Did It Feel Good to Mix Things Up? continued
(Part One)
The hands in question
next measured sugar, baking soda, and cream of tartar into the mixing bowl with
the now-whipped butter. “So, how did you learn to do this, um, this baking
thing anyway?” I asked.
“My mom taught both
Monty and me. Well, at least she tried to teach Monty. He never cared enough to
really learn. We were...eleven, maybe? Or twelve. Anyway, she told us that we
would need to know how to do things for ourselves if they were important. We
needed to learn to rely on ourselves sometimes, she said. That stuck with me,
although I didn’t really understand what she was trying to say until a few
years later. At the time it just meant that Monty and I could have cookies
whenever we wanted them badly enough to spend the time and effort to make
them.” Gomery smiled a nostalgic sort of half-smile and picked up the mixer
again.
After blending the
latest round of ingredients, he reached for the vanilla. “My mom also told us
that one day we’d be able to impress girls with our skills in the kitchen.”
Gomery kept his eyes down, focused on measuring out the liquid without
spilling. His voice was flat. “I didn’t get the point of that right away
either, seeing as how the only girl I cared about impressing at the time
already had an army of professional cooks at her disposal.” He pulled an egg
out of the carton, knocked it on the edge of the bowl, and dexterously cracked
it into the mixture with one hand.
“How’s her prediction
worked out for you since?” I asked carefully.
“I’m still running some
experiments to test the hypothesis. Results are somewhat inconclusive so far.
I’ll keep you posted.” He finally looked at me again, and some of his levity
returned. “Although, it probably would help if I stopped trying to impress
girls who already have boyfriends out of town.”
“Mmm. Probably,” I
replied, trying to keep my voice airy. “But you never know. Maybe someday your
mad kitchen skillz will make some hypothetical girl forget all about her
make-believe boyfriend. Er, I mean, out-of-town boyfriend.”
“Was that ‘skillz’ with
a z?” Gomery raised his eyebrows.
“Hypothetically.” I
smiled.
“Well. That makes all
the difference.” He beat the bowl’s contents together again, then stepped back
and wiped his hands on a towel. I peered over. The mixture was finally starting
to look recognizably like cookie dough, which further encouraged me.
Gomery selected a
measuring cup from the stack, dipped it into the flour, and deftly leveled the
top with the dull side of a butter knife before dumping its contents into the
mixing bowl. Stepping aside with a little wave of his hand, he said, “Ms. Finley,
would you care to do the honors?”
I stepped forward and
gingerly placed one hand on the handle of the mixer and one on the spatula. The
hesitation must have shown on my face, because my companion chuckled softly and
said, “You’ll want to keep a firmer grip than that. Here, let me show you.” He
stepped behind me, placing his left hand over mine on the mixer and wrapping
his right hand around mine on the spatula. Not for the first time that night, I
willed myself to concentrate on the task before me as his forearms brushed mine
and I felt a sudden increase in warmth on my back from the heat radiating
through his t-shirt. I inhaled slowly and caught a whiff of his own special
Gomery scent mingling with the aroma of sugar and vanilla.
“Ready?” he asked. I
nodded, the stubble on his cheek tickling my ear as my head moved. “Okay, here
we go.” He lowered the mixer blades into the bowl, and I flicked the switch.
Instantly, a plume of
flour puffed up in our faces. Coughing, I scrambled for the off switch and dropped
the spatula into the bowl. I turned to find Gomery removing his glasses and
inspecting the white powder coating them. Handing him a towel from the
countertop, I tried to get my coughing under control, only to be overtaken by
an attack of giggles at the sight of his flour-dusted eyebrows. Once finished
de-flouring his glasses, Gomery handed the towel back to me, and I took the
opportunity to hide my laughter while attempting to clean the mess from my own
face. “What is it?” he asked, one side of his mouth quirking up in a smile.
“I. Just. Your
eyebrows,” I managed to choke out. “You look like you just aged fifty years.”
Foregoing the towel, Gomery used the hem of his t-shirt to clean the flour from
his face. I quickly busied myself wiping the counter so that I wouldn’t be
caught staring.
“You missed a spot,” he
said, reaching over and gently swiping at a smudge of flour on my chin with his
thumb. I smiled in thanks. “All right, let’s try that again, and don’t turn the
mixer on so high at first.”
This time, I managed to
avoid further coating everything in fine white powder, while Gomery guided me
in scraping the sides of the bowl with the spatula. “That’s it,” he said when
he deemed the process complete, removing the mixer blades and tapping them
against the side of the bowl before handing one to me. Clinking the blade in
his hand against the one in mine, my cookie-baking mentor whispered, “Cheers,”
and we proceeded to lick the batter from our respective mixer blades in
silence.
“Now what?” I asked
when finished.
“Now we let the dough
set for an hour or so.”
“What are we going to
do while we wait?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
He winked, and his look
said, “Well, are you impressed yet?”
cr: Hello Turkey Toe
