Fairway

Tumeric

Chilli

Chestnuts (266g, 0.6lb)

Apricot (100g)

Pistachio (600g)

Streaky bacon (12 rashers)

Turkey (18lb)

Specialty market

Pancetta (0.6lb, 266g)

Merguez (24in)

Goose fat (3.3oz)

New Jersey

Pork mince (1000g, 2.2lb)

Brussel sprouts (1.33kg, 2.93lb)

Yukon gold potatoes (3.33kg, 7.34lb)

Chicken stock (800ml)

Lemons (6)

Onions (3)

Tomatoes (4)

Rosemary springs (4)

Parsley (1 bunch)

Sage leaves (1 large bunch)

Tuesday. Xingese cuisine day. Roy watches a private in the lunch line plop a scoop of fried rice – a mushy mound of gruel specked with bits of red and green something – on to his plate. Some staffer somewhere had the brilliant idea of trying to raise troop morale by introducing themed lunch days in the cafeteria. A quick glance at Wednesday’s menu tells Roy tomorrow is Drachman cuisine day. What a treat, Roy thinks, what a treat.

Meanwhile, a tall blonde sergeant standing in front of Roy in line says expectantly to his shorter, bespectacled friend’s, “Sooo, did you ask Lieutenant Milly out?”

“No,” Glasses responds curtly.

“Oh c’mon, what’s the matter with you Marv?” Blondie makes a face at his friend, “LT is totally into you, man.”

“Do you mind? She’s our commanding officer!” Glasses hisses back.

Roy shuffles mindlessly behind them in line, holding a well-worn brown plastic tray in one hand, his other tucked in his pants pocket. No stranger to the pains of the military’s non-fraternization rule, Roy silently extends his sympathies to Glasses. He and Havoc had been curating a list of potential dates for as long as Roy could remember: Charlotte from Investigations, Gretchen down in library archives, Jenna from the hospital, just to name a few. Her name, though, well, she’s always been different.

“Oh c’mooon, Marv,” Blondie drones on dramatically. “Who is going to know?” Blondie answers his own question, “No one, that’s who! Seriously, man, it is just one date. No one’s going to find out. Just ask her out.” Blondie’s voice rises above the cafeteria humdrum, turning heads and drawing hushed murmurs in the pair’s direction.

Glasses is beet red and growing redder by the minute. “If you don’t keep your damn voice down everyone is going to know!” He hurls a scoop of stir fry on to Blondie’s plate with such force bits of bell pepper and carrot splatter all over the tall sergeant’s uniform.

“Whaddya do that for? You know I hate carrots!”

“Oh yeah? I hate loud mouths!”

“Just one date, huh,” Roy mutters to himself as he scoops some fried rice on to his own place. No one’s going to find out. No one…

Much to Roy’s dismay, a small army of paperwork had invaded his desk by the time he returns from lunch. A tall pile of civilian claims for lost and damaged property from Fullmetal’s latest misadventures nearly touches the ceiling. Next to it looms three more stacks of paperwork: two years’ worth of expense reports, travel logs, and ongoing operations briefs awaited his review and signature.

“And,” Riza drops another heavy box next to Roy’s existing paperwork with a thud, “an urgent delivery from Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.” Without evening opening the box, Roy could already see pictures of Gracia and Elicia’s smiling faces peeking out from under the lid.

“All work and no play makes Roy a dull boy,” he mutters, “Can’t we do something fun for once, Lieutenant?” Roy gives an exasperated sigh as he moves Hughes’ “urgent” delivery aside and begins flipping through the expense reports. He cringes internally as he thumbs past his personal expenses, having accidentally charged three dinners at some of the city’s most expensive restaurants to his military account last Valentine’s Day.

“That is entirely up to you, sir,” Riza replies, resuming work at her own desk, “As long as you finish your paperwork.” A bemused smile crosses her lips when she sees the Colonel is already doodling on his reports. Well, he’s managed to do five minutes of work, she thinks with an internal sigh, that’s a new post-lunch record.

