Snippet 1
Not entirely sure where this came from, but it was fun making it. There may be more, maybe not.
"Because the point is to use. Butter. Fat. Processed milk. Former cow bits, repurposed moo juice. Not polluted water, not antiretrodehydrogenated oil with a fifty-fucking-fifty ratio of dyes to petroleum byproducts. There's a flavor difference, there's a texture difference, yes. It. Fucking. Matters."
He stopped, took a breath. I timidly ventured into the opening: "Hey, um. D. You feeling okay? This isn't like y-" I halted, ears flattening, as he leveled a knife at my nose.
"Screw. You. Without lube. You want my cooking, you deal with how I get while I'm cooking. Capisce? I care about food, okay? I care about getting it right. I'm orchestrating a wedding, here, marrying flavors to presentation to sequencing, and I don't compromise on getting it fucking right. This means using real ingredients to make real food, which means, among other things, real goddamned butter. Now excuse me before I burn something." He turned abruptly, banded tail just barely missing my nose, and started doing... something... with furious vigor. It sounded vaguely like carpentry.
I, for my part, was dumbfounded. This was entirely new to me. All through dinner last night, he'd been quiet and charming, all flashing teeth and dapper, understated wit. In bed? He'd arched beneath me, accepting me into him with passive - though definitely wholehearted - enthusiasm.
But this? In the morning-after, my quiet, mild-mannered Jekyll of a lemur had turned into a culinary Hyde, eyes flashing, fur on end, surrounded by steam and accompanied by an endless stream of oaths entirely unbefitting his otherwise unsullied features...