Archive of Our Own

Ranma 1/2 Flambe!
By bewildered

A Month of Anything-Goes Martial Arts Recipes in Weekly Installments.

Author's Note: The idea for this one came from a week in which I read Banana Yoshimoto's "Kitchen" and the now-famous "Like Water for Chocolate" in quick succession, as well as from the recipes included in Hitomi Ichinohei's fine (but unfortunately unfinished) fanfic "A Son's Duty." All characters the property of Rumiko Takahashi; origin of recipes (which, I should point out, are all edible) will be credited with each installment. Bon Appetit!

DISCLAIMER: The author is not responsible for any damage caused to your kitchen by the preparation of these recipes.

Week 1: Black-Bottomed Banana Bread

Akane ran until her breath sounded in her ears like waves on the shore and her legs ached with cold and fatigue. The rain had lifted, and here and there a star winked faintly through a gap in the clouds; thunder still rumbled faintly in the distance. When she could run no more, she drew up before the dripping eaves of a vegetable stand, its wares shut up for the night, and leaned her cheek against the chill of a lamppost.

"That dummy..." she whispered wearily, tears and anger welling up inside her again. As usual, anger won out and she started pounding her fist into the lamppost. "Dummy, dummy, dummy!" she chanted in rhythm with each blow, her voice gradually rising until she was nearly shouting.

The rusty jangle of a bell broke into her chant, and she looked up in surprise. Across the street, tucked between an incense shop and a drugstore, was a small Shinto shrine, its orange pillars glistening with rain. Water dripped haphazardly from the leaves of a huge tree that stood to one side of the gate, its girth embraced by a huge rope hung with damp strips of white paper that moved sluggishly with the breeze. The twin statues of foxes that flanked the shrine were stained slate grey in the aftermath of the rain.

Akane tentatively crept through the _torii_, guiltily wondering if the shrine were open to the public so late. But there seemed to be no hours posted, so she cautiously approached the small wooden building. Hanging just under the eaves was a large round bell, apparently the source of the ringing a moment before; a thick straw rope hung down past a slatted wooden box for monetary donations. The interior of the shrine was too dark for her to see, even the glow of the nearby streetlamps not penetrating; yet the darkness felt somehow comforting, as if she were snuggled in a warm bed.

Which she might be now if it weren't for Ranma. The dummy. Her hand tightened around the rope unconsciously. When Kasumi had announced her intention to attend a month-long conference on household remedies and medicinal plants in the United States, Akane had leapt at the chance to cook for the family. Ranma had leapt, too, she recalled bitterly -- for the door. But finals were coming up, so he couldn't go on a training trip now. Ranma knew better than to eat at the Nekohanten or Ucchan's every night, and he couldn't afford to eat anywhere else. So Akane had been given two of the things she needed the most -- a chance to practice and a captive guinea pi... uh, taste-tester. Unfortunately, he wasn't being much help.

*Some constructive criticism!* she grumped. *Collapsing on the floor and writhing in agony isn't what I call constructive. "Needs less salt" -- now *that* would be constructive.* But... she had to admit that her dinner hadn't left him with much choice. When she had finally tasted it herself (after smashing Ranma into the floor, of course) *she* had almost collapsed. What could have gone wrong? She had poured all her energy into creating the perfect dinner, and it had ended up a perfect disaster.

On impulse, Akane wrapped both hands around the thick rope. She had no change to donate, but that couldn't be helped. She screwed her eyes shut and rang the bell one, two, three times, then clapped her hands and bowed her head.

*I wish... I wish I could cook.* she fervently prayed. *If I could cook, I know everything would be all right.*

The bell echoed in the damp, empty streets, then fell silent. Akane opened her eyes and stepped back, feeling oddly disappointed. *Silly!* she berated herself. *It's not like some spirit is going to just appear and teach me to cook...*

"Excuse me..." The voice was slow and warm with the rusty tinge of age. Akane jumped and whirled around.

An old woman in a plain grey kimono stood behind her, umbrella held up against the dripping water. Her face had the lined, worn patina of a fine-grained wood, and her expression radiated pleasant concern.

*That was fast!* Akane thought. The woman bowed slightly in greeting and went on.

"I apologize for troubling you, but you woke me up from my nap, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you."

"Well," Akane paused, wondering what rules of etiquette applied to dealing with spirits. She laughed nervously. "Well, I was just wishing I could cook... But don't you know that? I called you, didn't I?"

The woman stared at her for a moment, then laughed, a mellow laugh that filled the shrine grounds.

"Is that why you were attacking my lamppost? To call me? I'm afraid the vegetable shop is closed, and I won't have any fresh wares until morning." The woman gestured across the street, and Akane noticed that the shutters of the vegetable stand were open, showing a faintly lit interior. "Why wouldn't you just try an all-night supermarket, if you're so eager to cook." She sounded amused, not annoyed, and Akane blushed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trouble you."

"That's quite all right, dear," the woman said kindly. "Is there something else wrong? You seem quite upset."

Akane hesitated. "I really don't want to burden you with my problems. I mean we just met..." The woman's face creased into a welcoming smile.

"It's no trouble at all, dear. Why don't you come have a cup of tea to warm up before you return home? I'd very much enjoy the company. I don't have many visitors these days." When Akane nodded, the woman turned and clopped across the wet pavement in her _geta_, leading Akane back to the vegetable shop.

They slipped around stacked crates and tables and through a long curtain into a narrow six-tatami room with a low wooden table. The room was pristine and brightly lit by a fluorescent light overhead; a few pieces of whitish pottery sat on shelves along one wall, and an arrangement of chrysanthemums was set in an alcove in another wall. Akane knelt beside the table while the woman went through another curtain, returning a minute or two later with a small white teapot and a pair of teacups on a lacquered tray.

The old woman knelt across from Akane and poured tea, the reassuring slosh of the liquid the only sound in the room. Akane wrapped her hands around her cup, feeling the warmth seep into her chilled fingers. She hadn't realized she was so cold.

"So, my dear," the woman said softly. "We should probably begin with introductions. My name is Oharu Murakami."

"Akane Tendo. Pleased to meet you." They both bowed slightly. Akane sipped at her tea, at a loss for where to begin. As she set her cup down, the woman's leathery hand touched her arm.

"Don't hold back, dear," she whispered encouragingly. "I'm very curious as to why a nice young girl like yourself is trying to buy vegetables in the middle of the night, not to mention crying and smashing lampposts."

At this, Akane sniffled a bit. In short sentences, she spoke of the evening's fiasco, becoming more open with each sip of tea. When she reached the part about the shrine, she blushed a bit.

"...so I thought, well, maybe it wouldn't hurt. I mean, I don't really expect it to work, but... I can always hope, can't I?"

Mrs. Murakami looked thoughtful, tapping a finger on the edge of her cup.

"You say some people have tried to teach you to cook?"

"Well, Kasumi. That's my older sister. She lets me try sometimes. And Ranma's mother has tried once or twice, but that didn't help either."

"Has either of these people ever taught anyone to cook before?"

"Well, they're both wonderful cooks themselves, so they should be able to help me, if there was any hope."

The woman laughed again, warming Akane as much as the tea. "Being able to cook doesn't mean anything as far as their ability to teach cooking. Teaching takes far more than an instinct for food; it takes an instinct for people. These two fine cooks, what would you say about their powers of observation? Of people, I mean."

Akane thought for a moment. She loved Kasumi and Mrs. Saotome. But she had to admit...

"Well, they are a bit dense in some ways. They seem to miss a lot of things that other people notice right away. Ranma's mom never even figured out that... well... she never figured out about Ranma until she saw it right before her eyes. I mean, how could she miss something so obvious...?"

"You see? The fact that you haven't been able to learn from them doesn't mean you can't learn at all. It just means you need a new teacher who can adapt the teaching to your personality."

"But who would teach me, if they can't?" Akane glumly stared at her empty cup. Mrs. Murakami leaned over and calmly poured her more tea.

"Well, I was thinking perhaps I could."

"You? But we just met. I couldn't possibly impose upon you..."

"Oh, it's no imposition. It's been a long time since I've helped anyone out like this. And I do love a challenge."

Akane sipped at her tea again, remaining silent.

"Please allow me to do this." Mrs. Murakami leaned over and covered Akane's hand with her own. "I would so enjoy it."

Akane hesitated. She could hardly believe that someone was willing to help her. "Well, okay... but if you change your mind after seeing me cook, I'll understand. Really."

"Don't worry, Akane. I already have an idea what part of your problem is, and there's still life in me, old as I am. Why don't I come over tomorrow at, say, six o'clock? That should give us enough time to prepare a meal, and the vegetable shop will be closed."

"S... sure." Akane wrote the address on an envelope and handed it to Mrs. Murakami, who scanned it and sent Akane a shrewd look.

"The Tendo Dojo? Does this mean your family practices martial arts?"

"Well, not my whole family. Just me and my dad. And of course, there's Ranma and his dad..."

"Ah, good. This won't be nearly as painful as you think. Now, it's getting late. Don't you think your family will be worried?"

Akane stood reluctantly. "They've probably sent Ranma out to look for me by now, so I guess you're right."

"Well, in that case, I'll see you tomorrow evening." Mrs. Murakami escorted Akane back through the vegetable shop, waving to her as she closed the shutters. Akane walked slowly along the narrow streets, inhaling the freshly-washed air. The clouds were mostly gone now, and she could see a few constellations each time she passed out from under a streetlamp.

*A teacher, huh?* she mused, clasping her hands behind her back. *I wonder if it can really work...*

The next day, she waited in agony for six o'clock. Breakfast and lunch passed without incident; they still had a goodly supply of Kasumi's miso soup in the fridge, and some leftovers for their lunches, so Akane wouldn't need to make those for a week or so. Though at the rate Ranma was eating them, they wouldn't last quite that long. It was almost as if he were trying to eat enough food for dinner as well... When the thought occurred to her, she threw Ranma in the pond, just in case that *was* what he was doing. It just wasn't fair.

Finally, on the stroke of six, she heard the outer door of the entrance slide open, and Mrs. Murakami's voice carry through to the living room. She was wearing a kimono nearly identical to her clothing of the day before, grey fabric with a subtle design worked into the threads. Akane quickly escorted her towards the kitchen, hoping nobody would see them.

"Hey, Akane, who's this?" Akane flushed and turned to face Ranma.

"This is Mrs. Murakami. Mrs. Murakami, Ranma."

"Ah, your fiance I've heard so much about. Pleased to meet you." She bowed politely. Ranma turned as red as Akane.

"Um... pleased to meet you, but I'm not..."

Akane elbowed him in the gut. "We've got to get going, seeya!" She grabbed Mrs. Murakami's arm and dragged her into the kitchen. Ranma stared after them in confusion, then shrugged and returned to the living room.

Mrs. Murakami looked around the kitchen, nodding in approval. "Well, Akane, what were you planning on cooking tonight?"

"Um, pork curry. Sometimes it turns out kinda normal, so I thought it might be a good place to start."

"That sounds fine. Why don't you begin?"

"Aren't you going to help me?"

"Well, I can't teach you until I've seen you cook. I'll just watch this time around, and then we can begin your lessons."

Akane nodded reluctantly, then turned to the stove and concentrated. *This time!* she thought determinedly. *This time I'll do it right!* Glowing blue, she charged into the fray.

Twenty minutes later, she stared at the glop in the pan. It didn't look quite like Kasumi's, but it was done. Time to taste-test it.

"Ranma! Dinner's ready!"

Mrs. Murakami placed a restraining hand on her arm. "No, I don't think so, dear."

"But... why not? How else am I supposed to know if it's any good?"

"Well, first of all, it's not good to depend on other people's opinions too much. You need to find your self-worth in your own success, not in other people's determination of your success. But secondly, I think you should look at this bottle."

