Page 14 of The Artist and the Muse

“I plead the Charter of Human Rights?” he tried again.

“You don’t have to sound like you committed a crime by buying me an apron, you know.”

He sighed. “I didn’t want you to wear my ugly, dirty apron, so yes. I went out and bought you an apron that suits you, because I wanted you to feel comfortable in my kitchen. You know, in case the pasta turned out to be horrible and you never forgave me for my poor excuse for culinary skills.”

I burst out laughing. “It worked. I hereby preemptively forgive you for all future culinary mess-ups.”

“Then this is the perfect time for me to tell you I once burned a pot of boiling water.”

“Are you sure you’re not an arsonist? Because that sounds impossible. What did you do? Leave the stove on all night?”

His sheepish expression confirmed my worst suspicions.

“How about you just read the recipe instructions to me?” I passed him my phone.

“I can do that easily,” he reassured me. “Though first, we need some music.”

He strode over to the record player and put on Dean Martin’sThat’s Amore, making me laugh.

I measured out flour using the digital kitchen scale and dumped it on the table. Then, as I formed a well in the centre for the egg to rest in, a homey, domestic feeling overtook me. Cooking with George reminded me of the nights I’d spent cooking for me and my mom growing up.

Whether it was the process of working with my hands to create something that would hopefully be delicious, or the cozy atmosphere George had created with the jazz music and scented candle he had lit, I wasn’t sure. Or perhaps it was George himself. Though I barely knew him, he felt deeply familiar and comfortable, like a fluffy throw blanket on a chilly autumn night.

As I worked the pasta into a dough, I was proud of my handiwork. It wasn’t the most beautiful culinary masterpiece anyone had ever made, but it would hopefully be edible.

“It smells delicious already,” George said.

I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t even made the sauce yet. I’m not sure what you’re smelling.”

While we waited for the dough to chill, George pulled out the hot chocolate ingredients. He prepped them for later, measuring out the different portions of chocolate and cornstarch and milk before setting them aside.

Then George took out the pasta-making machine we’d bought. I gently fed the sheet of dough through it, rolling it out into a thinner sheet before cutting it into tiny strips. Afterwards, I washed off my flour-dusted hands and put George to work chopping tomatoes.

As we made the marinara sauce together, I marvelled at how easy it felt to be working side by side with him. Was this just the rose-coloured glasses of being on vacation, causing me to feel things I wouldn’t normally feel at home? Maybe. Maybe that was all this was—a holiday fling.

But it didn’t feel that way. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me, for heaven’s sake.

After adding plenty of spices, herbs, salt, pepper, and sugar to the sauce, we gave it a good stir and then poured it over the cooked pasta.

George got out the enormous block of Parmesan cheese I’d insisted on buying when I saw it was on sale, as well as a cheese grater.

“Say when,” he warned ominously. I pictured him as an Olive Garden waiter and burst out laughing. “Or else I’ll grate this entire block of cheese.”

The block was the size of my head. “I might take you up on that.”

“Please don’t, we’d never make our way out of the mountain of cheese.” He began grating.

“Oh no, being buried under a mountain of cheese. Please, spare me from such a horrible fate.”

“Don’t worry, fair maiden, ‘tis I, Sir George, here to slay the dragon of Parmesan by eating my way through it,” he said in a British accent as he held up the cheese grater and made what I thought were sword-fighting sound effects. When he was an eighth of the way through the block, I told him to stop grating.

We both were struggling to suppress our laughter as we started making the hot chocolate. I thought it was kind of weird to put cornstarch in hot chocolate, but who was I to question the dessert recipe I’d found online? We combined cornstarch, milk, dark chocolate, sugar, and cocoa powder in a saucepan. Once the hot chocolate was finished, we sipped some and then sat down to eat. I placed our mugs of hot chocolate next to two fancy pasta bowls—also purchased for the occasion—and two sets of flatware resting on white napkins.

After he took one bite of the pasta, George’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

“Is that a good or badwow? You can spit it out. I won’t be offended or anything. I mean, I will, but I’ll pretend I’m not until I can go home and cry.”

I wasn’t sure why I felt so uncharacteristically nervous about him trying my cooking. I’d made new recipes for my family and friends before. So why did attempting homemade tagliatelle make me break into a sweat just because George was the one tasting my food?

---