If not for all this damn paperwork and the damn anti-fraternization rule, Roy muses back at his desk, he could be out on a joy ride with Charlotte or at the movies with Gretchen or at the beach with Jenna. Jenna loves the beach. Maybe, Roy starts drawing a hawk on the corner of a report, maybe he could have dinner with Riza. If he remembers correctly from his days as Master Hawkeye’s apprentice, Riza was quite fond of sweets. Maybe they could go to that dessert place that opened up on the corner before going back to his apartment…

When it dawns on him just who he had been daydreaming about and where his train of thought had been going, Roy crumples the report in front of him and hurls it across the office in one sudden, violent gesture. The report bounces off several times on the floor before rolling to a stop at Riza’s feet.

Looking at the ball of paper on the floor and then back at Roy, Riza asks hesitantly, “Is there something wrong, sir?” She picks up ball and straightens out the report. Roy had managed to leave a comically misshapen doodle – an avian creature that looked more like a slug with wings and less like a hawk – in one corner. Perhaps the Colonel was frustrated with his lack of artistic talent, she thinks, choking back a small laugh.

“No! Not at all, Lieutenant!” Roy does his best to feign a hearty laugh, “I was just,” he spots the waste basket in the corner and blurts out, “just practicing my basketball shot! Haha! That’s all!”

Riza returns the paperwork to Roy’s desk with a raised eyebrow. The waste basket is nearly five feet away from her desk. “Please don’t use the rest of your paperwork for sports practice, sir,” she chastises before adding, “Though your shot – and your doodles – both need work, sir.”

Roy shoots his adjutant the widest, most harmless grin he could manage before mentally sighing with relief that she had not somehow read his mind – his cursed, daydreaming mind. The rest of the afternoon, Roy vows, will be devoted solely to finishing his paperwork. No more doodling. No more daydreaming. Just wo–

One date! Just one date, Roy, no one’s going to find out, Blondie’s voice finishes Roy’s train of thought.

“Oh goddamnit,” Roy mutters, one hand slapping his face, “Not this guy.” Determined to rid his mind of Blondie’s annoying voice, Roy begins furiously tearing through the nearest stack of paperwork.

C’mooon Roy! Blondie drones on in Roy’s head, who is going to know? No one! Just ask her out already. You know you want to.

No! Roy shouts back mentally. Working a pace he never thought possible, he tries to mentally stamp out his internal nemesis by attacking an the entire stack of expense reports and travel logs.

Roy, live a little! Who is going to know? I’ll tell you who: no one! Blondie’s voice dips and twirls across Roy’s thoughts, evading the Flame Alchemist’s every attempt to snuff out the annoying sound.

Seriously, man, if you aren’t going to, then maybe I’ll take a pass at the lieutenant, Blondie taunts. I mean, Riza is a sweet piece of –

“Oh for god’s sake, shut up already!” Roy stands up abruptly, slamming both of his palms down on his desk. Shockwaves from his abrupt movement threaten to topple the various stacks of paperwork he had just completed.

Riza jumps at the sound

They had known each other for so long they could practically read each other’s minds

Glasses is silent, his knuckles white and face beet red.

“Marv, learn to live a little, man! Everyone knows the drill: just one date doesn’t break the fraternization rule.” Blondie drops a heap of stir fried vegetables and noodles on Glasses’ plate, having finally reached the food. “One date rule, Marv, one date rule!”

At this point other voices join the fray. “Quit teasing him, Jake!”

“Yeah, one date rule! Ask her out Marv!”

“Milly and Marv, sitting in a tree…K I S S—!”

“Do it, Marv! One date rule!”

By the time Roy digs into his fried rice and stir fry, the entire cafeteria is chanting “One date rule!”

Riza greets him with paperwork as soon as Roy steps back in the office. A small city of paperwork had apparently found its way to his desk during lunch time. A neat stack of civilian claims for lost and damaged property from Fullmetal’s latest misadventures along with expense reports and travel logs waited for his review and signature.

“And,” Riza places one last file in front of him, ”

“By the way, Hawkeye.”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Have you heard of the one date rule?”

“No, sir, I can’t say I have.”

“I overheard some enlisted men talking about in the cafeteria. It’s probably nothing.”

”

“You’re burning the roux, Boy!” Father’s voice booms from his office. “I can smell it all the way from up here!”

Pots and pans clatter in the kitchen. A small voice calls back, “I’m sorry, sir! I’ll make sure to watch the pot, sir!”

I tiptoe over and peek inside the kitchen from behind a half-open door. The new boy is standing on a step stool and bent over a pot of curry on the stove like a witch over her cauldron. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, sweat dripping down from his furrowed brown to his red cheeks. Around the stool lay a circle of discarded onion peels, carrot tops, apple cores, and potato skins.

Stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the boy’s jet black eyes are focused intently on the pages of my mother’s old recipe book. The first task Father gives anyone who wants to be his apprentice is to make my mother’s curry from scratch. No one’s come ever come close to Father’s expectations, so Father has never taken an apprentice.

The boy raises the wooden spoon to his mouth for a taste and his lips pucker immediately. He runs both hands through his mop of raven hair several times in frustration before suddenly leaping off the stool and racing across the kitchen. Frantically flinging open cupboards and drawers, he mutters to himself – coffee, yogurt, flour – as he searches for ingredients, completely oblivious to my presence by the door.

As the boy reaches for the flour, Father’s voice rings out again, “Don’t even think about adding more flour, Boy!”

The boy jerks his hand away from the flour bag and shouts back, “Yessir!”

To my surprise, by sunset, the house begins to take on an unexpected aroma. The smell dredges up half-forgotten fragments of a mother I hardly knew. Sometimes I feel her presence in the house calling out to me as if to remind me that she – my mother – had once lived here, but nothing evokes her memory as strongly as the smell of her curry wafting through my room that night.

And, sure enough, later that night, Father takes an apprentice for the first time.

A familiar smell pulls Riza back to the world of the waking. Curry, she thinks as she rubs the sleep from her eyes, this is smell of my mother’s curry. She starts to twist her hair into a bun as she sits up on the couch but suddenly decides against it. No, she thinks, leaving her hair down, not quite her mother’s curry.

Soft amber light filters in through the doorway, throwing long shadows into the darkened living room. She wraps a sweater around her shoulders and heads down to the kitchen. Peeking through the doorway, Riza catches the glimpse of a man hovering over a pot on her stove, the sleeves of his white uniform shirt rolled up past muscled forearms to his elbows. A pair of white gloves rest on the kitchen table, a black overcoat hangs over the back of a chair.

“You’re burning the roux, Boy,” Riza says with a smile. Crossing her arms she rests her weight against the doorway. When they are alone, she calls him whatever she wants. Sir. Colonel. Boy.

“Huummh?” Roy looks up from the stove with a wooden spoon in his mouth, his jet black eyes meeting Riza’s amber ones momentarily before he shouts, “Coffee!” He may have stopped dropping vegetable peels and fruit shavings on the floor, but her commanding officer still stumbles around the kitchen for ingredients the same way he did when he was a kid. The corners of Riza’s mouth could hardly keep from curling into a smile when he triumphantly waves up a can of instant coffee in her direction. “Can’t forget the coffee,” he says.

“You always make my mother’s curry,” Riza muses, giving the pot a stir. The aroma reminds her of lazy childhood afternoons. A Sunday maybe, or a school day after she’s finished her homework, and Father finally lets Roy stop scribbling alchemy circles long enough to cook dinner.

“Hers is the only curry I’ll ever make,” Roy replies, adding with a slight grimace, “even after all that abuse from Master.” Father never said a single good thing about Roy’s curry, always criticizing this or that. Add more pepper, Boy! You’ve ruined the flavor, Boy! And Roy never stopped tinkering with her mother’s recipe, always adding this or that – chocolate or orange peels or anything that would make Father lose his mind.

“But of course, I’ve tweaked a few things here over the years,” Roy comes up behind Riza and wrapping his arms around her waist. Burying his face in her hair, he plants a string of kisses along her jawline and down the crock of her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he whispers, “Though I’m not sure Master would approve.”

Closing her eyes, Riza falls back into Roy’s embrace. If only she had known she would the rest of her life with Father’s only apprentice. “Do you remember,” she asks, reaching back to run her fingers through his hair, “what life was like before we met each other?”

“No,” he hums back against her collarbone, “life without you is not worth remembering.” His answer is so remarkably cheesy that Riza only laughs in response. The world shrinks to a small quiet moment in her apartment, and they stay like this – holding each other, swaying to the tune of a song only they can hear – for a long time.

Then, Riza breaks the silence: “What did you do this time, sir?”

Roy peels away from Riza like a turtle drawing back into its shell – he only makes curry when he knows he’s in trouble. Chuckling, he jabs his index fingers together in front of his face. “Well, you know those operations reports, the ones you told me to finish last week,” he begins meekly before trailing off.