"That's just the oil I cooked the pork and vegetables in..."

Mrs. Murakami turned the plastic bottle so Akane could see the label clearly. "I'm sorry, dear, but motor oil is not generally considered to be edible."

Akane stared at the bottle, a sob welling up in her throat. "But... but I tried so hard!"

"Oh, don't cry, Akane. I wasn't expecting you to do as well as you did. I know exactly how to train you now."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. But we can't do it here. Why don't you show me to your dojo? And bring with you that sack of empty bottles. Reusing is a form of recycling, isn't it?"

Mrs. Murakami knelt in the center of the dojo, motioning for Akane to sit opposite her.

"Now, in a few minutes, we're going to start practicing, but first there are a few questions I need to ask you. Be very honest, with me and with yourself." Akane nodded. "How many people do you know who can cook?"

"Well, there's Kasumi and Mrs. Saotome, of course. Ukyou and Shampoo. Kodachi, I guess, though she does tend to poison her cooking. And, well..." she flushed ""... Ranma's not bad either."

"Hmmm... So, how would you describe Kasumi's character?"

"Well... calm, soothing."

"And how would you describe her food?"

"I don't know... it's very satisfying, and calming."

"How about this... Ukyou?"

"She's, well, she's a really nice girl... " *...when she's not glomping on to Ranma...* "... and she's very cheerful. I think she's pretty independent, too -- she runs a restaurant by herself, and she's only sixteen."

"And her food?"

"Well, she cooks okonomiyaki. So there's a lot of variety, and it's always very original. Her sauce is wonderful, very tangy and sweet..."

"How about Ranma's personality? I know it's hard to be objective about someone you love, but be honest."

"Someone I..." Akane stopped herself. It was a natural assumption to make. She heaved a deep breath, and thought for a minute. "Well, he's very self-confident. Tenacious. He's not very sensitive or gentle..." Akane trailed off. "Wait a minute, are you saying that someone's personality affects their cooking?"

"Well, yes. It's a very important factor."

Akane pondered that for a moment. She had only eaten Ranma's cooking a few times, but... now that she thought about it, it was a lot like him. It was never subtle, and it always seemed to have a little flash to it, as if he had added just a tad more of some unusual spice that just happened to work. It was as if his self-confidence somehow oozed into the pan with the ingredients. But if cooking and personality were related so closely...

"So..." Akane suppressed a sob. "So my personality is BAD-TASTING?" Mrs. Murakami laughed.

"Oh, no, not at all. But it does explain why your cooking hasn't been working for you, if you've been trying to cook like Kasumi. I haven't met her, of course, but from your description she seems very placid, calm, and maternal."

"Which I'm not," Akane said bitterly.

"Don't be upset, Akane. Your personality is far more interesting. You have a lot of fire in you, a lot of spice. The way you've been cooking up until now goes against that." Akane smiled slightly at that. "It doesn't surprise me in the least that the one food you've made successfully so far is curry. That gives the spice in you an avenue for expression. But it isn't only personality that affects cooking. It's approach."

"Approach?"

"Yes. When Kasumi cooks, how does she go about it?"

"Well, she's very calm. She's always calm... she hums to herself a lot, and smiles."

"Ukyou?"

"She's always smiling, too. She lives for okonomiyaki, and it's almost like she's dancing when she cooks. Ranma... he grins, and jumps around a lot."

"Does he now? That must be interesting to watch. Now, when you began cooking your curry just now, what did you do?"

"I, um, concentrated..."

"What did you think about?"

"I thought about making good food."

"Honestly?" Mrs. Murakami's eyes bored into Akane's. She thought again, then bowed her head.

"No," she said in a small voice.

"What did you think about?"

"Ranma. How I was going to show him this time. How I was going to make him eat his words."

"That's what I thought. You see, you focused your aura as if you were going into a battle. That battle aura seeped into your food as you cooked it. And you have a very strong _ki_, so it affects your cooking even more. What you need to do is focus your _ki_ in a positive way, so that it improves your cooking. So -- what makes you feel good? What makes you happy?"

*Ranma being nice...* she thought wistfully, *...but that doesn't happen enough to be any good.* Aloud, she said, "Practicing martial arts. Breaking cinderblocks always makes me feel better when I'm upset."

Mrs. Murakami looked at her shrewdly for a moment, then nodded. "I thought that might be the case. That's why we came out to the dojo. What we are going to practice is Martial Arts Cooking."

Akane looked up in amazement. Mrs. Murakami was smiling broadly, her eyes almost lost in crinkles of merriment.

"What? Don't you think it's appropriate?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

"Good. I think this will also solve the motor-oil problem. Tell me, how do you go about breaking cinderblocks?"
"I, um, put them in the middle of the floor. Then I break them with the side of my hand."

"Can you break them without setting them up?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, you have to set up before you cook, too. Get out all the ingredients and set them up for you to use."

"But Kasumi never does that. She just takes everything out when she needs it."

"Yes, but Kasumi is also the one who arranged the kitchen, isn't she? She's effectively set up the entire room in advance, so that everything is where she can find it most easily. You, on the other hand, need to arrange ingredients so they are right for yourself. So, let's begin." She picked up the bag of bottles and containers and began arranging them around Akane. "Now, this one is the curry powder..."

An hour later, Akane stood in the midst of her set of bottles, taking deep breaths as she calmed herself for a final run of the kata. Mrs. Murakami stood a short ways away, watching her.

"Ready.... begin!"

Akane swung her right arm out to the bottle designated "cooking oil." *Grab, twist, bring around in one smooth movement. Left arm passes over, removes top. Twist, pour, stop. Replace oil, pause, focus, wait. "The moments of inaction are as important as the moments of action." Hold pose and -- left arm grasps pork, circular movement, pork in oil...* She continued the movements, imitating the motions of cooking while she switched from bottle to box to spoon. Finally, she gave the "wok" a final twist of her arm and turned to present it before Mrs. Murakami. The older woman smiled secretively.

"Now... Now I think you're ready for the real thing. Let's go back to the kitchen."

Ranma chose that moment to poke his head in the dojo door.

"Hey, Akane, if you're not cooking tonight, does that mean I can order out? The rest of the family already went out to eat, and I could really go for some burgers right now..."

Akane stomped over to him and grabbed the front of his shirt. "Who says I'm not cooking?" she growled. "I've been practicing all night, and you darn well better be sitting at the table when I finish. Got it?"

Ranma glanced at Mrs. Murakami. "Does this poor woman know that you're planning to poison her?"

Akane glowed blue and wound up for a good hammerblow.

"Akane, stop!" Mrs. Murakami's voice held an edge of steel. Akane paused and looked at her in shock. "Do you want to lose all the focus you've gained this evening? Concentrate on the kata, and let's return to the kitchen." Akane dropped Ranma in embarrassment. As they left, Mrs. Murakami bowed to Ranma, the twinkle back in her eyes.

"Thank you for the concern, young man, but I don't believe I am in any danger. Akane's made great progress tonight. Dinner should be ready shortly; I suggest you prepare yourself for a surprise."

Ranma stared at the dish in front of him. He was surprised, all right. It looked, well, normal. The meat looked like meat, the vegetables looked like vegetables, and it was even curry-colored.

That meant it had to taste really bad. If she got the looks right, there's no way she could have gotten the taste right as well. But... He closed his eyes and braced himself. *"We who are about to die..."*

He chewed. And chewed a bit more. And swallowed. Oh god, it was the worst kind of Akane-cooking. The kind that made it down to the stomach all right, then exploded. He waited for the explosion. His stomach growled for more. He waited. Still no explosion. He tried another bite. Then another. Suddenly he looked down at his bowl and realized it was all gone. And he wasn't dead. And it had tasted... okay. Not delicious, maybe, but not toxic either. A bit spicy.

It couldn't possibly be Akane's cooking. Maybe that old woman had done it before she left... He suddenly noticed Akane was staring at him expectantly. He looked between his empty bowl and her a few times. This was too much. With each glance, though, Akane's expectant look grew less eager and more angry. When he looked at the bowl the eighth time, she whipped out her mallet and bashed him on the head.

"Can't you at least say something about it?" she yelled. "You ate all of it, so say something!"

"Ummm..." Ranma was still in shock. He wasn't dead. "It's delayed-action, right? I'll wake up in the middle of the night screaming, right?"

"Why can't you just say it's good? Mrs. Murakami taught me how to cook something! And I did it! Why can't you admit it?"

"No, there's got to be something weird going on.... Did you buy something magic from a vendor? Or get a mix? Or order this out?..." Ranma was running out of reasons. But Akane couldn't have cooked this. "It's that old woman! She's really a spirit..." Akane whacked him with the mallet again, this time upside the head. He felt a little bit nauseous. That was more like it.

"You jerk! I finally cook something right, and you can't even admit you're wrong! You moron!"

Akane ran out of the room, and Ranma felt almost sorry. But then, she'd left the food. Good thing she hadn't cooked it herself; he was really hungry tonight. He helped himself to
more.

Still... he paused with chopsticks halfway to his mouth.... there was something funny going on. And it had to do with that Murakami lady.

He really had to find out what was going on. This was all just too weird.

END PART 1

ANYTHING-GOES MARTIAL ARTS COOKING TIP 1:
A Word About Tools

There are two specialized tools which are used in Anything-Goes Martial Arts Cooking. The first is the mallet. Males may have problems obtaining one from Hammerspace; substitute any appropriate tool. The second is the Big-Ass Spatula (tm). While purists may argue that this tool is the exclusive property of Okonomiyaki-Style Martial Arts, none can deny its usefulness in other Martial Arts Cooking endeavors. Not sold in stores; get one custom-made, but don't forget to send Ukyou a cut. If you don't... don't say we didn't warn you.

KATA 1
Black-Bottom Banana Bread
(this one was cut out of either the Elgin Courier-News or the Chicago Tribune by my mother)

WEAPONS:

4 small very ripe bananas (black is good!)
1/2 cup unsalted butter or margarine, softened
2/3 cup sugar
3 large eggs (chicken ones, of course)
1/4 cup milk
1 cup cake flour
1 1/2 tsp baking POWDER
1 tsp baking SODA
generous 1/4 tsp salt
1 1/4 cups chocolate chips

TECHNIQUE:

1. Begin with a very clean kitchen. Put rack in center of oven; heat oven to 350 degrees FAHRENHEIT. Generously grease a 9 x 5 loaf pan with butter or margarine or other *edible* shortening product. Hold pan next to flour sack. Karate-chop sack, thereby dusting pan lightly with flour. Set aside. Measure all other ingredients and arrange in proper order for kata. Clean kitchen.

2. Peel bananas. Smash bananas with mallet. Scrape banana pulp off walls. (Alternately, mash with a fork.) Continue until banana pulp resembles Ranma's face after a fight (i.e. lumpy). Set aside in large mixing bowl (bananas, not Ranma). Clean kitchen again.

3. Beat butter and sugar within an inch of their lives; roundhouse kicks work well, though an electric mixer may be used. Gather mess into a second bowl. Break eggs into separate bowl.
Remove shells. Add non-shell parts of eggs to butter and sugar and mix until fluffy and smooth. Be sure to stir clockwise and counterclockwise with each hand, to improve your blocks. Add milk and mix again. Add this batter to banana bowl and mix again. By now your blocks should be quite good. Sift dry ingredients (hint: everything else) with your favorite speed-striking technique (DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!) and add to bowl. Throw chocolate chips into air and attempt to swat every single one into the batter; if you can do this, you can master the
Kachuu Tenshin Amaguriken. Scrape any batter, dry ingredients, or chocolate chips off floor, walls, appliances, big sisters, etc. and return to bowl. Mix with wooden spoon or Big-Ass
Spatula (tm). Transfer batter to pan (the one with the flour -- remember that?). Clean kitchen again.

