Baking Duo (PRE)
One of Mark and Jack's favourite pastimes was watching their two British roommates bake.
When it came to cooking, the only people who could work alone were Mark and Dan, and Jack was only allowed to cook with Mark, in order to prevent disaster.
But baking? Baking was a whole other ballpark.
Dan and Phil seemed to have a natural affinity for it, especially with working together. Even if the product somehow looked like scum from the bottom of the Thames, it tasted as good as the French Patisserie two miles from their appartment. Gordon Ramsey would cry while uttering swears because of the juxtaposition between sight and taste.
But they didn't always look like messes. And while having some of the results was as good as any prize, the true entertainment lie in watching them bake.
"No, no, no! Phil! Put down that bag of marshmallows or so help me I will beat you with this whisk!"
Jack snickered and Mark had to hold back a laugh as the sugar-fiend guilty tried to slink away, backing himself into a corner.
"Dan! Quick, the pots boiling over! It's a Bain Marie - we're not making pasta!"
Both sat, eyes wide and hoping the melted chocolate wasn't ruined. They would jump in, but that would break the spell, flustering their two roommates, and their whole "show" would be ruined.
"Oh my gog we've ruined it - we've ruined it."
"How?"
". . .We forgot the sticks dangit. How do we even - I freaking said it before we put them in the fridge!"
They grumbled and complained, beginning another batch.
"Oh no! Dan, they're burning! Quick, get the oven mitt! The mitt!"
"Oh gog they look like turds."
In the end, the meringues tasted pretty good.
"Okay so this page says, what, eighty grams of chocolate?" Snap, clink, snap, clink, snap, clink - each broken piece of the bar dropped into the scale methodically. "That's. . .forty-three grams? Wha- Phil. Did you seriously eat thirty-seven grams of chocolate that we were specifically saving for the cake pops?!""
Sheepish grins and raucous banter; messes and fights over licking the spatula and bowl; flour on the floor, sugar on shirts, batter in hair (well, only Phil's). It was homey and fond and wonderful.
And while neither Jack, nor Mark, who watched these spectacles as outsiders of sorts, could figure out what made them so special, they gladly treasured it.
Even if the neighbors complained about the noise.