Page 88 of Cream and Punishment
“Wait for it. It gets better.”
“Better thanStar Warspuns?”
I put on the hot pink apron, complete with a whisk and the saying “Now watch me whip,” and modeled it for him. “See? Pretty great, eh?”
He considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, I think I won this round.”
“Yeah, yeah” —I waved the defeat away with a dismissive hand— “let’s get to the mood music.” I connected my phone to the speaker and started my favorite baking playlist. Soon, Phil Collins’You Can’t Hurry Lovefiltered through the apartment. “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff right there.”
“Eighties music?”
“Thebestmusic.”
He laughed and, unable to argue against irrefutable facts like that, led me into the kitchen. “I had grand plans to make it on my own, I swear. You’re always baking for others, so I figured having someone actually bake for you might be a nice change. But then, well…”
I almost missed what he gestured to, my heart latching onto his words like a lovesick leech. No one had ever tried to bake for me before, especially once they found out that I baked for a living. Unless I bought it from another bakery or store, I made it. Always. And he’d actually thought to bake for me because of that.
Judging by the gooey, brown sludge-like mess in a pie tin he gestured to on the stove, he’d even tried to bake for me. And it had failed catastrophically.
I bit my lip, clenching my jaw so I wouldn’t smile. “It’s not so bad! The coloration is exciting, and there’s a variety of textures.” I leaned closer, inspecting the jiggly carnage. “It’s got promise. It’s very… whatisit, exactly?”
He laughed, shoulders shaking. “It’ssupposedto be flan.”
Now that he said it, I could almost see the resemblance between this and the creamy custard-like dessert popular in Latin American countries. “Ah, of course. That’s what I was going to guess.”
“You’re still a terrible liar, Dekker.”
I ignored him, wiggling the pie tin and watching the contents slush and wobble. Knowing what it was supposed to be, I could pinpoint what had gone wrong. For one, the caramel sauce was grainy, and a bit burnt, the eggy custard base was clumpy and overcooked, and likely hadn’t set or cooled properly before being turned over into this tin. To be fair, flan wasn’t as simple as a box cake mix from the store, at least not when using the traditional methods.
“Which recipe did you use?”
He leaned against the counter, pressing his lips together in a line as if trying not to laugh at the failed flan, too. “Myabuela’s. It’s been in the family for generations.”
I blushed, brushing my hands together. “Well, I hope yourabuelawill forgive me, because I’m going to make your life—and flan—a bit easier.”
“How so?” He bent down conspiratorially, whispering. “If it makes it so I can actually make flan, your secrets are safe with me.”
“Good.” I pointed at him, opening his cupboards to get a feel for where everything was. “I don’t need you siccing your grandma on me. She’ll win. Now, do you have a blender?”
He squatted and pulled out a high-quality Ninja blender. Not the most expensive option out there, but it could handle almost anything.
I blinked at it in shock. For not baking often, he had a killer blender. “That’ll work.”
I pulled my hair into a bun, my skin heating as he openly watched the movement with coals smoldering in his eyes. The bun probably resembled a loofah with all my curls poofing everywhere, but oh well. He clearly didn’t mind. I mean, he’d seen me in a donkey suit and the wedding dress ghost of eighties past. At this point, there was nowhere to go but up.
After swearing to uphold the secrecy and honor of the family recipe, he showed a photo of the handwritten recipe card he had on his phone. It, of course, was in Spanish, which he translated for me.
“One cup sugar,” I muttered to myself before addressing him. “Do you have a glass measuring cup?”
He supplied the item in question, a curious wrinkle in his brow. But he didn’t argue.
I poured a cup of sugar into the measuring glass with a half cup of water.
“Now, this is where the blasphemy happens,” I warned, putting the glass in the microwave. I set the timer and stepped back, looking at the rest of the recipe.
“What does that do?” he asked, nodding at the microwave. “Last time, I tried to make it on the stove like the recipe said.”
“This is just a little more foolproof and a whole lot easier. On the stove, it’s easy for the sugar to crystallize and make the whole caramel sauce grainy.”