4. Put pan in oven, on rack prepared in Step One. Watch approximately two episodes of Ranma 1/2. If you can't stop at two, set timer for 55-60 minutes. To test bread, meditate briefly on a single word, such as "chocolate." Very, very gently insert toothpick into center of bread until only a small end protrudes. (Note: DO NOT attempt a toothpick-missile-strike, or you'll never get it out of the bread.) Reversing your motions exactly, remove toothpick. If it is clean, your mind is pure and your bread is done. If not, meditate a few minutes more. Bread should be dark brown, not black. If it is black, reset oven for FAHRENHEIT NOT CELSIUS and start over. If you mastered the Kachuu Tenshin Amaguriken in Step Three, remove from oven with bare hands; otherwise use potholders. Place on cooling rack and defend from rogue pandas for 10 minutes; remove from pan and allow to cool completely on rack. Chocolate chips should have settled to bottom and formed layer of chocolate. The uninformed will (you hope) believe this is in fact a layer of char and will avoid your bread like the plague. Encourage this. This leaves more bread for you and your fiance.

5. You will probably need to clean the kitchen again.

WEEK 2: Failed Fudge

Akane wrapped the two blocks of baking chocolate in a plastic bag and set the bag in the middle of the freshly-washed floor. She took a deep, cleansing breath, raised her mallet over her head, and brought it down with a resounding thwack. A few fragments of chocolate skittered across the floor, but most of it stayed in the bag. She gathered the few strays and put all of the chocolate fragments in a small plastic bowl, then quickly mopped the floor again.

The chocolate went off to the left at a thirty-degree angle, right beside the sugar she had already measured. The sour cream was at a similar angle to her right. The butter was in the freezer, and the sink was filled with cold water. She checked her notebook again. After her first session with Mrs. Murakami, she had taken to rewriting each new recipe she learned in the appropriate martial arts terms, taking notes as to things to watch out for; it made remembering each kata much easier. In the past week, she had added to her pork curry kata recipes for miso soup, oyako domburi, and ton-katsu, as well as a few Western dishes -- lasagna, Texas-style chili, and something called "hamburger pie." Mrs. Murakami had encouraged her to explore other nations' cuisines, as there were many dishes she thought were well-suited to Akane's temperament.

Today, though, Akane had a surprise for her teacher. She had found a new recipe, one that looked relatively simple, and worked out a kata based on the recipe all by herself. As she set a heavy saucepan on the stove, she laughed imagining the look on Mrs. Murakami's face when Akane presented her with a plate of delicious, creamy fudge.

Ranma peeked cautiously around the edge of the doorframe. Akane was laughing. That couldn't bode well. It sounded like a normal laugh, but really it was a laugh of pure evil as Akane embarked on a course of destruction meant for the entire world. It had to be. Why else would Akane be happy cooking?

He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he watched Akane closely. She seemed to be meditating. Very unlike Akane. He wondered briefly if she were possessed by a demon. A cooking demon, out to trick him into lowering his defenses by plying him with decent food, until at last it would strike with its long pointy fangs... That was a possible explanation -- but difficult to test, at least until the fangs showed up. He had to watch a bit longer. He was lucky to have caught her alone; he felt uneasy watching when Mrs. Murakami was there. There was something about the old woman that made him feel, well, vulnerable, as if she saw all his secrets. Wait -- Akane was about to move...

She brought her arms around in a fluid motion and began what looked like a martial arts form. A punch to her left, and a plastic bowl went flying into the air. She swatted it with a sideways chop, and the contents of the bowl -- something brown -- went flying into the pan. She caught the bowl and flung it behind her without looking; it crashed onto the counter with a dull clatter. Another blow, and a measuring cup full of sugar was treated similarly, the sugar flying into the pan, and the cup onto the counter. Akane kicked out to her right, and a plastic dairy container leapt into the air; she brought both fists together, crushing it directly above the pan so that the white paste inside slid goopily out. A few more attacks, and the ingredients that had been arranged around her were all in the pan. Letting out a joyous cry, she brought her right arm around in a circular block, turning on the stove at the bottom of her swing.

Ranma twisted his mouth. *All that fuss just to dump stuff in a pan...?*

Akane seemed to be stirring the pan with a wooden spoon, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, with an almost hypnotic rhythm. For the life of him, Ranma could not figure out what she was making. It didn't really help that he was looking at her back. He considered walking in nonchalantly and asking her what she was doing, but her attitude made him think he would be taking his life in his hands. She seemed almost preternaturally alert. Plus her mallet was sitting off to one side, within easy reach. Not good odds.

Suddenly Akane stepped back, bringing her arms around to a ready position. Ranma could barely see the pan over her shoulder. Not much seemed to be happening; he could see rising steam, and the end of what looked like... a thermometer? From the angle of her head, it seemed she was focusing all her attention on the pan, watching for some sign. Several minutes passed. Ranma focused on Akane. Akane focused on the pan.

With a blinding flash of movement, Akane swung her right arm around to grab a potholder off the wall. She grasped the pan, made a flying leap over to the sink, and dunked the pot in. A cloud of steam rose up. Then she roundhouse-kicked the freezer open, grabbed something small and yellow in one fist, and flung it into the pan, diving into the air as she did so. She landed in a roll and came up in a ready position, facing the sink. Ranma could see her profile as she breathed heavily, all her attention focused on the pan again. As if an afterthought, the freezer door swung closed with a small thud.

Ranma withdrew into the hall, out of sight. He was right, something really weird was going on. First, Akane started producing edible meals, with no sign that they were takeout or premixed. Now she was cooking like it was a cross between chemistry and kempo. He had to get to the bottom of things.

So far, his investigations had been fruitless. Staking out the front and back doors for delivery men had been a no go; no visitors had arrived all week, and he had gotten rained on twice. The few glances he managed to take into the kitchen when dinner was being prepared had shown Akane active, while Mrs. Murakami just sat there, so the old lady wasn't doing the cooking. And what was with those sessions in the dojo?

Today, he decided, he had to follow the old lady home. He was going to find out what was going on if it killed him.

And with Akane cooking, that was always a possibility.

Akane let out a yell and began to stir the contents of the pan. Two right blocks, two left blocks, pause, deep breath. Two right, two left, pause, breathe. The cookbook had said to be sure to give the fudge time to react, so she was careful to pause often. What a conscientious cook she was turning out to be!

Twenty minutes later, she was getting annoyed. She had given the darn fudge plenty of time to turn, but it still sat in the pan, completely liquid. And her arms were getting tired. She stopped and sank to the floor. She should have known it wouldn't work. But what could she have done wrong? She reached up and pulled her notebook off the counter. No, she had done everything the recipe said. She had followed the kata precisely. It just wasn't working the way it was supposed to.

The whole fudge cookbook was probably a practical joke. All that mumbo-jumbo about "shocking" and "graining" and "seeding" -- she should have known from the start it was a fake. Honestly, "soft ball stage," "hard ball stage" -- it sounded almost, well, pornographic.

She stood and gave her fudge soup a few more stirs. It stayed soup. She pulled out the spoon and watched it drip sluggishly. Sure looked yummy, though. She caught a drip on her index finger and popped it in her mouth. Tasted good, too... but fudge was just not supposed to be eaten with a spoon. There was probably an unwritten Law of Fudge that read "Fudge shall be able to be picked up with the fingers." She tasted another drip, then gazed morosely at the pan. No way she could eat all of it drip by drip. She would have to throw it away. It just wasn't fair.

"Excuse me..." Mrs. Murakami's voice startled her, and she spun around, trying to hide the pan. Mrs. Murakami's face beamed gently at her, and she smiled back half-heartedly. Mrs. Murakami went on.

"I see you've already gotten started on tonight's meal. Good for you! After all, you'll need to be cooking by yourself soon enough." She tried to peer around Akane; Akane shifted to block her view again. "What is it you have there, dear? I smell chocolate. Is this for dessert?"

Akane started to sniffle. This was not the way things were supposed to happen. "Well, it's... it's supposed to be..." she burst into tears, covering her face in her hands. A moment later, she felt Mrs. Murakami's arm around her, comforting her.

"It's all right, dear." Her voice sounded like chocolate to Akane's ears, and the thought made her cry harder. "Don't cry any more, Akane. Why don't you just tell me about it?"

"But it's... I was making... I wanted it to be a surprise! And it didn't work. I can't cook after all..."

"What was it supposed to be?" Mrs. Murakami was completely calm.

"It... well... fudge." Akane wiped at her eyes and stared at the floor in shame. "It was such an easy recipe..." Mrs. Murakami started to laugh and Akane looked up, hurt.

"Don't look at me like that, dear." Mrs. Murakami squeezed Akane's shoulder bracingly. "It's just that making fudge is anything but easy. Even seasoned chefs can fail at making fudge sometimes. So many things can affect it -- the temperature, the humidity, anything. It's no surprise that it didn't turn out. Now, let me have a look at it." Akane stepped aside, allowing her to inspect the pan. "Hmmm... You've been beating this for some time, correct? My guess would be that you didn't cook it quite long enough. Did you test it?"

"I cooked it to the temperature that it said in the recipe. The second it reached that temperature, I took it off. It should have been right!"

"Ah, but thermometers aren't always accurate enough for candy-making. You need to test it first, drop a small spoonful of the syrup into cool water and see how it reacts." Akane looked back down, her cheeks red. The older woman smiled and went on. "You've been doing a wonderful job so far, learning every recipe by heart. But there is more to it than that. Martial arts isn't only a matter of learning movements; in order to fight, one has to be able to respond to situations automatically, without thought. Eventually you develop an instinct for battle, until the strongest martial artists can sense an attack coming before it is even launched. Isn't that so?" Akane nodded. "Well, it is much the same in cooking. You have to develop an instinct for cooking, become attuned to your cooking and your environment so that you can automatically adjust your technique to respond to the situation. Until then, you have to learn to accept the occasional failure, and use that failure to move you farther along the path. And remember, unlike martial arts, cooking is, at least in this day and age, never truly a survival situation; you can always do something over." Akane smiled at this, and looked back at the pan, sticking her finger in for another taste.

"Well," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "I guess I'd better clean this up then. I need the pan for dinner..."

"Wait just a moment, Akane. There's one more lesson I think you can learn from this. It's called serendipity."

"Seren-what?"

"Serendipity. It means a good result that comes about by accident. Quite honestly, if it wasn't for serendipity, half of the food we now consider run-of-the-mill would never have even existed. Cooking itself was probably an accidental discovery, made when someone long ago tripped and dropped something into a campfire." Akane giggled a bit at this, her good mood restored. "What it can also mean to us is making the most of our mistakes. Sometimes failed food can be salvaged, or even made into something better. And I have an idea for this fudge soup of yours..."

Ranma frowned through the entire meal. The sweet-and-sour chicken was quite good, almost delicious, though it seemed that it was missing something; he couldn't quite figure out what. Maybe a bit more pineapple juice? The rice was excellent, beautifully sticky without being soggy; it had been improving every day. The tea was just a tad too bitter, but otherwise excellent. If Kasumi had cooked the meal, he would have been grinning from ear to ear. As it was, his mood grew blacker as he helped himself to seconds.

Mrs. Murakami was eating with them tonight, since Akane had wanted to try making a full family-sized portion. Over the past week, the rest of the family had started drifting in to meals, first Soun, who had wept tears of joy after his first bite of Akane's oyako domburi, then the ever-hungry Genma, then finally Nabiki, who didn't intend to spend any of her own money eating out. Happosai was thankfully out on a training trip that he had said would take a month; nobody missed him. And everyone was enjoying tonight's meal, although of course they had all waited to taste it until Ranma had taken his first bite; old habits died hard. Soun looked as if he was willing to give the entire house to Mrs. Murakami in gratitude; Nabiki even offered a sidelong compliment to Akane, who smiled, then glared at Ranma. He knew that Mrs. Murakami's presence was the only reason he hadn't been bashed over the head yet; Akane had quickly developed a strong case of hero-worship, and was on her best behavior. But he didn't trust the old woman, not one inch. This meal was only proof of her perfidy. He served himself thirds.

