"What next?" I asked when Charlotte had finished hydrating her irritation. So far we had two cake pans and a frying pan on the table for all our effort.
We gathered around the recipe and Charlotte read:
"You'll need:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
6 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup cold water.
So we still need cups and spoons."
"Measuring cups and spoons," I corrected. "We can't just use any." As the potions master's son, I felt I could consider myself the expert on measuring here.
"Maman uses regular ones."
"She also uses magic, Charlotte." I reminded her. "Where are the measuring cups—I'll get them."
"Naturally. It's your turn."
"All right? Where?"
"Regular cups, Albus. I told you, we don't have any others."
"That's not what you said. You said she uses regular ones not that you don't have—you know what? Never mind."
Okay. Time to go to the master. Overriding Charlotte's protests I gathered 'Maman's stuff' and marched to their sitting room. Unlike our dark little dungeon apartment, their rooms were light and airy with large windows framed in gauzy curtains, and tidy little nooks filled with plants and books. Bat Dad had pushed their largest sofa to the windows and had settled in a sunny spot like a cat to snooze, legs outstretched, and head back.
"Dad." I clattered my loot on the low coffee table, waking him up with a start. Oops. "Help."
He sat forward with a yawn and was nice enough not to gloat. "Tell me."
"We need measuring cups and stuff but they only have regular. Maman does it with magic."
"I take it, it's not going so well?"
"We haven't started yet." I pulled a face. "So, no fire, you can relax. Can you transfigure this stuff? We need a cup, a half a cup, a spoon, and a teaspoon."
"Please."
"Please. Sorry."
It took him less than a minute and I thanked him, not wanting to be reminded of my manners a second time. "You're the best. Do you want tea or something?"
"I'll call you if I do."
"As long as you stay here and don't come in the kitchen."
"Keep at it and I'll start wondering what you're up to."
"I—"
Charlotte saved me, shouting from the kitchen. "Hurry up, Albus! What are you taking so long?!"
It made the Bat Cat laugh and he settled back into his sunny spot, flapping a shooing hand at me. "Off you go, kid. Hurry up."
"It will go faster if you come to help me carry!" I shouted back.
"Never marry," Bat Cat said to the ceiling.
"Ew, Dad. Come on."
I gathered the stuff, making sure to be noisy to get him back for that, and retreated to the kitchen where Charlotte was tapping her foot.
"I got the flour," she said. "Your turn."
Yes, I definitely will not marry. We took turns. I fetched the sugar. She fetched the cocoa powder. I did the salt. She did the baking soda that was right next to it. I did the vegetable oil. She did the vinegar. I did the vanilla. She filled a tumbler full of water, and in conclusion, we both had a tall glass of water to celebrate our successful partnership. Yeah, fine, to calm our nerves.
"My turn to read," I said and grabbed the recipe. "What to do: Number one, mix flour, sugar, cocoa powder, salt, and soda in a frying pan."
"All right, then I'll measure," Charlotte said just as quick. Damn. That was the better bit. "Read it again slowly. How much flour?"
Bugger. "One and a half cups."
Here, I am ashamed to say, we had a small kerfuffle about how the flour should be scooped. She was packing the cup tightly, and I had read somewhere that it was better to scoop the flour with a spoon into the measuring cup if you were not going to weigh it.
"That's just idiotic, Albus. Who does that?"
"Chefs."
"And have you ever seen a chef do it? No, you haven't! You don't even cook at home, whereas I help Maman so we will do it my way."
"No, we won't. We won't do everything your way."
"If they wanted us to spoon it in a cup they would have said so!"
"Perhaps they think we already know!"
That brought us to an impasse. For all of a second, and then we both jumped into action, grabbing a measuring cup each. I got the 1/2 cup but I was not to be deterred and did my best to spoon flour into hers and mine together, while also trying to spoon out what she had scooped.
"Remember we told your dad that you will clean!" Charlotte hissed when she got a face-full of flour.
"Doesn't matter—you'll have to help anyway!" I hissed back, digging in with my spoon, and got a mouthful of flour for my effort. I coughed and hacked, "Okay, time-out! Time-out!"
To my relief, Charlotte stopped. She swiped a sleeve through her floury face. It did not help much more than transfer the flour from her one cheek to the other. "Did you give up, Albus?" she asked ever so sweetly. I definitely did not like the way she held that half-filled cup of flour at all.
