Work Text:
Caleb always made red beans on Mondays.
It was something Robby used to question early on in his time in New Orleans. The necessity with which Caleb undertook the process, baffling him. Especially on those first few Mondays he woke up not to Caleb beside him, but the man in the kitchen prepping his beans for the day long soak in nothing but his chair. The whole thing odd, but charming. Familiar like making enough pelmeni to last weeks the first weekend of every month.
They rarely made it to the end of the month, but part of the joy as the act. The tradition.
And New Orleans tradition dictated that red beans were made on Monday.
Something to do with washer women doing the laundry that day, so they would let their beans soak all day then come home and make themselves red beans and rice, if what Caleb said was true. If nothing else, it made sense for a busy psychiatrist to take up the habit. He could put his beans in water—careful to pick out any he felt weren’t right—and leave them there until they both returned home some twelve or more hours later.
And when they got home, they’d shower. Change into something more comfortable. Caleb would be best not to let Robby distract him in the moments where they found themselves undressed. And then they would go to the kitchen where Caleb would dice up a Holy Trinity. Chop his andouille (always andouille) into slim circles. And set out more spices than Robby could ever recall using when cooking with his grandmother.
It was months into dating before he let Robby in on his process. First, he’d brown the sausage in the bacon drippings he’d save from that morning’s breakfast. Always with the offer to use butter, out of respect for a religion Robby wasn’t sure how to embrace on his own. Not while living in an aggressively Catholic city with his lapsed boyfriend.
Once the sausage was suitably browned, he’d scoop it out and set it aside. Add in the Holy Trinity of bell peppers, onions and celery; stirring them around while asking about Robby’s day. If he had learned anything. If Miss Renetta (always Miss, out of respect) was still treating him like her own lost little lamb, knowing full well she was because she treated everyone like that—from the chief of medicine to the newest intern. Caleb just loved to watch Robby blush as he talked about it.
It killed the time while he added in the garlic he minced and the seasoning. Smoked paprika, thyme, cayenne pepper, his own homemade creole seasoning and garlic powder. Because God forbid Caleb couldn’t taste the garlic in everything he made.
It was something Robby hated for that first month. Teased him about for the next year. And took on as his own habit—adding garlic powder to his grandmother’s recipes to make them something uniquely his own.
Half the time, Caleb would add an extra bit of garlic powder before returning the sausage to the pot along with ham hocks because if Robby was going to eat bacon drippings, it didn’t make sense to substitute the ham for smoked turkey. At least, not until Caleb took it upon himself to make those substitutions when they moved to Pittsburgh and Robby tried to adhere to his own faith.
But in New Orleans, treyf was fine. A pleasant addition that added something undefinable to their life like the bay leaves Caleb added to the pot along with the water and red beans before letting it boil. Just for a moment. Vigorous and hot before he reduced the heat to a simmer so it could fully cook.
First for an hour, covered. Time they filled by watching tv and making plans for later that week. There was a lot Robby hadn’t seen of the city and Caleb was only too happy to fill it—his lifetime in the city making it easy to occupy Robby’s four years there.
Then, another hour, uncovered. A span of time Robby got to handle himself since he hated watching Caleb force himself off the couch and back into his chair. His contribution to the meal, alongside the rice Caleb never fully trusted him to make.
Honestly, under cook rice one time and it’ll be impossible to make someone forget.
It was almost funny since Caleb was happy to let him care for the beans. Adding water to prevent drying. Removing a cup of beans just to mash them and stir it back in since that thickened the meal somehow in ensuing half hour of simmering that followed.
Because even after all the soaking, the meal took a good two to three hours to actually cook. Making dinner on Monday’s a consistently late affair after dragging themselves home no earlier than seven at best. Later if they somehow found themselves on Bourbon or Canal. Or just at a drive thru for daiquiris. But Caleb never cared.
What mattered was that the meal was made. That he got to share it with Robby, laid out on his couch that became their couch that became Robby’s to give away. It was something reliable. Something that promised a happy end to even the worst start of the week.
It was something Robby didn’t realize he needed until after Pittfest, sitting in Caleb’s new place one Monday, eating red beans. After the tears had tapered off into pathetic sniffles while Caleb held him like he used to when Robby’s distance was alluring and interesting rather than maddening and hurtful. His food had gone cold but the taste of safety was still there. Just enough garlic. Turkey instead of pork.
The reassuring knowledge that even at his lowest, he could count on Caleb to be there, always happy for the company to help fill the hours as he made red beans on Monday.