The meal ended, and Mrs. Murakami gave Akane a significant look that Ranma didn't miss. Akane stood up and practically danced into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small tray. Ranma stared at it in surprise. Dessert? Oh, no. This was Akane's first try at dessert since she had started her diabolical cooking lessons; there was no way of knowing if she'd figured out the difference between sugar and salt. He found himself hoping she hadn't as she distributed plates around the table. If it was bad, then it meant Akane was back to normal.

"Pecan pie!" Genma exclaimed in joy. "If only I had a wonderful daughter like you, then I could die a happy man."

"Wait till you try it, you may die yet!" Ranma quipped automatically. Akane glared at him, then beamed at the others.

"It's CHOCOLATE pecan pie," she said proudly, sending a secretive smile at Mrs. Murakami. Ranma didn't miss that one either. Something fishy was going on with this pie. Maybe there was something fishy in the pie. That would be pleasantly nostalgic. He nervously scooped a bit up with a spoon. Everyone at the table was staring at him, waiting for his reaction. He popped it in his mouth.

Definitely sugar instead of salt. And well-flavored, a good rich chocolate. It had a tang to it as well, a bite that was really quite pleasant. Heck, it was delicious. His mind froze, and he watched the others begin to eat, now that the pie was proven safe. Akane's eyes still bored into him. He suddenly realized that this must be what Akane had been making earlier. She had made this by herself. Without anyone else there. Looking like she was trying some sort of magic spell. And it was delicious. He automatically smashed his father's hand as the old man made a grab for his slice; magic or not, he never gave up good food. He finished it quickly, his face still blank. Across the table, Akane's expectant face had fallen; as he watched, it reshaped itself in angry lines. He was in for it now. But he couldn't do anything but stare.

Mrs. Murakami stood. "Well, thank you so much for your hospitality. I really must be going now; I have several errands to attend to on my way home." Ranma jumped at this. He had almost forgotten his plan!

"Here, let me walk you home. It's already dark." Everyone was staring at him. He glared around the table. "Hey, I'm being polite! Don't look so surprised."

"That won't be necessary, young man. Why don't you spend some time with your fiancee?"

Ranma was not giving up. Besides, he knew he was getting beat up tonight anyways; at least that hadn't changed. The inevitable pain could wait a little while. "How about I see you to the door, then?"

"Well, all right. If you insist."

Ranma took Mrs. Murakami's arm and accompanied her as far as the gate, then watched as she walked slowly away. When she was almost out of sight, he leapt to the rooftops and began following her. Behind him, he could hear Akane screaming his name in rage.

He followed at a short distance, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. The woman moved surprisingly fast for one so old; no problem for him, of course, but he added it to his list of grievances. She went straight for several blocks, then made a left turn, then a right. They had moved into an older section of town, where the houses were slightly more run-down; he had to be careful of loose tiles on the rooftops. Finally he leapt to the top of a telephone pole and watched closely as the woman slowed down in front of a vegetable shop that had the name "Murakami" on the door. Then she turned -- not right, into the shop, but left. Ranma stared in disbelief as the woman walked into the Shinto shrine.

*I _knew_ something was up!* he congratulated himself, leaping over to the _torii_, then down into the cramped shrine grounds. He looked around warily; she had to be just inside, and he didn't trust spirits of any kind. He'd had some pretty bad experiences. So he was prepared for a confrontation, though he would have trouble fighting a spirit that looked like a woman.

But, as he had half-expected, the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

END WEEK 2

ANYTHING-GOES MARTIAL ARTS COOKING TIP 2:
Public Relations

Anything-Goes Martial-Arts Cooking is a particularly delicate art, and as in any other delicate art, occasionally something gets ruined. Eggshells get into frosting, roving geezers steal vital ingredients, and flying bodies knock food across the room. Don't sweat it. The best strategy for dealing with this is: never tell anyone what you're making. Ever. All they have to do is eat; they don't need to know how the dog got the pork that was supposed to be in that vegetable stir-fry, or how you cleaned the eggs off the floor before beating them. Nobody needs to know. Be sure to lock the door, too.

KATA 2
Failed Fudge Recipes
(adapted from the book Oh, Fudge! by Lee Edwards Benning)

2a: Drizzle Bars

WEAPONS:

1/2 cup butter or margarine
1 1/2 cups finely crushed graham crackers (mallet useful for
this)
1 recipe failed fudge (too hard, too soft, too runny, too sugary,
too chewy, etc.)(may substitute 1 6- or 12-oz package of
chocolate chips if your fudge failed to fail)
1 6- or 12-oz package chips in complementary flavor (peanut
butter, white chocolate, etc.)(NOT wood chips)(NOT potato
chips)(NOT buffalo chips)
1 3.5-oz can (1 1/3 cups) flaked coconut (not coconut flake --
that's the principal) True martial artists will use a whole
coconut.
1 cup walnuts
1 14-oz can sweetened condensed milk

TECHNIQUE:

1. Clean up all fudge mess and don't tell anyone you tried to make fudge. Preheat oven to 375 degrees FAHRENHEIT. Measure all other ingredients and arrange in proper order for kata.

2. Melt butter in pan over low heat. Gather crushed graham crackers from floor and stir into butter. Mop floor and wipe off mallet. Pat crumb mixture evenly in the bottom of an ungreased
13 x 9 x 2 -inch baking pan, using carefully controlled multiple blows with the heel of the hand. Eventually, the crust should be flat; this may take some time if your control is off.

3. Throw bag of chips into the air; roundhouse kick so that impact occurs over crust and chips scatter in pan. Gather any chips that landed elsewhere and return them to the pan. If failed fudge is liquid, pour haphazardly over chips; if not, chop fudge with edge of hand or Big-Ass Spatula (tm) into small pieces and scatter over chips in same fashion, using opposite leg.

4. Break open coconut with mallet; speed strike coconut meat (the white part) until it is shredded; alternately, open can. Discard husk (the brown part). Scatter coconut evenly over fudge. Trounce walnuts in the same fashion and add. Gather any loose ingredients and add to pan. Mop floor.

5. Holding can of sweetened condensed milk over pan, crush can in fist and drizzle contents over everything. Wipe up excess from floor and walls. Place pan in oven.

6. Bake for 20 minutes (not long enough to watch any Ranma, sorry), then use Big-Ass Spatula (tm) or mallet to squash down and compact the bars. Make them flat. Finish baking for 15-20 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool. Meanwhile, clean the kitchen. Cut in squares. Don't let Kasumi take the credit for these!

2b: Failed Fudge Pecan Pie (for expert fudge failers)

WEAPONS:

1 prebaked 8-inch pie crust (buy it! don't be ashamed!)
3 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 recipe failed fudge (1 pound), runny, at room temperature
2 large eggs
1/8 tsp. cream of tartar (I know it doesn't look like cream!
Trust me!)
pecans or walnuts
whipping cream

TECHNIQUE:

1. Clean up all fudge mess and don't tell anyone you tried to make fudge. Preheat oven to 350 degrees FAHRENHEIT. Measure ingredients and arrange in proper order for kata.

2. Blend cream cheese and runny fudge with bare-handed blows, electric mixer, or food processor. Separate eggs. No, this does not mean one egg goes on each counter while they try to work out their differences. Separate egg yolks (the yellow part) from egg whites (the clear part). To do so, fling eggs into air. Precisely slice each one open 1/2 inch from the end with cleaver or Big-Ass Spatula (tm). Quickly snatch yolks from plummeting egg mess and toss to bowl of fudge mixture while whites fall into a separate bowl. Remove eggshells and discard. Clean kitchen. Beat fudge mixture and egg yolks soundly. Wash hands.

3. In separate bowl, with clean beaters, hands, etc., beat egg whites until frothy. (Note: Cooks who tend to be heavy-handed (this means you, Akane) or who want to build stamina, be sure to beat egg whites by hand. This should tire you out enough to do the rest of the kata gently. Kachuu Tenshin Amaguriken speeds up the process nicely.) Add cream of tartar (yes, that white powder) and continue beating until whites form stiff peaks (if you're using two beaters, they could form twin peaks).

4. Meditating on your "chocolate" mantra, fold whites LIGHTLY into fudge mixture with Big-Ass Spatula (tm). In one smooth movement of the Spatula, mound mixture in center of prebaked crust. Follow Spatula movement with side-kick to nut container, sending nuts into air. Whack nuts on top of fudge stuff with reverse swing of Spatula. But not too hard. Mixture will spread during baking, so don't hammer it flat.

5. Put pie in oven. Listen to Ranma 1/2 Calendar CD, including as much as you can stand of that horrible Christmas song. If you doubt your ability to make it through that last evil track, set timer for 45 minutes. Center should have fallen -- this isn't a souffle, it's SUPPOSED to fall, so don't worry about shaking your bootie to the Nekohanten Menu Song. Let cool. Slice. Wash hands. Whip cream severely and fling a glob onto each slice. Clean kitchen and serve.

end week 2

Week 3: Blackened Crab Cakes

Akane stood in the dojo, breathing heavily as the last bottle clattered to the floor. She brought her hands together in front of her, bowed, and relaxed into a ready stance, trying to gauge her own emotional state. Not good. She was still too angry with Ranma; perhaps another run-through of tonight's kata would calm her down.

She began to pick up the bottles and bowls she had flung around the room, sighing. It was a good thing school wasn't in session; her life had settled into a bitter cycle of calming herself down enough to cook, then cooking in a relatively hopeful state of mind -- and then succumbing to anger when Ranma once again refused to say a single nice word about her cooking... She had no time for school.

If it wasn't for Mrs. Murakami, she would have given up by now. She smiled, setting a few bottles on the makeshift "counter" she used to practice. Mrs. Murakami always had a compliment for her, always kept her going in the face of Ranma's stubbornness. A few days ago, she had even said that Akane would soon be ready to "graduate," and had started her on a special meal that would bring all her training to a culmination. A huge, multiple-course meal made up of dishes perfect for Akane's own particular idiom. Akane had already purchased most of the ingredients; tonight was her last lesson, and then tomorrow would be The Meal.

She paused, staring at the plastic bowl she held. When the lessons ended, Mrs. Murakami would stop coming. Akane would be cooking all by herself. It was thrilling, in a sense, but at the same time it was frightening. Somehow, she didn't feel quite ready. There was something missing in her cooking, she didn't know what. Just a slight variation from perfection in everything she made, that kept her food merely decent. The only truly excellent dish she had prepared was that pecan pie, and she thought sadly that that was only because chocolate was in and of itself wonderful.

The door slid open behind her, just as she was about to begin the kata again. It was Ranma, she could tell. She would have to do the kata a few times more after this conversation, she was sure of it. It worked much better if she didn't see him at all before cooking. She jerked her head in something of a greeting, hoping he'd take the hint and leave.

Which he didn't, of course. Ranma was never too good with hints; he liked things spelled out for him. The problem with that was, spelling things out generally disrupted her concentration. He stood right behind her, not saying anything. She waited for him to either leave or spit it out, but he just stood. She sneaked a peek over her shoulder, and noticed that he looked a bit worried. That was odd. Finally she relented, and turned to face him.

"What do you want, Ranma?" Her voice was quite calm, she noted proudly; she had gotten pretty darn good at controlling her emotions of late. She looked at him squarely while he fidgeted.

