June, so I ate them. We were preparing chilies rellenos. Stuffed peppers. June had found some lovely poblanos earlier in the week; one of the advantages of living in a relatively cosmopolitan town with a large university was the variety of produce available. Not much variety was to be found at the little market back in Ruby, where I lived and worked, an hour’s drive and more from June’s place.

Poblanos—they’re okay. They are about half way between a green bell pepper — which I simply can not digest — and the hot ones, which makes them excellent for stuffing. Inside would be meat, mushrooms, diced jalapenos, cheese. Coring, peeling, and chopping, we went at preparing those peppers, both the poblanos and the jalapenos, using our fingers but being careful to keep those acidic juices away from our eyes.

Ground meat sizzled in a pan on the harvest-gold range. Turkey, as June didn’t touch red meat. She said she would not eat any animal she was not willing to kill herself. I could respect that. Hari, her Afghan, was perpetually underfoot, waiting his chance to snatch a taste of whatever was cooking. Hari—that’s from Isaac Asimov; June was a sci-fi fan and the ‘Foundation’ books were some of her favorites. Hari was pretty hairy, too. I never asked if that played a role in the name choice.

It was a marvelous meal, I admit, the deep viridian poblanos with their savory filling, washed down with the merlot, a tossed salad on the side. Carbohydrates were few and far between at June’s Atkins-inspired table. After, we snuggled on the couch with three or four dogs and watched a video. I don’t remember what it was about. That is because I didn’t care.

I kind of hated wasting a couple hours watching a movie. I’d rather be doing something, preferably with the woman beside me. Yes, that, to be certain, but just about anything, really. “Sure you don’t want me to wash the dishes?” I asked.

June snuggled closer. “They’ll keep.”

Maybe if my hands had soaked in dishwater for a while — well, no sense getting ahead of myself here. My mind went a different direction at that point, anyway.

“You’re turning me on,” I admitted.

She snickered. “Oh, everything turns you on, Bran.” Which was probably true.

But nothing came of that right then and my mind inevitably wandered off again. A thousand thoughts — okay, maybe not a thousand, but a lot — were rising like the bubbles in a broth, to pop and subside. I should stop stirring that pot, to force a forced metaphor even further. I should stop worrying whether this woman was the ingredient I had needed.

I should stop worrying about worrying, but it was kind of what I did. June—tonight, next week, next year. Those thoughts, those hopes, yes, those fears, were ever roiling. Waiting while June went through her bedtime chores, kenneling up the dogs, putting this here and that there, didn’t help. It was too businesslike, wasn’t it? But I would not interrupt.

No, I would sit and wait with my thoughts. Or get up and wander with them — this I also did. I would not enter her inner sanctum, with its computer and shrine to her guru, its piles of dirty clothes, its constant doggy smell, just yet. When I wasn’t there, Hari was her bed-mate. Sometimes, all the dogs. I think maybe I was jealous of them.

If they didn’t like me so much, I might even have resented them. “All done?” I asked. June only came over to me with a long, deep kiss for an answer.

So, strip and into the California king, the ceiling fan turning above us as we kissed and fondled. I like kissing and fondling. I like slow lovemaking. My fear was that June would whisper, “Ravish me,” and make me work hard. Shoot, after the wine and the meal I was more likely to fall asleep — not that I wouldn’t try to oblige.

We let our hands explore, seeking each other. My fingers found their way to her sex, slipped in, tentatively at first. She seemed to be getting excited, more than I might normally have expected, as I slid two fingers in and became more vigorous with my stroking. Suddenly, June shrieked and jumped up!

Scared the shit out of me. What had I done wrong? Or had I done something really right? June ran to the bathroom and turned on the water. I followed immediately.

“I’m on fire! There was still pepper juice on your hands!” she exclaimed as she doused herself. Suddenly, I became aware of a certain burning on my own manhood.

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry girl! Will you be alright?” And will we still have sex tonight?

We did, after washing ourselves thoroughly. But it was ‘hands off.’ I must confess, I thought the whole thing was kind of funny, though I’m sure it was rather painful for June.

Is that a good memory? I think it is but, as so often with June, it can be hard to sort the good times from the bad ones. I know I loved her, as I had loved no woman before; there were just too many things to keep us from working out. Still, if she finds herself fixing chilies rellenos some evening, I hope she remembers me and smiles.

I hope she remembers me as that hot guy.