Page 57 of In a Pinch

A feeling I can relate to all too easily.

“I get it. Working with your hands is good for the soul. Are you close to your parents?” We’ve discussed quite a bit about her family, but I find myself wanting to know more. I want to try to figure out what makes her tick.

“Yeah. Actually, I talk to my mom almost every day. My dad works a lot, but he video chats me from his crappy, old laptop at least once a week to see my face. I’m really lucky.” She leans forward, rests her elbows on the counter, and props her head in her hands.

She has no idea how lucky she is. A bit of jealousy hits me. For the first time in a while, I can’t help but to wonder if it would be worth it to fix the shit with my family. At least with my siblings and my mom. My dad can fuck off ‘til the cows come home for all I care.

“That’s great.” I must not be as good at hiding my emotions as I thought because her eyes soften and she grabs my hand from across the counter.

“I’m sorry that you don’t have that. But I know for certain that Cal and Liv miss you. Liv was so excited to see you out the other night. If you ever want to explore that, I’ll be your backup. No one ever wins an argument with me.”

“That is not news to me in the slightest. And thank you. I’ll think about it. And if the time ever comes, you can be my security team.”

“Deal.” She gives my hand a squeeze and lets go as a timer goes off. “Now, get over here and be useful. It’s time to teach this chef how to bake.”

“Yeah, I specifically hire a pastry chef so I can avoid this.” Looking around at the dough ball in the bowl, I already feel lostand out of my element. Give me a chef’s knife and a chunk of steak.

“Yeah, and I specifically do not give a single shit. Get off your ass.”

Well, shit. Sappy moment gone. Not that I’m sad about it. Too many feelings—especially with my family—makes my skin crawl.

Clutching my hands across my chest, I feign a wounded expression. “Damn, Shortcake, they were right. Redheads are mean.”

“I’m not mean, I’m bossy. There’s a difference.” She bobs her head along to the tune of her attitude. The raise of my eyebrows gives off the unspoken,Yeah, okay,as I come around the corner to stand next to her.

“Okay. So, first, we’re going to roll out the dough.” She turns the bowl upside down on the counter and the dough lands on the small part of the counter with a dusting of flour.

“Don’t we need to let it rise or something first?”

“Good question, but no. I used instant yeast; it bloomed in warm milk before I made the dough. So, I know it’s good. Active yeast would be a different story.”

And I’m already confused. Five-star dishes? No problem. Baking shit? No, thank you.

“Okay, that is almost helpful. Do you have a rolling pin?” I watch her eyes dart around the kitchen, as if trying to remember something.

She holds up her index finger to me. “Hold, please.” She starts frantically searching drawers. The furrow in her brow becomes deeper with every drawer shutting. “Hm, it seems one of the few things I left at Target was a rolling pin. And, apparently, I didn’t pack one, either. Damn, I should have stolen Isla’s. She can’t even cook.”

“Hey, she took my class. She can kind of cook now. And I’m sure Cal uses it for something.”

“Pick a team, Sam. Cal will survive.” She puts her hands on her hips and starts tapping her foot. “Well, that sort of puts us in a pinch, doesn’t it?”

“Do you have anything else we can use?”

She walks around her kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers once again.

“Yes! This will work!” She turns around, holding a bottle of wine like it’s a million-dollar prize. “Wine. Delicious, and also a great tool in the kitchen. Or a great weapon, if you need to smack someone on the back of the head.” She pretends to whack me in the head with a giggle escaping her. Well, now I am even more afraid of her. Perfect.

“Remind me to not get on your bad side. And thank you for that educational lesson. May I have the tool-slash-weapon, so I can get these cinnamon rolls rolled out before my instructor beats me with her makeshift rolling pin?’

“You may.” She hands me the wine bottle and places it in my palm. “You want to roll them out kind of thick, but not too thick. But also not so thin that you don’t have any delicious bread.”

My arm drops to my side in exasperation, because what the fuck kind of instruction is that? “Thank God you don’t teach cooking classes. That makes no sense.”

“Well, I don’t really know how thick. I just wing it and go by feel.” She puts a hand defensively on her hip, with sass leaking out of her every pore. “It’s called baking with love.”

“I feel like you are misinterpreting love for rage, but okay. Can you, like, mimic with your hands how thick it should be?”

She pinches her fingers to about a quarter-inch thick. “What is that, like, a half inch?” She inspects her fingers and shrugs.

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