"I was wondering if that old lady is coming over again tonight." His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he shrugged his shoulders a bit, as if he really didn't care. Like he'd be asking if he didn't want to know.

She frowned a bit. "She's got a name, you know. It's not very polite to just call her an old lady, especially after all she's done for me."

"All she's done to you, you mean." Ranma had tensed up, and was frowning, peering at her intently under his knitted eyebrows.

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Akane asked a bit hotly. Be zen, she cautioned herself. You've only got an hour to calm yourself down before she gets here. She heaved a deep breath.

"Well... what do you know about her anyway?"

"She runs a vegetable shop a few miles away from here. And she's been teaching me to cook. She's wonderful." Her voice was growing louder. She took in another deep breath, then spoke calmly again. "It's not like she has any deep, dark secrets. It's kinda nice to talk to someone *normal* for a change."

"Normal. Yeah, right." Ranma's look grew blacker. "She's about as normal as Happousai."

Akane felt her carefully-crafted focus crumbling at this. "How dare you compare her to that old lech? Mrs. Murakami is a good, sweet, honest person, unlike some people I could mention."

"That's just it, she's not a person at all!" Ranma snapped.

"What?" Fury began to well up inside her. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"I..." Ranma looked uncomfortable. "I followed her home last week. I've followed her home every night since then..."

"That's pretty rude of you." Akane's hand clenched into a fist.

Ranma waved his arms in the air. "No, listen. This is important. She doesn't go home. I mean, she goes as far as that vegetable shop, then she turns and goes into that shrine across the street. Then she just vanishes. She's a spirit or something, she's cast a spell on you..."

"Liar!" Akane screamed, her focus gone for good. "I've been inside her house, I've seen where she lives. You just don't want to admit that you're wrong!"

"Wrong about what?" Ranma huffed.

"Wrong about my cooking! Wrong about _me_! You just never will get it in your thick head that I can cook now! There's no spell on me -- I learned! I trained, I got better! Can't you accept that? Can't you appreciate it?"

"Why should I appreciate your being under a spell? If it wasn't for that old lady's magic, you'd still be chopping the styrofoam along with the steak!" Tears came to Akane's eyes at this; Ranma blinked, then went on in a slightly quieter voice. "Akane, I want to help..."

*CRACK!*

She heard rather than felt the impact of her hand across Ranma's cheek, watching as he flew into her practice counter, sending bottles flying in slow motion. Her entire body was numb. She didn't bother waiting to see if Ranma was still conscious. There was a rushing sound in her ears, and her throat felt thick and hot. She stalked out of the dojo, her aura flaring about her.

So he didn't believe she could do it. He didn't believe it was her. Well, she would show him. She had most of the ingredients for her graduation meal, and an hour to prepare it in. Ranma would eat his words all right. She would shove them right down his throat.

Ranma pushed himself to his hands and knees, noticing a few new bruises where he had impacted with the cinderblocks. His cheek was red and swollen, and he poked it experimentally. It hurt worse than usual; Akane was really mad.

He sighed. He had known talking to Akane about the old woman would be hard. Akane was all starry-eyed with her success, she was blinded to the spirit's true nature. Of course she wouldn't be pleased to have her little fantasy taken away. It was for her own good, but Akane was notoriously clueless when it came to what was good for her. No, Ranma had done the right thing.

Now all he had to do was confront the spirit who had caused all this. The old woman would probably transform into a huge demon, which he could then battle with all the skills at his disposal. Akane would see the battle, of course, and know that she had been mistaken, that Ranma had been right. She would rush out of the dojo, stars in her eyes, and beg him to forgive her for ever doubting him. Like a true man, he would brush aside her compliments, graciously forgive her, and say, "it was naught but my duty as a martial artist, and as the Man of this household." (Genma and Soun didn't count, he reminded himself.) Then he would gather her close to his side, just like on the covers of all those sword-and-sorcery novels, strike a heroic pose, and...

A scream from the kitchen interrupted his vision of What Would Be, and he sprang to his feet automatically, taking off at a headlong run. Akane. The old woman must have sneaked in and, seeing that her evil plan had been thwarted, attacked. He skidded in the hallway and looked in the doorway of the kitchen.

Flames seemed to be everywhere. Climbing up the curtains, licking the edges of the cabinets, turning the ceiling black with soot. Akane stood before the pan that was the source of the flames, unmoving. The flames licked towards her.

"Akane!" Ranma leapt towards her, snatching her away from the stove. She felt limp, like a doll; he glanced at her and saw that she was staring at the flames in shock. Ranma set her on the ground and faced the conflagration. The curtains were easy; he ripped them down and stomped on them, ignoring the feel of his own hands being seared. The pan was another matter entirely; it looked like a grease fire, so water was out. He had no idea where Kasumi kept the baking soda. Looking around frantically, he saw that Akane was clutching a lid in her fist that looked like it might fit the pan. He snatched it from her, then approached the pan, holding the lid out before him like a shield. A few tendrils licked around the edges as he slammed the lid down on the pan, cutting off the flames abruptly. Smoke curled out around the edges of the lid, filling the room. He beat the few remaining patches of fire with his hands until they were out, then turned to Akane.

"Akane, are you okay?" She was still staring at the pan, her eyes wide and blank. There was a smudge of soot on her left cheek; her hair had been singed a bit in the very front. Ranma knelt beside her, grabbing her shoulders, worry roughening his voice. "What the hell were you doing?" Her eyes focused slightly, and her brow furrowed.

"I was... cooking."

"Yeah, well, you almost cooked yourself. Not to mention the rest of us. Honestly, when will you get it through your skull that you should just stay out of the kitchen? You're a walking bomb threat!"

Akane heard this with that slight frown on her face, then stood, brushing Ranma's hands aside. She looked at the ruins of the kitchen, her head swiveling slowly to take in all the details. Then her arms wrapped around herself. In a small voice, she said, "You're right, Ranma."

"Huh?" She wasn't supposed to say that, not yet.

"You're right. I'm just... not meant to cook. I've been fooling myself all along." He could barely hear her.

"Uh..."

"But that's okay, I guess. When Kasumi gets back, I won't ever cook again. It's probably for the best."

"But, Akane...."

"Didn't you hear me?" her voice finally rose above a whisper on a hysterical note. "I'm never going to cook again!" She walked slowly out of the room. Ranma stared after her helplessly.

Then he heard a knock on the door. It was her. He clenched a fist. The old woman was going to pay for doing this to Akane.

He opened the door, fisting one hand on his hip and glaring down his nose at the little old lady outside. She looked at him in mild surprise.

"May I come in?" Oh she was a crafty one, all right. So very polite, so innocent-looking. He hoped she would hurry up and change into a demon; he felt uncomfortable intimidating a little old granny, even if he knew she was evil incarnate. He narrowed his eyes.

"No." He knew the stories. If he didn't invite her in, she had to stay outside. Well, that was vampires, but it wouldn't hurt in this situation.

She blinked. "Is Akane not feeling well today?"

"You could say that."

The old woman shifted her bag slightly. "Well then, could I come in and say hello to her? I've grown quite fond of her; perhaps I could cheer her up."

"Nice try, but no. I'm not letting you near Akane again."

She looked at him curiously. "Is something wrong?"

"Let's just cut the crap and get on with the battle." He fell into a ready stance. Now would come the demon change. He would open with a Kachuu Tenshin Amaguriken...

"Are you feeling all right? Perhaps you should go lie down." She reached up a leathery hand to touch his forehead.

He stepped back quickly. "Oh, no you don't. I'm wise to you."

"Wise to me?"

"Just drop the act. I followed you home. I saw you go into that shrine. You're a spirit of nature, capriciously wreaking havoc in my life, and I'm not letting you have Akane."

"Shrine?" Her wrinkled brown face lit up. "You mean the shrine across the street from my vegetable shop?"

"Of course I do!" Ranma snarled.

"Well..." she laughed merrily. "After my husband died, I started taking care of that shrine -- sweeping the grounds, rinsing down the walk with water..."

"Yeah, right. Try another one, evil spirit."

She laughed again. "Do you generally have a problem with capricious spirits wreaking havoc in your life?"

Ranma was taken aback. "Well, yeah. It's happened before."

"Poor thing. Well, I'll come by tomorrow and see how Akane is doing." She bowed and began to walk away.

Ranma bowed back automatically, then stopped himself. "Uh... well... no! don't come by tomorrow!" He clutched at his resolution. He had to protect Akane.

"No?" She turned back, her eyes strangely sad. Now, now she would change. Now she would attack. Ranma was ready for it.

"No." He steeled himself. She looked so lonely all of a sudden. "I don't want you to come back here ever again."

She looked steadily at him, her clear eyes unblinking. After a moment, he looked away. Clever of it, not to change shape after all. He was almost convinced that this was just a harmless old lady. But he wasn't taking any chances.

Into the silence, the old woman spoke, her voice low and gentle. "Now I understand why Akane has had so much trouble gaining her focus, why her cooking is not as good as it should be after all her training. The problem lies not in her, but in you."

"What the heck are you talking about?" Ranma barked.

She smiled sadly. "Akane is ready to graduate, but it seems you are not." She turned away, beginning to walk. "Don't worry, dear boy. I won't be back. But I would like you to think about what it is that is really hurting Akane, and what you can do to fix it."

"Ha!" he shouted after her. "I already have! You won't be sinking your claws into her again!" Now Akane would be back to normal, she would be safe. But as the woman vanished around the corner, Ranma felt strangely hollow, as if something had gone terribly wrong. The problem was, he had no clue what it could possibly be.

ANYTHING-GOES MARTIAL ARTS COOKING TIP 3:
Garnishes

All right, let's just admit it. Garnishes are stupid. Admittedly, there is no other real use for parsley or shredded red cabbage (unless you like them on your okonomiyaki) but the fact is, they're not going to make your food taste any better. And they may not even make it *look* any better. Usually, you're better off leaving them out. However, if you wish to add a special martial arts flavor to your meal, here are some ideas:

--arrange the mashed potatoes in the shape of Kanji characters. Simple ones, please.

--make little tiny mallets out of toothpicks and wine corks. Place them atop the entree. Diners can have fun tapping each other on the head with them (clean sauce off first)

--lollipops make cute bonbori, to decorate dessert plates with.

KATA 3: Blackened Crab Cakes
(from Legends of Louisiana Cookbook by Sheila Ainbinder)

WEAPONS:

2 pounds redfish (*not* blue fish, old fish, or new fish)
(make sure there are no bones, please!)
1 tbsp. garlic, minced or whacked with mallet
1/4 pound butter, at room temperature. (note: change
the temperature of the *butter* to match the
*room*, not the other way around)
juice of 1 lemon (no, not *that* kind of lemon, you
hentai!)
1 pound claw crabmeat
1/2 green onion
Prudhomme's Blackened Redfish Seasoning (R)
(or substitute any cajun seasoning mixed with
extra black pepper)
melted butter
lemon wedges (NOT lemon wedgies, you hentai!)

TECHNIQUE:

1. Clean kitchen. Measure all ingredients and arrange in proper order for kata. Set cast-iron skillet on stove. Turn on heat. Do not touch skillet again during kata unless you have mastered the Kachuu Tenshin Amaguriken, or want to try a lovely recipe for Blackened Hands. Make sure you have sturdy potholders nearby.

2. Whack redfish with mallet repeatedly until it is fairly well pulped. Gather pulp into bowl. Clean kitchen. Using Big-Ass Spatula (tm) scrape bits of garlic into bowl, then scoop up butter and add. Toss lemon into air, slice in half with sharpened edge of Big-Ass Spatula (tm) and grab one half in each hand, squeezing so that juice runs into bowl. Clean kitchen again. Using favorite speed-striking technique or food processor, blend these ingredients until they form a smooth paste.

