Ratatouille Credits Novels & Stories

"I'm going to cook, and you both are going to help me because I can't do it alone. Not without any of you. Please." The heated exchange of glowers came to a cease between them, and they both looked at me. "Alright?" Understanding crossed on their features, and they nodded. "Alright then, ladies." Clapping my hands, I gave them my most charming smile. "Let's divide and cook." It didn't go as planned, no, it went way better. Somehow in the middle of preparing ratatouille, I decided on throwing some references from the movie and whirled around to find them both watching me with the same quizzical head tilts.

I said, my voice higher than usual. “Right,” he said smoothly, as though he hadn’t noticed my slip. “Can you eat yourself?” “Yeah,” I replied, avoiding his eyes. He handed me one of the bowls and reached for the laptop again. “So what do you wanna watch?” I thought for a moment, searching for something light, something that wouldn’t twist my insides more than they already were. “Hmm… Ratatouille.” His lips twitched upward. “A classic. Great choice.” As he set up the movie, I took a tentative bite of the congee. Just like the chicken soup earlier, it was absolutely delicious, the rice silky and the broth comforting, the ginger warming me from the inside. It seemed Rayne had inherited Marina’s

Ratatouille with herbed polenta and a beurre blanc drizzle. “I’ll have the ratatouille with herbed polenta,” she said, glancing up at the chef. “And could you ask them to skip any wine in the beurre blanc?” The chef nodded courteously, his eyes twinkling with understanding. "Of course, madam. The sauce is already prepared without alcohol; we anticipated your condition." Tiffany felt a warm rush of gratitude, her heart swelling with the sweetness of the evening, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around them like a soft embrace.

The coconut sauce is delicious. “Henry did it,” Daniel says. “Really?” Harper looks at her plate, very surprised. “Whoops! Who'd say? The little monster, a little chef.” Daniel laughs. “And that makes me…?” He raises an eyebrow. “You are Gusteau,” she replies, breaking into laughter as well. Ratatouille jokes don't go out of style between them. “Honey…” He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “I thought I could wait until we finished eating, to give it to you, but I'm dying of impatience to see your face.”

I told him, dragging out the words so he could hear the proper pronunciation. “Coco van,” he repeated, and I tilted my head towards the ceiling as I laughed again, louder this time. “Coke oh van,” he tried again, and I kept laughing. “Fuck it, I’ll just get the ratatouille,” he muttered, a small laugh spilling from his mouth. “Is that the only thing you can pronounce correctly on the menu?” I teased. “Probably. Thank you Disney, Pixar, and Madeleine,” he said, clasping his hands together and lifting his eyes skyward.

I curiously asked, placing my elbows on the counter. "It's called Ratatouille. Trust me you'll love it," He answered, his eyes focused on his hands. "Yummy-like in the movie?" I questioned, letting out a small laugh. Setting his knife down, he looked up at me and gave me a confused look. "The animated film with the little rat that cooks?" I tried to explain but his puzzled expression remained. "What are you talking about?" He asked, turning around and tending to the pot on the stove.

"I'm guilty. Sophie came up with the idea. I thought it would be a great opportunity for some family bonding." "I loved it, thank you very much." "Gérard, bring little Claude over; I'm dying to see him." "Yes, Grandpa." "Little Claude is growing so fast. He looks just like you, Gérard. The only difference is the eye color." "They're honey-colored, like Julie's." "Let's move to the table now; I've prepared my famous ratatouille." "It's one of my favorite dishes, Mom." "I know, Juliette. I hope you all enjoy the meal."

Sharkey then proceeded to turn her back to me whilst she headed over towards the oven. Fiddling with the dials, a light suddenly flared on and a low drone emitted from its direction. Opening the fridge door, she then pulled out a large casserole dish. Folding a tea towel over in two to grab the dish, it was inside the oven before I could blink. “We’re having Ratatouille, in case you were wondering,” she said. I wasn’t, but I kept that to myself. “James is a marvellous cook. You’ll be getting a little slice of heaven whilst you’re under his roof. He was professionally trained in France. Food still means something over there, I hear.” The oven door slammed shut smartly.

He smiled with his thick french accent betraying his nice english tie. We returned his smile as he walked away. The food was beautiful, almost too beautiful to eat. Emily’s dish, a delicate plate of ratatouille, shimmered under the soft light. Thin slices of zucchini, eggplant, and tomato were artfully arranged in a spiral, all resting in a pool of vibrant tomato sauce. My own plate held a simple but elegant coq au vin. The chicken was slow-cooked in a rich red wine sauce, the tender meat falling off the bone, served alongside buttery mashed potatoes and crisp green beans.

“Of course. I can keep the ratatouille heated for as long as you need.” I relocate to the kitchen and when Scott emerges five minutes later, he’s buttoning up his jeans. My eyes are drawn to his crotch. As his hands work their way upwards, I catch a glimpse of his flat, toned stomach and the hairs at the top of his trousers. A wave of heat spreads through my body. I turn my back and decisively stir the ratatouille. Scott’s praise for the meal is so lavish, that you’d think he’d dined at a Michelin star restaurant.