Page 37 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
However, the actual cooking part goes…less smoothly. When I crack the eggs, little shell bits end up inside the bowl and I have to pick them out. When I finally get the eggshells out, I pour in a few glugs of milk, but I don’t remember how much cinnamon goes into this recipe. (Why can’t I remember?)
This is why I usually buy premade meals or order in. Some people notoriously can’t keep plants alive; I notoriously can’t cook to save my life. But Ihavemade this French toast before successfully, and now Sebastien’s expression is so dubious as he watches me that I refuse to retreat. Anyway, I figure more cinnamon is better, right? So I add a heap to the eggs and milk. It’ll be fine. Dad always said French toast doesn’t require exactness.
I steal a glance at Sebastien to see if he noticed about the cinnamon. I can’t tell. He’s got a poker face on now.
Sliced bread goes into a casserole dish, and I pour the custard mixture all over for it to soak in.
“Now I’m going to make a pecan pie topping,” I announce with loads more confidence than I actually feel.
Sebastien’s mouth quirks for a second, but then it’s back to his poker face. However, I suspect he’s onto me and my complete cooking ineptitude. Why did I offer to make breakfast?
Because New Helene is brave,I think. Maybe also a little foolhardy. Or a lot foolhardy.
But what’s done is done. I’ll just have to make this breakfast so mind-blowingly good it proves Sebastien wrong.
Knowing he’s watching me makes me more nervous than usual in the kitchen. I toss the butter into a pot to melt, but I must have turned the stove on too high, because the butter starts to turn brown really fast. And then it smokes.
“Uh, your butter—” Sebastien points.
“Don’t worry, I got this! Relax and eat your bacon.” I smile at him, then turn as casually as I can back to the burners.
Holy mother of dairy, the butter’s burned and now the kitchen reeks. I want to blame the stove—I didn’t know how fast it would get hot—but I know it’s really just me, an already terrible chef, cracking under the pressure of having an expectant audience. I fumble around, trying to find the switch to turn on the overhead fan.
“It’s a dial on the right side of the stove control panel,” Sebastien says, even though I don’t ask. He’s not mean about it, though. If anything, he sounds a little…amused.
I turn on the fan and start over with the butter. I don’t turn around again until I’ve got the butter melted and the brown sugar, corn syrup, maple syrup, and pecans stirred in. But, like with the cinnamon, I don’t remember the proportions for each ingredient, so I wing it. The result is kind of a thick sludge, instead of rich, gooey goodness. God, I hope it tastes better than it looks.
“Everything all right over there?” Sebastien asks from the other side of the island.
“Yup, going great!” I say. (The truth: We might be eating just bacon for breakfast.)
I fry up the bread, which is now soaked with custard. A more accurate description might besoggywith custard.
I am not a cook. I’m a walking disaster who happens to be holding a spatula.
Finally, I plate the French toast and spoon on some pecan pie goop, which, to be honest, has the consistency of brown slime. Not the most aesthetically pleasing breakfast, but I’m still hopeful that it tastes good. How can sugar and syrup and pecans be bad?
When I turn around, though, I block Sebastien’s view of the plate next to the stovetop. “Whipped cream?” I ask, because maybe it’d be a good idea to cover up the ugliness of the French toast.
He smiles, forgetting that I’m an unwanted intruder in his home. “Yes, please. But I prefer Cool Whip.”
I have to stop myself from squealing.MySebastien loves Cool Whip. It’s what Dad always used, so of course my imaginary soulmate grew up with it, too.
It might only be a coincidence,I remind myself. I don’t have a monopoly on preferring Cool Whip.
Still, I’m bouncing a little on my feet as I find a container of it in the fridge and spoon a generous dollop onto Sebastien’s French toast. Then I push it across the island countertop to him.
He picks up a fork and digs in to my breakfast disaster.
At the first bite, he chuckles quietly. “It’s just like I remember,” Sebastien says.
And then he freezes.
“What did you say?” I ask, blinking at him.
“Uh, nothing.”
“No. I heard you. You said, ‘Just like I remember.’ What do you mean?”