3. Throw green onions into air; with four swings of Big-Ass Spatula (tm) chop onions into small pieces, which should fall lightly into the bowl with the paste from step 2. Fling crab meat into bowl. Fold until blended with Big-Ass Spatula (tm).

4. Using bare fists, scoop up mixture in 4-ounce increments. With each handful, first cup both hands in modified ear-boxing technique to form mixture into ball, then toss ball onto flat surface. Whack with mallet so ball is flattened into patty. Don't whack too hard, or it will be flattened into pancake; blackened crab pancakes just aren't appetizing. Continue until all mix has been converted.

5. Take cajun seasoning in left hand and bring around in a sweeping motion so that tops of all patties are coated. Use Big-Ass Spatula (tm) to flip all patties. Repeat spice motion with right hand, so that patties are now completely coated.

6. By now, the skillet should be white-hot. Yes, that's hot. Don't touch it. Char each crab cake on both sides in skillet. This should not take long. You want there to be something left of each crab cake, thank you. As each cake is charred, fling it with Big-Ass Spatula (not bare hands! trust me!) to plates. When finished, turn off heat and allow skillet to cool on its own. Don't touch it.

7. With ladle, fling melted butter to each crab cake so that it pools gracefully around it. Garnish with a lemon wedge; people may squeeze the juice on cakes at will.

8. Clean kitchen. Don't touch skillet yet. When it's cooled down, *then* you can touch it. Though this might be a good time to ask Happosai to help with KP...

End week 3

Week 4: Tarte aux Cerises, FLAMBEE!

Ranma watched Akane over the edge of his bowl as he sipped his miso soup. Well, it was supposed to be miso soup. It wasn't *bad*, per se; he had to admit that. *Bad*, in Ranma's world, meant that he needed a trip to the emergency room to get over it. Unfortunately, the soup wasn't *good*, either. It tasted like nothing, except maybe like cardboard. The broth was bland; there was just enough to it that it didn't taste like water, but it didn't taste like miso, either. The tofu tasted like tofu, of course, but then tofu didn't taste like much of anything to begin with. There were scallions floating in the soup, but Ranma could swear they were plastic for all the flavor they had. The soup was just... there.

Just like Akane. On the other side of the table, she was toying with her bowl, not even bothering to pick it up. As he watched, she picked up a cube of tofu with her chopsticks, stared at it, then let it plop back into the broth. She had been like this for the past week; she cooked meals in silence, picked at her food in silence, and then went to her room. Since the fire, she hadn't gone out for her morning run, she hadn't worked out in the dojo, she hadn't even fought with him once. She just moved through the house like a ghost, smiling faintly at her father and sister, speaking when spoken to, and cooking.

That was the strangest thing of all. He could understand if her cooking had gotten back to normal after the old hag had been sent packing. But it hadn't. Nor had she stopped cooking altogether; true to her word, she was going to cook until Kasumi got back. But it was as if something was sucking all the flavor out of the food as she was cooking, so that it looked normal, it had all the right ingredients, and yet it tasted... empty. Hollow.

It tasted like Ranma felt.

He had won, he knew that. Without a single blow, he had gotten rid of the demon -- or whatever she had been -- that had been luring Akane down a path of darkness. He had saved Akane from herself. And yet... It had been too easy. It made him wonder if he had won at all.

It made him wonder if there had been a battle to win.

That thought made him uncomfortable. It gave him a dull, throbbing pang at the back of his head that, if he had to identify it, he would call "guilt" -- but he didn't like to identify it, because if he admitted that he felt guilty, then that meant that he had done something to feel guilty about, and that meant that he had been... wrong.

And if he had been wrong... He watched Akane lift another cube of tofu, mesmerized by the splash as it dropped back into the soup. If he had been wrong... No, he didn't want to think about that. He would just sip away at his cardboard soup, and watch the cardboard Akane across the table, and not think at all.

The sound of the front door opening shocked him out of his reverie, and he almost leapt to his feet. The entire family was at the breakfast table, morosely working their way through breakfast, and Ranma's first thought was that he had been right after all, and Mrs. Murakami had come back to finish the job. Slow measured footsteps came towards the family room; he riveted his eyes on the doorway and waited, holding his breath. The other members of the family had noticed the arrival and were also watching curiously. Ranma poised himself for battle, building up his ki...

...And letting it fizzle. Kasumi stood in the doorway, her pleasant face beaming as she set down her travel bag. She tilted her head a bit to one side, putting her hands behind her back, and laughed at the looks of surprise on the faces before her.

"Good morning, everybody!" she said sweetly, one hand coming delicately to her mouth. "Did I surprise you?"

"Kasumi!" Soun exclaimed joyously, tears coming to his eyes. "What are you doing home so early? Doesn't the convention last another week? You didn't come all the way from the airport yourself, did you?"

"Oh, father," she chided serenely. "I'm perfectly capable of surviving a train trip from Narita by myself. I didn't want to ruin the surprise by calling."

Nabiki pushed aside her bowl of soup with poorly-disguised relief. "But why are you so early?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh," Kasumi blushed. "I got a little bit homesick, being gone so long, and the last week of the convention didn't have any presentations I wanted to see. So I decided to come home. I missed you all so much." She knelt at the table, starting to talk about how exciting her trip had been, if a bit frightening, and how pleasant the weather in Chicago was...

Ranma tuned her out, staring at his half-finished bowl of soup. Akane would be crushed that Kasumi was taking over the cooking; she had been so excited about her big chance. His mouth watered, though, at the thought of Kasumi's cooking, so subtly flavorful and easy on the stomach. That thought made the ache at the back of his head grow sharper; he rubbed at the nape of his neck, sighing. Then his ears pricked up at what Kasumi was saying.

"...now, Akane, I know you were counting on taking this week to do more bridal training, right?" Akane didn't answer; Kasumi went on blithely. "I'll stay out of the kitchen for the next week, so you can keep practicing. Is that all right?"

Ranma surreptitiously scanned the other faces at the table. Soun's was a bit tearful, Genma's full of fear. Nabiki seemed to be making calculations in her head, frowning at her soup. Akane... Akane was staring at the table, her eyes tired. Then she looked up at Kasumi with a weak smile.

"Thank you, Kasumi, but I don't think it's necessary." Her voice was toneless, indifferent. "I've gotten enough practice over the past three weeks to last for some time. And..." she doodled on the table with her finger "...I think I'm just not cut out for cooking."

Kasumi looked worried, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows. "Akane, are you sure? I don't mind, really I don't."

Akane's smile widened, but her eyes kept that tired, dull look. "No, Kasumi, I just... finally realized that I should just stay out of the kitchen. I'm dangerous." Ranma winced.

Kasumi glanced between Akane and Ranma, then smiled reassuringly. "Well, all right. I have missed cooking. But remember, I owe you a week of practice. Just let me know when you're ready for it."

Akane looked down again. "Okay." She resumed playing with her soup, apparently not noticing the wave of relief that swept over the table. Ranma watched her in helpless concern. This just wasn't right. Akane wasn't supposed to be so... meek. He had wished on occasion that she would be more gentle, more feminine, more pliable -- but this wasn't what he wanted either. He wanted... he wanted Akane to be herself. Even if that meant getting clobbered. Even if it meant being poisoned. The violent, aggressive, lively Akane was the one that he... that he... that he was used to. He had to do something about it, he had to get Akane back. But how?

He had been -- he gritted his teeth -- wrong. He would have to find a way to repair the damage; then maybe his head would stop aching, and Akane would notice him again, maybe even fight with him. Things would be back to normal. And the best way to set things right was to get to the source of the problem...

He leapt to his feet and ran out the door, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder. He heard Kasumi exclaim something behind him, and Nabiki's world-weary voice answering, but he didn't stop. He had work to do.

Straight, then left, then right... well, he didn't need to go the long way, by now he knew where he was going, so he bounded up to the rooftops, leaping from ridge to ridge until he caught the flash of orange he was looking for. He flipped to the top of the _torii_, then down into the shrine, his breath rasping in his ears.

"Old wo..." he began, then caught himself. He was here to (he winced again) apologize. "Mrs. Murakami?" There was no answer, and he looked out the gate at the vegetable shop. The worn shutters were closed, but then it was rather early in the morning. Maybe she wasn't even awake yet...

"Yes?" The warm voice came from behind him, and he spun in a mixture of annoyed surprise and relief. Mrs. Murakami stood there in front of the shrine, wearing her usual grey silk kimono, a tall broom loosely held in her wrinkled hands. There was a dustpan sitting on one edge of the shrine, and Ranma sheepishly recalled what she had said about cleaning up the shrine grounds.
The old woman's creased brown face was curious and open, not hostile as he had expected. Disarmed, Ranma looked at the ground, staring intently at a particular fallen leaf. He stepped on it and looked up resolutely.

"I just wanted to say I'm so... I'm very very so... what I'm trying to say is..." This was harder than he'd thought. He clenched his fists and said in a small voice, "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Murakami looked at him sternly, her penetrating black eyes boring into his face. "Young man, why are you apologizing to me?"

Ranma kicked at another leaf. "Because... because I was..." His fists clenched again. "wrong."

Mrs. Murakami leaned her leathery cheek against the handle of her broom, her face serious. "That may be, but I don't think I'm the one you should be apologizing to."

Ranma frowned. "Well, I said some pretty rotten things to you. Of course I should be apologizing to you. And I was hoping..." He swallowed nervously. "What I really wanted to ask you is... would you come back to the dojo to see Akane? She's really... she's just not herself lately. Not since you left. She doesn't want to cook any more, and when she does... it's not like her. I thought, maybe if you came and talked to her..."

"No." She resumed her sweeping.

Ranma couldn't believe his ears. "No?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind talking to Akane again. She really is such a sweet girl... But I don't think my visit would do any good. You see, it wasn't my leaving that caused the problem."

"It wasn't? I thought, well, maybe she needed a few more lessons... and she was hurt because you didn't come back..."

"I've already taught Akane all she needs to know to eventually become a fine cook; her lessons were about to end in any case. We were merely perfecting her special graduation meal... All Akane needs now is practice." The rough broom scratched away at the walk as Ranma assimilated this.

"But... she doesn't want to practice." Ranma sat down heavily on a stone bench, his chin in one hand.

Mrs. Murakami sighed, setting the broom aside and sitting next to him. "I thought as much. Haven't you realized why?"

Ranma frowned in thought. "Because she wasn't cooking as well as she could? She's discouraged by her lack of progress?"

Mrs. Murakami raised her eyebrows. "Not quite. Think a bit more."

Ranma thought. And thought. Then he remembered what Akane had said that morning. She had finally realized that she should stay out of the kitchen, she was too dangerous. His words, through her mouth. He looked guiltily over at Mrs. Murakami.

"You mean... it's because of me?"

Mrs. Murakami nodded gravely.

"But... I ate all her cooking, didn't I? Even when it started tasting like cardboard, I ate it. With someone that cooks as bad as Akane, that's a real accomplishment..." His voice was defensive, and he folded his arms defiantly.

"Does Akane cook badly anymore? Honestly?" she said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, of course she does... I mean, Akane cooking well is a sign of the apocalypse..."

"Ranma." Mrs. Murakami's voice was harsh, and he broke off. "When you ate that curry that Akane fixed on the first night of her lessons, what did you think of it?"

"That there must have been some sort of magic involved because it was..." He caught himself in realization. "It was good."

"It was, wasn't it. And was there any magic involved?"

Ranma searched his memories, then looked at the woman before him. "No. I thought there was, but..." he trailed off.

"And what did you say to Akane about the food?"

"I don't remember..." But he did remember. It rushed back to him in a flood of memory, and he shrank a bit into himself.

