Work Text:
Ingram is used to nice, neat, procedural cooking. Open book; assemble precisely measured ingredients in a straight line; follow recipe.
Madison, to her astonishment, does not cook like that at all. Her main unit of measure appears to be the ridiculously inexact "pinch," and if she actually owns a cookbook, Ingram's never seen it. There are open jars spread across the counter, a few of which she's actually used and most of which she's only smelled and set back down. If Ingram caught a scribe with a workspace in this condition, they'd be scrubbing the hull for a week.
But Madison's sharp in both senses of the word, so Ingram keeps her mouth shut. Besides, if she leaves her usually-formidable organizational skills outside the kitchen, that's probably harmless enough.
Madison starts adding silt beans to the tato sauce and Ingram mentally adds a little more emphasis to that probably. "You know, not everything in life needs to be an experiment," she says, eyeing the bubbling pot dubiously.
"It's not an experiment if I know it works," Madison retorts. Then she stirs, sniffs again, and tosses two pinches of bloodleaf into the pot. "Now it's an experiment."
"Goddammit, Madison. Well, then, come here and let me kiss you while I still know you taste good." Ingram sweeps her partner into her arms and dips her dramatically low.
For science, she gives her another kiss after dinner. It turns out she still tastes pretty damn good then, too.