She looks at him expectantly. He steals small glances at her while twiddling his thumbs. Lazy Colonel Mustang must have forgotten to file his monthly operations reports, again. And Lieutenant Hawkeye, his trusty adjutant, is going to have slog through bureaucratic nonsense to get those reports filed properly, again.

For an aspiring Fuhrer-to-be, Roy has a terrible poker face. He knows it is all his fault for slacking off on his work, so Riza squares her shoulders and chastises him with the most solemn sir-must-do-your-work glare she can muster. When Riza finally drops her gaze with a roll of her eyes, the normally imposing Colonel Mustang collapses on his lieutenant’s kitchen floor with a long sigh of relief.

“You really should do more of your work, Roy,” she reprimands again, giving the pot of curry another stir before ladling several scoops of rich curry onto two plates of fluffy white rice.

“Yes, Master Hawkeye,” Roy replies in his apprentice voice as he adds crimson flowers of red pickles to each plate of curry before setting both down on the table. He swears he hears the safety on Riza’s handgun click off as soon as the last syllable leaves his mouth. “Erm, I mean, yes, Riza.”

“Thank you for the meal,” Riza holsters her sidearm before adding, “Boy.”

But she relents and declares: “Apology accepted, sir.” W

Riza’s plate is practically spotless when she finishes the last bite of her food. And before either of them knows it, they fall back old habits by the sink: he washes, she dries. That had been their evening routine back then. Two kids standing next to each other by the sink, elbows and arms bumping into each other, water splashing and sloshing all over the counters and floor as they scrubbed dishes.

“Yessir,” Riza nods.

Decades later, the two of them are not doing much better – she with her injured left hand and he with his broad-shouldered frame too large for her tiny kitchen sink. From one look at the way the colonel is handling the dishes in the sink, Riza could tell Roy hardly does the dishes these days. All that cafeteria food for lunch and takeout for dinner.

A heavy bowl slips through Roy’s clumsy hands and into the sink with a large splashing, throwing soapy dishwater all over the countertop and floor. An stray droplet finds its way to Riza’s eye. “Will you please pass me a towel, sir?” she asks, cradling her head in the crook of her elbow, “I’ve got soap in my eye.”

Roy scrambles to find a clean towel in the kitchen, comes up with nothing, and dashes out into the living room to continue his search. Riza nearly doubles over with laughter when he finally returns and presses a crumpled napkin into her hand. “You’d make a terrible house-husband, sir,” she says, choking back laughter.

“I’m sorry, lieutenant,” Roy says with an exasperated sigh, “Let me finish up with the dishes so I can get out of here and stop ruining what’s left of your day.”

“No, it’s alright, sir,” she replies with another chuckle, dabbing her eyes with the bit of napkin.

For a second time that night, a silence settles between the pair. The only sound in the kitchen comes from hush of water gushing from the faucet and Roy’s sponge scrubbing against pots and plates. He apologizes every time his forearms bump into her hands, every time water rains down on their clothes from the sink.

When the dishes are done, the two find themselves standing in Riza’s apartment doorway. “I’m sorry I made such a mess of things today,” Roy says. He is tugging at the sleeves of his black overcoat, and Riza is failing miserably at trying not to smile. Her normally confident and self-assured commanding officer is standing sheepishly in her doorway, restlessly running his hand through his hair, looking at her expectantly from the corner of his eyes. He wants a sign from her that he has truly been forgiven.

She draws herself up and squares her shoulders, chastising him with the most solemn glare she could muster. You should be glad that no one was hurt today, sir. You should be glad you were not seriously injured yourself, sir, not mention what would happened had there been any civilians on the road.

Roy replies with the most innocent smile he could manage. He turns back towards her as he steps out into the hallway, “Please, just forget tonight ever—”

Before he has a chance to finish his sentence, Riza pulls him close by the lapel of his overcoat with her good hand, planting a kiss firmly on his lips. Their lips touch for the briefest of moments but Roy remains immobile in her hallway, eyes wide in disbelief, even after their bodies separate.

“Thank you for the meal, sir.”

She looks at him. He looks back at her. Silence fills the small space between them at the dinner table. Then, Riza’s brow furrows.

