Page 70 of Cakes for the Grump
After a long pause, I see that in my excitement, I have dug my fingers into the tailored sleeve of Luke’s shirt. I look down at my hand and immediately unhook myself.
Feeling freshly encouraged and enthused, I dive right into using what I’ve already made. Most of it can be incorporated into my new dish. With some gusto, I pull out a cast-iron skillet, put it over a flame, and then test the bottom.
Luke yanks my hand off the skillet. “You’ll burn yourself. Good thing I’m here. You are not looking after yourself.”
I wait for him to notice our prolonged contact, but he doesn’t. Meanwhile, I’m experiencing too closely his masculine cologne, and the length of his arm cupped under mine. Why do I feel enclosed against him? Soheld? There is a treasured sweetness in this pressure confusing my senses.
Then, alarmingly, the length of a belt buckle ghosts over my hip. I know he hasn’t pressed forward on purpose, but that brief pinch of metal further deteriorates me. For now, all I can conjure in my mind is expensive black leather and that motion a man makes when he unbuckles himself with onehand and smoothly slides off his belt. The hungry intention on his face as he undresses while stepping closer to you?—
What?!
Hurriedly, I stomp my thoughts out, chucking them into a mental bin. Pulling myself out of his grasp, I wave my hand in the air. “I’ve got Punjabi Aunty fingers. They don’t feel much of anything when touching a hot surface, so stop freaking out over nothing.”
Luke scowls.
I ignore it (and my misled heart), putting all my energy into the Egg Bhurji Frittata. A few more jibes get traded between us, but for a large part of it, there is mostly silence. A silence where a few times our eyes meet. I wait for it to get awkward. It doesn’t get awkward.
When the finished dish is complete, it is beautiful. The healthy amount of turmeric added has made the whole frittata a deep sun-gold yellow. Taking out my phone, I confirm it photographs perfectly.
“It’s a winner,” he declares.
“Hopefully.”
“How can it not be? You’re technical about cooking…and I didn’t know that,” he admits. “I underestimated the level of effort and exactness it takes to bring together a recipe. What I said about you only baking cakes—my apologies, Rita.”
A wound I hadn’t known was still open seals over. My cheeks hurt. Apparently I’m smiling.
He goes over and takes a spoonful of the leftover frittata stuck to the pan. He puts it into his mouth. I wait—my pulse fast and warm. It’s different from anything I’ve ever made him. Will he like it? Why do I care so much?
His eyes meet mine. “You are going to win.”
Then he pays me the largest compliment available. He finishes the rest on the pan with quick work.
“You know,” I say, “even your smoothies are technical. Do you think I dump whatever is in the fridge and call it a day? No, I don’t.”
I tell him about the essential balance between protein, fat, and carbs that provide both fiber and fast-acting sugar. There are ratios and absorption rates to calculate and cross-reference because the wrong ingredients paired together actually work against each other.
Luke, in the face of another lecture, slips his hands into his pockets, looking generously interested and at complete ease.
Only when I finish my last bit about food particle size, do I blush. Crap. Why am I acting like this? Talking to him as if he is my friend. As if he is forgiven. Or at least someone who makes me comfortable enough to share my true self show—the underappreciated and secluded part that thrives on making food an academic discipline.
Time to focus again. “Right, I’ll go submit these photos and the recipe instructions as soon as we clean up…”
We look around. The kitchen looks like it’s vomited onto itself.
“I’ve got a meeting,” says Luke.
“Shut up.”
“Rita, I’m a very important person.”
“At least thirty percent of this mess is yours!”
He lets out an egregious sigh, an attitude I might have found childish if he didn’t promptly get to work with scary efficiency. Leftovers are put into containers, dishes are stacked and loaded into the dishwasher, and the floor is swept, vacuumed, and mopped. We only slow down when the last few tasks are left.
Luke starts heavily spraying a disinfectant solution across the counters. “It’s obvious you’ve got food goals that go beyond meal prepping,” he says. “Remind me again, why are you in Barcelona doing this exactly?”
I freeze.
