House slid onto the stool on the outside of the kitchen island. Wilson's hair was mussed, a cloth thrown over his shoulder. He was wearing an apron that said GO AWAY I'M COOKING in big black letters.
Wilson bustled between the kitchen side of the island and the oven. On the island were baking sheets with rows of perfectly aligned little beige discs.
"Nice looking cookies," House said, reaching out toward a baking sheet. To his amazement, Wilson slapped his hand away.
Wilson's voice went up an octave. "Ah-ah! It takes over two hours to make macarons."
"Those don't look like macaroons. Where's the coconut?"
"Macarons! They're French. And don't touch that jar. It's artisanal marmalade."
"Artisanal marmalade? Just how gay are you, Wilson?" House again reached toward the baking sheet, again got his hand slapped.
"Gay enough for you," Wilson muttered. "House, these macarons are for the oncology department office party tomorrow."
"Cookies—"
"Macarons."
"—with artisanal marmalade? Why don't you do what everyone else does and get a cake at the supermarket?" House leaned forward and peered at the little round discs. "Can I lick the bowl?"
"I washed it." Wilson stepped back from the counter, hands on his hips.
"Of course you did. Jesus, you're no fun at all." His hand darted out and grabbed one of the discs. Wilson cried out as House popped it into his mouth. He chewed, then made a face. "It's not a cookie," he said, mouth full.
"I told you, House, it's a macaron! They're French and you make them with whipped egg whites. Like meringue, but a cookie—"
"Ah-HA! You called it a cookie!"
"Dammit!" Wilson buried his face in his hands.
House snatched another one. "For a cookie, it's not bad."
"Macaron!"