If there was one thing in the world that Mor loved more than Emerie, it was watching Emerie make pasta.
Emerie, as an Italian woman, had incredibly strong feelings about pasta and how pasta should be made. One time, Mor had attempted to rinse her pasta out just as her own mother had taught her to do it. Yet she was aggressively stopped by the hands of her girlfriend, ripping the pasta away and cooing at the pasta as if it was a living creature that Mor had just tried to waterboard.
So after that “incident,” Emerie has begun making the pasta and Mor gets to watch and admire her girlfriend as she sits on the counter.
“Are you sure you used enough water?” Mor asks purposefully to get a rise out of Emerie.
“Yes I am sure, I am Italian, my mother is Italian, her mother is Italian, I know how much water to put in the goddamn pasta. My last name is Giancola for god’s sake.” Mor laughs, it is like being a Passenger Princess, yet in the kitchen.
“Are you sure you used enough water?” Emerie mocks Mor, putting her voice up an octave and scrunching up her nose. “Of course, I used enough water. I am Italian.”
“I’m just asking,” Mor continues, “because it looks like there is not enough water.”
“Oddio! You are not Italian. You are Norwegian, your native food is waffles, not pasta. When I make waffles you can tell me that the batter isn’t thick enough or whatever. But not pasta.” As Emerie gave her whole spiel while walking towards Mor, all Mor could think about was how darn adorable Emerie was when she was annoyed with Mor.
Emerie stood right in between Mor’s thighs.
“You’re adorable when you’re annoyed, you know that?” Mor said.
“Yeah? Well, I think you’re pretty cute too.” Emerie said as she raised her onto her tip-toes to meet Mor’s level.
“Even when I critique your pasta-making techniques?” Mor replied as she tilted her head down.
“Even when you critique my pasta-making techniques.”
Mor smiled as she leaned into the kiss, her head warm and fuzzy happy. She kissed Emerie for a long time, long enough for the water to start boiling and bubbling over the sides of the pot.
She laughed as she noticed Emerie’s apron, which was haphazardly thrown across Emerie’s front.
Kiss me, I’m Italian.