"Do we want to bake this cake or not?" It felt like deja-vu.
"I will scoop the flour like I want."
Bugger. We're going to have a dry cake that no one would want to eat—I had read about it. I scowled at Charlotte. She scowled back. I could insist, sure, but we were already standing in flour and we all know who was going to do the bulk of the cleaning up. "Okay. Okay. Scoop it like you want and we switch on the next instruction. Deal?" Perhaps I could mitigate the dryness by adding something extra when it was my turn.
"Deal." She held out her hand. I shook it, and she pulled a face, shaking me off. "The cup, Albus. Give me the other cup."
"I knew that."
"Yes. I'm sure you did. Don't attack me now. I'm going to scoooop…"
"Funny."
"Not as funny as you."
Charlotte scooped the flour, one cup and then half a cup, and she packed it extra tight, keeping one wary eye on me. She dumped both into the frying pan that now lay on a decidedly whiter table and stared at the floury heap. "Why a frying pan? Why not a bowl?"
"I don't know." It does seem stupid. I scanned the instructions again but nowhere did it say we would fry anything.
"These chefs do not say?"
I sighed. Decided not to rise to it. "Perhaps the metal has some kind of effect. Like different cauldrons."
Charlotte sighed also, managing to make hers sound French. "Very well. It will remain a mystery. Read the rest of the instructions. And stand far with that spoon, I swear. How much sugar?"
"One cup."
"And should it also be filled with a spoon?" she sing-song asked as she scooped it. "What did the chefs say?"
Taking the high road again, I just crossed my eyes at her.
She grinned and added sugar to the flour. "Next?"
"Three tablespoons of cocoa powder."
"Oh my goodness! Should I fill the spoon with the cup?"
I managed not to commit cousincide and she added the salt and soda to the pan, giving up on needling me when she didn't get a rise. Done, she asked, "Should I stir it?"
"They don't say."
"Too bad. Okay, switch."
I agreed, stirring was even better than measuring. I stepped up to the pan. There was an even amount of ingredients inside and outside it by now. Charlotte snatched the recipe from me. I scooped a handful of flour and sugar from the table and dumped it into the pan.
She read, "Number two, make three holes in the mixture. Place vegetable oil in one hole, vinegar in another, and vanilla in the last one. Not with your fingers, Albus!"
"Does it say anywhere not with my fingers?"
"It should!"
"Well, it doesn't. How much oil?" Six tablespoons, I remembered, but I wanted her to do it properly.
It was quite an effort adding oil to a small spoon from a heavy can and I added quite a lot to the mess on the table before I admitted I needed her help. Which was like turning a magic switch in Charlotte's mood. She practically glowed when together we managed to get six spoonfuls inside the pan, Charlotte holding the spoon while I poured. She didn't even say a word about the spillage. Still, I saw cleaning in our future.
"Your future," Charlotte corrected. But she did it without passion.
"Ours. We should scoop the mess up and put it in a third pan. Bet it will cook." And it will save us on cleaning.
"All right."
"What's next?"
"Vinegar and vanilla in the other holes. A tablespoon vinegar, and a teaspoon vanilla. If we're going to use the stuff on the table you should add some of both to it also, I think."
We were in accord on that and I did so.
We switched, I took the recipe, and Charlotte stationed herself in front of the pan.
"Step three," I read. "Pour in water and mix until smooth. That's one cup of water. Pour the batter into two greased and floured cake pans. That's two steps. This recipe is awful. We didn't grease and flour the pans yet, Charlotte."
"Then you do that and I'll mix the water," she said, still in the good mood, already pouring from the tumbler into the cup. "Get another pan too."
"Don't forget to add water to the table."
She splashed water onto the mess. "There."
We worked fast now. Charlotte stirred the batter and the table, humming happily, and I greased three pans, dripping the extra oil out into the sink, and the only stutter was the question of how to flour the pan, and how much flour to use in doing so.
"The chefs didn't say?" That was Charlotte returning to being Charlotte.
"You don't remember what your mum did?"
I kept waiting for her to admit she had never baked a cake with her mother. Not that I think Aunt Louisette wouldn't have tried, more in the line of, the old Charlotte would have thought it beneath her. Heck, I had been surprised when the new Charlotte had said we should bake a cake. That was, until I learned the reason for it.
