Raoul stared at the items in front of him. They were like the clues to solve a mystery, the most important one in his life.
Milk. Strawberry. Flour. Butter. Oil. Sugar. Salt. Eggs. Wine.
Raoul took a deep breath. He wished he had payed more attention when his dear sister explained to him how to do it. But back then he didn't think it was important for a boy to know it. How innocent he was.
His hand was shaking as he took the bag of flour. It still shook as he poured it, making a white cloud.
"What now?", he asked himself. Milk. Certainly milk. Raoul opened the bootle, and from it came a weird smell. Better start with the sugar.
How much sugar should he use? He wanted it to be sweet. Was it enough? Maybe he should use more. A bit more. A bit more.
Raoul opened the bottle of milk again. It still smelled weird. Maybe he didn't need it. There was no problem with making up for it with butter, right?
Then he proceeded to cut the strawberries. At least this he knew how to do. He cut a good amount in small pieces and put in the bow. Then, he got to the part he was fearing the most: the eggs.
Christine slept very well. More than she expected, after the draining night she had. She and Raoul had an important but difficult conversation, and she ended up crying herself to sleep. But as she opened her eyes this morning she felt much better, as if a weight was lifted from her shoulders.
When she noticed the lights in the room, she realized why she slept so well: it was already afternoon. Why did Raoul let her sleep so much?
Christine put a gown over her sleeping clothes and walked downstairs, looking for her husband. She found him in the kitchen, which looked like a tornado had passed there. There was flour on the floor, some egg spilled on the counter, a strange smell in the air, and dirty spoons, cups and bowls thrown everywhere.
"Raoul! What happened here?"
He turned to her.
"Christine! You're awake!", he said, almost stuttering.
Christine noticed his hair was covered in flour, and some of whatever he was trying to do spilled on his clothes.
"What are you doing, darling? What is the meaning of this?"
"Well, you see… I was… you know… making a cake. Trying to.", he confessed.
Christine walked closer to the counter to examine the size of the mess.
"A cake?"
"Yes. This is my family recipe that is passed through generations!", he proudly explained.
"This?", Christine asked, pointing to the weird looking mix inside a bowl.
"Well, it was supposed to be."
"What made you suddenly decide to try a family recipe?", Christine asked. Raoul did not cook. And she could clearly see why.
"Well, because... because I wanted to see you smile, Christine."
Christine felt very touched. He was trying to do something he never did before, only for her. For a moment she didn't know what to say.
"By the way, I think someone poisoned our milk!", Raoul added.
"What?", Christine asked, chuckling. She opened the milk bottle, immediately knowing it was the source of the smell. "Oh my God, this is bad! How old is this?"
"I… have no idea.", Raoul confessed. "Anyway, why don't you go read for a bit while I finish this?"
"I can help you.", she offered.
"It's alright, Christine. I have everything under control!"
Just as Raoul said this, he touched his elbow on the counter, accidentally dropping a metal spoon. It landed with a loud noise.
Christine laughed.
"Remember what you told me yesterday?", she asked.
"What?"
"That we should share the burden.", Christine crouched down to pick up the spoon. "We are in this together, Raoul. Let me share some of your burden too."
Raoul nodded.
In the end of the day, the couple took the cake from the oven. It didn't look good, it didn't even taste good, but it was something that Raoul and Christine made together.