"Did you tell her it was good?" Mrs. Murakami pressed.

"...no." Ranma admitted after a long pause.

Mrs. Murakami sighed, her bent head shaking slightly. "And that, my dear boy, is where the problem lies. I had hoped Akane would be able to take pride in her own cooking without needing any outside approval. Eventually, I am sure she will. However, at this time she is sorely lacking in the self-confidence she needs in order to do so. And, like it or not, the scale she is using to judge her own success is not the approval of her family members, or her own sense of accomplishment. It is you."

"Me?" Ranma looked up with wide eyes.

"Yes, you. Whose eyes did she watch every night at dinner? Why wasn't she content with the praise of her father, or her sister? She was cooking for her beloved fiance. And you wouldn't give her even a word of encouragement, even though she had made so much progress in such a short time." Her voice was mild, but Ranma could sense the accusation. He hung his head slightly.

"So... it is my fault." He looked at his hands, clenched on his knees. Mrs. Murakami didn't answer, and he sighed again; her silence was more condemning than agreement would have been. There was still something he didn't understand, though... "But if she's learned how to cook, why has her cooking lately been so..."

"So what?"

"So... bland. It doesn't have any flavor, good or bad."

Mrs. Murakami's black eyes drooped slightly. "Young man, do you know anything about _ki_?"

Ranma sat up straight, jerking his thumb at his chest. "Lady, there ain't a martial artist in town who understands it better than me."

"Good. Then you understand how _ki_ can flow about you, how it takes on the flavor of your emotions, and how it can be projected."

"Of course!" Where was she going with this? It's not like they were talking martial arts here...

"Well, to make a long story short, the problem with Akane's cooking now has little to do with skill. It has to do with her _ki_. So, how would you describe Akane's cooking again? Be honest."

"It... it doesn't taste like anything."

"And what has Akane's mood been like lately?"

Ranma didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"You see, she no longer focuses her battle aura, her anger, her defiance when she's cooking. But she also doesn't bring any taste of her own to the recipes. Once she has regained her joy in cooking, her cooking will return to the way it was before I left. It may even improve; love adds a flavor to a meal that cannot be replaced."

"So... if you come talk to her, she'll cheer up, right?" Ranma leaned his elbows on his knees, looking intently at his clasped hands.

"No. I'm afraid this is something you're going to have to do yourself. I wouldn't do any good. The only one who can fix things, give Akane that secret ingredient, is you."

"Oh." That meant... he was going to have to apologize. Twice in one day.

Mrs. Murakami laughed suddenly. "Don't look so downcast at the prospect. Quarrels between fiancees are perfectly normal, but I'm sure you've realized that making up afterwards can make the fights worthwhile."

Ranma winced a bit. "But what if she won't listen to me when I apologize?"

"Well, then, you'll have to convince her. Perhaps she'll need a hug, or even a kiss." Mrs. Murakami winked. "I'm sure you can manage that."

"But..."

"And above all, make sure she cooks again. Tonight, if possible. Make sure she cooks for you. After that... you know what to do."

"Um... eat it?"

Mrs. Murakami looked at him expectantly.

"And, um... tell her it's good?"

She nodded.

"But what if it's not?"

Mrs. Murakami smiled. "If you do your job properly, it will be."

"Oh." Ranma looked at his hands for a moment, then stood with resolve. "Okay, here goes." He took a few steps towards the gate, then looked back. Mrs. Murakami's face was unreadable, but he thought he sensed approval. He smiled tentatively. "Thanks."

Mrs. Murakami's face broke into a smile. "It's my pleasure, young man. Now go."

Ranma ran out into the street, his pigtail flapping behind him, and bounded up onto the rooftop again. He didn't bother looking back.

A short while later, he stood outside Akane's room, staring at her nameplate. Kasumi had said she was up here, but there was no sound from inside. But then, did he really expect her to be laughing? or even crying? He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the battle to come. He stared at the duck on her door. "I'm sorry," he said under his breath. Then again. Then again. As he practiced, his thoughts wandered a bit. What if he did have to hug her? He wasn't any good at those things, but he could probably manage a hug. That wasn't too hard. But what if the hug didn't work? Then he might have to... to... He hardened his jaw. Was he a man, or not? He could kiss her once, for her own good. It wasn't like he'd never been kissed before. He could do it, if he had to. But only if he had to. He jerked his head in a nod, apologizing to the duck a few more times for good measure.

He reached up one hand, paused, then rapped his knuckle on the door three times. There was a long silence, and he had resigned himself to looking elsewhere when he heard Akane's weary voice say, "Yes?" He didn't wait for more, opening the door and peeking in.

She was seated at her desk, her hands supporting her chin as she stared out the window. She didn't bother turning around, didn't even move. Ranma closed the door behind him and walked up to her, standing just behind her. He could see her face in the makeup mirror on her desk; not a spark of interest, or even anger. Even her hair looked limp. He cleared his throat and began his carefully rehearsed speech.

"Um... Akane, I just wanted to say... I was... wrong." Her eyes didn't move at all, staring out the window listlessly. "I should have told you how good your cooking was getting, and I didn't. I'm..." he gulped "sorry." Still silence, but her eyes flicked to his in the mirror. He doggedly pushed on. "I really thought it was good. But I thought... well, never mind what I thought. What I wanted to ask you is... will you... will you..." This was harder than he'd thought; he took a deep breath, then said in a rush, "Will you cook dinner for me tonight?" Silence. "I mean... I went and talked to Mrs. Murakami, and she said... she said you'd been working on a special meal. I really want to try it. And Kasumi doesn't mind..."

Akane's eyes in the mirror closed dully. "Ranma, I told you I don't want to cook anymore. I'm never going to be any good, so you can stop pretending."

Ranma stiffened. "I'm not pretending! I really want you to cook for me!"

Akane sniffed. "Sure."

"Look, I didn't have to come up here. I could have just left you alone."

"Why didn't you?" There was a bit of anger in her voice, and he almost smiled at it. Anger was better than nothing.

"Because..." He swallowed nervously, not meeting her eyes anymore. His speech was gone, but somehow words kept coming, he didn't know from where. "Because I want you to get back to normal. I... I really thought your cooking was good. It worried me, I was afraid something horrible had happened to you. But I was wrong. You learned something wonderful, and I... I'm sorry for not telling you. So I'm telling you now. I liked your cooking. I want you to cook for me tonight." He looked up at her again. "Please?"

Her eyes remained steady and sad in the mirror. He thought back to what Mrs. Murakami had said. Maybe a hug would work. Praying that nobody would walk in, he lifted his arms slightly, watching Akane's face in the mirror. Was he imagining things, or was there a flicker of something there? He braced himself for the hug. Not too difficult, just wrap the arms and squeeze, and let go. That would have to work, wouldn't it?

Akane stood up and turned around. Her face turned up to his, her eyes gleaming with... something. Maybe tears. She looked into his eyes, her face sober. "Really, Ranma? You mean it?"

Ranma paused, his plan of attack sent awry. She wasn't supposed to stand up, and that look on her face... Obviously she was unconvinced. And looking at her eyes, shining up at him, he suddenly concluded that a hug just wouldn't do it. Something more was needed. Something that would really convince her. It would be a difficult job, but he would do it for Akane's sake. He nodded wordlessly and reached his arms up more, bending his head ever so slightly down towards hers and closing his eyes, his heart beating wildly in his ears...

And his arms closed on empty air. Akane was already dancing out of the room, babbling in a high voice. "Oh, I've got so much shopping to do! I'll have to get fish, and crabmeat, and bananas..." Her head poked back in the door, a wide grin across her face. "Just you wait, Ranma! I'll fix a feast fit for a king!" Her footsteps dashed down the stairs and out of hearing.

Ranma stood there a moment longer, his arms clutching at empty air. Good, he thought. He hadn't needed to resort to the more drastic measures after all. Lucky for him.

He squelched the slight feeling of disappointment that welled up inside him as he turned and left the room.

Ranma sat alone in the family room, staring at the empty table and trying to ignore the noises that were coming from the kitchen. It was difficult. Every few minutes he would hear a loud whack, or a cry, or the sound of something hitting the wall. He wanted nothing more than to flee, run until he was as far away from Akane's cooking as his legs would take him. But he stayed.
The path of a true martial artist was fraught with peril, and tonight he would face the peril, though a little voice inside himscreamed that it was too perilous, too perilous indeed. He mentally stomped on the little voice. He had made a vow to himself, and he was going to see it through. He winced at the sound of something splattering. He had started out facing the kitchen, but watching Akane's body moving around beneath the _noren_ had made him worry even more. She was doing some really strange stuff in there, and his instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

It wasn't only his instincts, either. Nabiki had vanished about fifteen minutes after Akane had started cooking, dragging Kasumi with her. When Ranma had asked where she was going, she had simply raised an eyebrow. Even an offer of all the money he possessed had only elicited a bark of laughter, and the comment that she intended to survive the night, and his measly 500 yen wasn't worth her life. Soun had retreated with Genma to the garden, and Ranma had heard them sneak over the wall, probably to find some cheap takoyaki stall or something. So now he was alone with the frightening whacks and splashes and cries coming from the kitchen.

Before she started, Akane had set the table for the entire family, putting several candles in the center. Ranma had asked why, nervously, and she had simply smiled and said that she didn't want the overhead lights on, they would spoil the effect. Ranma hoped she didn't mean that the food would look too scary with the lights on...

The sounds in the kitchen died down, and he heard the swish and splash of a mop, then the worrisome scratch of a match striking. Akane's voice rang out. "Close your eyes, everyone!"
Ranma was only too willing to obey. He blinked them shut; a moment later his eyelids dimmed as the overhead lights went out, replaced by the slight warmth of the candles. He heard various things being set down on the table, and suddenly itched to open his eyes again -- he needed to see his fate approaching, he needed time to resign himself to it. The candles suddenly sounded awfully loud, too... he fought to keep his eyes shut, hoping the room wasn't on fire again.

"Hey, where is everybody?" Her voice was perplexed, but not upset.

"They all had prior engagements," he lied.

"Oh, well. Their loss." Akane didn't sound too worried. "All right, you can open them now, Ranma." Ranma ignored the dread that curled in the pit of his stomach and looked.

The first thing he noticed was the flames. There was something on fire right in front of Akane... it looked like a pie. He gulped in fear. Flaming was not good. He scanned the table. There was a plate of something that looked like hockey pucks, black patties of something lying in pools of butter. Over to one side was a dish of some thick brown stew that smelled spicy, but didn't look too good. A loaf of something brown, that seemed to be burnt black through a good half-inch of the bottom. Something covered in... mashed potatoes? Dear god. Ranma stared in horror at what he had gotten himself into.

He picked up his chopsticks in a daze. *All I have to do is eat it. I've eaten worse. I have to have eaten worse. I eat it, and I tell her it's good, even if it isn't, and everything will be fine.* He repeated this to himself over and over as he picked up one of the hockey pucks with his chopsticks and put it resolutely in his mouth.

The smooth texture of his first bite surprised him, and he stared at the remnant of the patty in his chopsticks. The inside was a pleasant pink, and he could taste the flavors of crab and some kind of fish, overlaid with a smoky spiciness... He finished the patty and moved on to the next dish, keeping his face blank. The brown dish was some kind of stew with meat and beans, strongly spiced; the mashed potatoes covered a mix of beef and green beans that was surprisingly good. He tried a little bit of each one, except for the flaming pie. Akane's face across the table was beginning to fall as he tried the bread, the black layer of which turned out to be chocolate. Finally, he pointed at the pie wordlessly; Akane flushed and blew on it until the flames went out.