They had been on their way back to the office when a torrential downpour suddenly cascaded over the Amestrian countryside. Roy, with all of his distaste for precipitation, insisted they take the faster route back along a narrow, dirt road where the car sputtered wildly out of control in the rain and mud. Roy’s attempts to realign the steering wheel from the passenger seat only made matters worse, throwing the car off the road entirely where the vehicle threw itself unceremoniously into a tree.

From the looks of it, Roy must have brought her back to her apartment because she remembers nothing else after the car slammed into the tree. Her wrist injury, which Roy had also tended to, must have also been a product of the accident.

Back at the dinner table, Roy’s eyes are anxiously searching his lieutenant’s face for a sign of forgiveness. The colonel has a terrible poker face for a soldier aspiring to be a politician, Riza muses. The accident was all his fault, so maybe she should scowl and frown a little more to keep him on the line before letting him go.

But she relents and declares: “Apology accepted, sir.” When he hears those words, both hands rush to Roy’s face with a resounding smack as he sinks back into his chair with a sigh of relief.

“I’m surprised you still remember how to make this curry after all these years,” Riza remarks between mouthfuls of curry. She could not remember the last time she had curry since Roy’s apprenticeship ended years ago.

“I don’t think I can ever forget your mother’s recipe after all that abuse from Master,” Roy says with a pout. Father never said a single good thing about Roy’s curry, always criticizing this or that. (Add more pepper, Boy! You’ve ruined burned the onions, Boy!) And Roy never stopped tinkering with her mother’s recipe, always adding this or that. (Chocolate or orange peels or something that would make Father lose his mind.) But Father used to demand the dish at least once a week and Father’s only apprentice would oblige all too happily.

“And of course, I’ve tweaked a few things here and there,” Roy says, propping his elbows on the tables and leaning towards Riza with mischievous grin, “Though I’m not sure Master would approve.” Riza responds with a small laugh and a shake of her head. Some things never change.

Riza’s plate is practically spotless when she finishes the last bite of her curry. She starts to take her plate and spoon to the sink with her good hand, but Roy is quicker than she is and plucks them from her. “I wash, you dry,” he says, “Just like old times.”

“Yessir,” Riza nods. That had been their evening routine back then: he washes, she dries. Standing next to each other by the sink, elbows and arms bumping into each other, water splashing and sloshing all over the counters and floor.

“I’m sorry, lieutenant,” Roy says with an exasperated sigh, “Let me finish up with the dishes so I can get out of here and stop ruining what’s left of your day.”

“No, it’s alright, sir,” she replies with another chuckle, dabbing her eyes with the bit of napkin.

Roy replies with the most innocent smile he could manage. He turns back towards her as he steps out into the hallway, “Please, just forget tonight ever—”

“Thank you for the meal, sir.”

“Do you remember Maxwell?” Riza asks suddenly, blinking several times as she pats her eye with the napkin.

“You mean that snotty rich kid from town?”

She nods, “He used to say that to me all the time – that I’d make a terrible housewife. He kept going around telling people no one would want to marry me to make me their housewife in the first place.”

“That kid was a jerk.” The talk of Maxwell irks Roy and he begins attacking the crusty residue of curry inside a pot with a sponge. “That kid was a jerk,” he mutters again.

“Joining the military pretty much killed my marriage prospects, so maybe Maxwell was on to something,” Riza replies with a laugh and a shrug, setting down the napkin and picking up another plate to dry.

“No!” Roy barks, slamming his hands down suddenly against the edge of the sink, kicking up more dishwater. “That little jerk wasn’t on to anything at all! Any man should be happy to have you as their wife!”

Maxwell’s comments had never particularly bothered Riza – boys will always be boys, and they were all kids back then anyway – so Roy’s outburst catches her off guard.

“I-I-I,” Roy’s voice cracks, “I would be happy – more than happy – to have you as my wife!” Crap. The rational part of Roy’s mind gives his subconscious a ringing smack across the face. Crap, crap, crap, I said that out loud.

“Papa! Papa!” Riza Hawkeye bounces into her father’s study

“What is it, Elizabeth?” Berthold Hawkeye barely lifts his eyes from the page of his alchemy manuscript.

“I want to hear a story!” Riza tugs at her father’s trouser leg. A huge, expectant smile spreads across her face as she looks up at Berthold’s towering profile. “I want to hear the one about the alchemist and the lizard!”