"It's for dessert, but..." She cut a slice and put it on a plate, handing it to him unhappily. He put down his chopsticks and picked up a spoon, digging it into the cherries and custard inside. He put the spoon in his mouth and closed his eyes. He sat there with the spoon in his mouth for some time, setting down the plate. A moment later, he set down the spoon, keeping his eyes closed. He chewed slowly and swallowed, feeling Akane's eyes on him. Then he opened his eyes and smiled straight at Akane.

"It's perfect."

And it was.

Akane carried the cloth-wrapped tray along the dark streets, looking behind her every so often to make sure Ranma hadn't followed her... not that he would be able to move after the amount he'd eaten. She laughed to herself as she approached the vegetable shop.

Balancing the tray on one hand, she knocked at the closed shutters. There was no answer. Odd. She should be home, hadn't she said she didn't go out much? She knocked again.

"Excuse me, miss?" The rough, aged voice came from the little drugstore across the street, next to the shrine; Akane turned and saw an old man leaning on the stoop.

"Yes?" Akane glanced back at the shutters, noticing that there was no sound from inside. Maybe Mrs. Murakami had gone shopping...

"Is there something I can help you with?" the old man went on, looking at her strangely.

"Oh, I'm just here to visit Mrs. Murakami. Do you know where she went?"

The old man shook his head. "I'm sorry to say this, but Mrs. Murakami won't be coming back."

"What?"

"What I mean to say is, she passed away just a short while back. Just over a month."

Akane's mouth went dry. "She's... dead?"

The old man nodded sadly. "She was a good woman, too... but you must know that, or you wouldn't be visiting. After her husband died, she used to devote herself to taking care of that shrine across the street. When she died last month, she was enshrined there in thanks for what she had done, for so long. So I'm sorry to say, she won't be able to receive your gift..."

Akane smiled uneasily. "Um... thanks. I guess... I should go pay her a visit in the shrine, then."

"She'd probably like that," the man nodded, then went back into his shop. Akane stood there for several minutes, then turned and walked slowly into the shrine, looking around nervously. There, in the corner, there was a small kiosk she hadn't noticed before. She approached it, running one hand over the carved characters on the fairly new stone. Murakami.

She set the tray down on the stone, opening the cloth to reveal a set of dishes, each holding a sample of the food she had cooked that night. Akane paused, then pulled a small vial out of her pocket. She lit a match, holding it under the vial for a few moments, then shook it out. She poured the liquid over the slice of cherry pie and lit it with another match. By the light of the faint flames and the nearby streetlamps, she smiled and knelt down.

"I... I wanted you to try the meal I cooked, but I guess you can't eat it. But I'll leave it here anyhow, maybe the birds will like it... It's strange talking to you, realizing that you are dead... that you were dead the whole time." She smiled wryly. "I thought you were a spirit the first time I met you, and I guess I was right, though I'm glad you didn't tell me. I probably wouldn't have believed I could really cook. And.. you didn't use magic on me, did you? You just.. helped me find my own path. Thank you."

Akane laughed, her unease fading. "You should have seen Ranma's face when he saw my special meal. He thought he was going to die, then and there. It was so funny... But then he liked it. He said it was perfect. And... I tried it myself, and maybe he was right. Well, maybe it wasn't perfect, I'm sure I still have a long way to go, but somehow it *felt* perfect. You know how I kept thinking that something was missing? Well, it wasn't. Whatever it was, I found it. And..." she blushed. "And we got to eat by candlelight, just the two of us. It was... nice." She fell silent and looked at the stone for a long moment. "I wish I could see you again, just to thank you to your face... but I guess you know. Don't you?"

She waited a moment longer, then stood, brushing leaves off her knees. "I'll... I'll come back and visit again, soon. Thank you again..." She bowed to the stone, then turned and walked through the gate, heading for home.

She didn't notice the dark shape that leapt down from the _torii_ to stand where she had knelt just before.

"I knew you were a spirit," Ranma said smugly. "I was right, wasn't I?" He paused. "Well, okay, so I was wrong about the capricious evil demon part, but I was right about the spirit part." He hunkered down in front of the stone, watching the flames in silence. Then he spoke up again, abruptly.

"I just came here to say... thanks again. I like Akane better this way." He grinned wickedly. "Even if I am gonna get bashed on the head again. She's herself again. Plus, I got you to thank for keeping me from being poisoned for the rest of my life..." The flames on the slice of pie seemed to flare up higher. "Just kidding!" he said hastily, then speculatively eyed the tray of food. He hadn't seen Akane set any aside, but he hadn't paid much attention once he really started eating.

"You're not going to eat that, are you?"

The flames seemed to grow higher again.

"Well, of course you can't eat it. You're a spirit, aren't you?" He eyed the food a bit more. "How 'bout I make you a deal..."

When he left the shrine about twenty minutes later, the pavement had been neatly swept, fallen leaves put in a trashcan off on the street. The stone of the shrine gleamed faintly with a layer of fresh water. And in the corner, standing atop the small stone reading "Murakami," was a tray of dishes, each one completely empty.

ANYTHING-GOES MARTIAL ARTS COOKING TIP 4:
Presentation

Anything-Goes Martial Arts Cooking is arguably one of the most dramatic types of cuisine in existence today. French cooking has a certain flair to it, and some mid-eastern and south Asian dishes are amazing, but Anything-Goes Martial Arts Cooking takes all of these techniques and draws on only the best. In addition to such techniques as flaming, it is recommended that Anything-Goes Martial Arts Chefs master Volcano dishes, the dramatic use of dry ice, and particularly the many graceful and dramatic ways of getting the food to the table. Practice your aim, and soon you will be able to fling food from the kitchen straight to the table without spilling a drop; with practice, you can even work on going around curves. Above all, remember that this is an art. And anything goes.

KATA 4: Tarte aux Cerises, FLAMBEE!
(from 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' by Julia Child,
Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck)

WEAPONS:
3 cups defrosted frozen cherries
3 tbsp. kirsch or cognac (woo-hoo!)
1 cup red Bordeaux wine (tipsy yet?)
2 tbsp lemon juice
6 tbsp sugar
creme patissiere:
1 cup sugar
5 egg yolks
2/3 cup sifted all-purpose flour
2 cups boiling milk
1 tbsp butter
2 tsp vanilla extract
8-inch fully-cooked pastry shell (you can buy this one, too)
3 tbsp sugar
1/4 cup kirsch or cognac (we're cutting you off after this)
fire extinguisher

TECHNIQUE:

1. Make sure sink and kitchen are clean. Measure all ingredients and arrange in proper order for kata. Drain cherries by flinging them with their juice to the sink and snatching the cherries out before they land. Gather any escapees and toss all cherries to bowl. Clean kitchen again. With a smooth movement of your arm, pour approximately three tablespoons of kirsch or cognac over the cherries. Allow them to soak while you go watch one episode of Ranma 1/2 with commercials, about half an hour.

2. Drain cherries in the same method used in step 1, except place a large bowl in the sink to catch the liqueur; set liqueur aside. Meanwhile, dump wine, lemon juice, and sugar into a pot on the stove, alternating arms right-left-right. Finally, bring left arm around in circular block, turning on stove. Bring mixture to a boil. Missile strike all cherries into pan. Bring the liquid to just below a simmer and meditate on the tiny bubbles for 5 to 6 minutes, until cherries are tender but retain their shape. Turn off heat with reverse circular block. Set pan aside and allow to cool for 20 to 30 minutes. No time to watch another Ranma episode, you've got to make the creme patissiere.

3. CREME PATISSIERE: Set milk in pan on stove to boil. Meanwhile, remove egg yolks from eggs one by one, by flinging each egg into the air, slicing it open near one end with Big-Ass Spatula (tm), and snatching yolk out as entire mess plummets. Let egg whites and shells fall into bowl; remove shells and discard, while putting egg whites in fridge for some other project. Meanwhile, toss all egg yolks to mixing bowl. Clean kitchen. Begin beating egg yolks. As you are trouncing them, kick measuring cup of sugar into the air over bowl, so that sugar gradually scatters in bowl. Gather up any sugar that missed, and repeat this technique until all sugar has been added to egg yolks. Continue to beat egg yolks and sugar for two to three minutes, until the mixture is pale yellow and thickens enough so that when a bit is lifted in the beater (be it hands or a whisk) it will fall back into the bowl, forming a slowly dissolving ribbon on the surface of the mixture. Don't get carried away and beat it beyond this point; self-control is the mark of a true martial artist. Sift flour into bowl with your favorite speed-striking technique and beat into mixture. While continuing to beat the egg yolk mixture, gradually pour on the boiling milk in a thin stream of droplets, being careful not to scald your hands. Clean kitchen. Fling contents of bowl into 2 1/2 quart enameled heavy-bottomed saucepan and set over moderately high heat. Stir with wire whisk (don't use your bare hands for this part), reaching all over the bottom of the pan. As sauce comes to a boil it will get lumpy, but will smooth out as you beat it, unlike some people we could mention. When a boil has been reached, turn heat down to moderately low and beat for two to three minutes to cook the flour. Be careful custard does not scorch in bottom of pan; you get to burn things later. Turn off heat with blocking motion and missile strike butter into pan; beat it in. Add liqueur saved from draining cherries (remember that?) plus enough more to make it equal 2 or 3 tablespoons again (don't go overboard here...) and beat into mixture. Clean kitchen again. Creme Patissiere completed. (Now you just need to figure out how to pronounce it...)

4. Drain cherries yet again, by the very same method as used in step one. Clean kitchen again. Fold the drained cherries into 1 1/2 cups of the creme patissiere with Big-Ass Spatula (tm); set rest of creme patissiere aside for future projects. With a fluid movement of Spatula, spread mixture in pastry shell. Preheat broiler to moderately hot. Meditate on the flames until it is time to serve.

5. Immediately before serving, bring sugar across top of tart in modified sideways karate chop movement, sprinkling it over the surface. Carefully set tart under broiler for two to three minutes to carmelize the sugar lightly; be careful that it doesn't burn yet, you don't want to deprive yourself of your fun. While this is happening, turn out the lights in the dining room. Warm last dose of liqueur in a small saucepan. Just before entering the dining room, pour the warm liqueur over the hot carmelized surface. Avert your face, light a match, and... FLAMBEE!

6. Use fire extinguisher to put out rest of kitchen, being extremely careful not to get any on the tart. Bring the flaming tart to the table, taking care not to set the _noren_ or your hair on fire on your way. Allow flames to die out before eating. After meal, bask in the adulation of your family; though a true martial artist is modest, this time you've certainly earned it. Bon appetit!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whew! Little did I know what I was getting myself into when I started this... I was first inspired to do a fanfic with recipes by Hitomi Ichinohei's recipes included in "A
Son's Duty"; although I can lay no claim to authentic Japanese cuisine, I do have a hefty array of cookbooks, and I thought if I couldn't be authentic, perhaps I could be amusing. The idea percolated in my head for some time, but then when I read "Kitchen" and "Like Water for Chocolate," it crystallized into what you have just finished reading.
I have to admit that a good deal of Akane's cooking style comes from my own experience. I begin every batch of fudge by smashing blocks of chocolate with a hammer, and I once started a grease fire that nearly took out a kitchen (cooking tip: never heat oil with the lid on, it tends to combust when exposed to air)... and I, too, have something of an affinity for "Akane-esque" foods.
The name Oharu Murakami is something of a red herring for you linguistic folks... In classical orthography, "oharu" could be read as "owaru," meaning "to end," and while Murakami is a common Japanese name, it's also a pun on the word "kami," "spirit or god"... but she's not the kami of the shrine, just an interested ghost. In case you care.

I would like to thank:
--my moderator for moving heaven and earth to get this actually posted in weekly installments; you are a god of the Usenet.

--the fanfic mailing list for their many helpful comments

--Monty Python for the occasional stolen phrase (a flaming tart award to anyone who finds all of them...)