5. She is a disaster in the kitchen.
"Okay," Yumi states.
She sets a glass bowl-pitcher-thing on the cluttered counter and surveys the workstation. Aelita hovers just to the side, stares at the container of flour, the slab of butter, the jars of sugar and salt, the carafe of water and pitcher of milk, and the two eggs that keep trying to roll away. Beyond that, on the table, are jars of Nutella and honey and jam, bowls of strawberries and blueberries and raspberries, and fresh bananas ready to be cut up. They've barely begun and Aelita already feels overwhelmed.
"Okay," Yumi repeats, turning to smile at Aelita. "Crepes are easy."
Aelita stares at the ingredients dubiously. "If you say so…"
Yumi ties her hair back with an elastic, black hair bouncing as she laughs at Aelita's expression. "Come on," she coaxes, "even Hiroki can manage crepes." She pauses, frowns thoughtfully. "With supervision."
"Fantastic," Aelita sighs. She's not sure why, but there's a low thrum of sickening anticipation twisting in her stomach. She runs her hands over the apron Yumi had told her to wear. "Alright," she states. "I'm ready."
"That's the spirit." Yumi pulls out a scale and sets it in front of them. "First we measure."
It should be easy, Aelita thinks. She's only been topside for a few weeks, but already maths is one of her easiest classes. She understands numbers. They don't have hidden meanings or allusions like literature does. There's a certainty in numbers that she relies on.
Yumi turns the digital scale on, sets it down in front of Aelita. That's probably the first mistake.
She doesn't realize just how…floofy…flour can be. Yumi is corralling the runaway eggs once more, back turned, when Aelita opens the container of flour, tilts it over the bowl. It pours out, a cloud of white powder that coats everything. "Oof," she says, then sneezes three times.
When she looks up, Yumi's turned back to face her. She has a hand pressed to her mouth, white powder dusting her hair, her tank top, the counter, and floating like dust motes through the air. Aelita blinks the flour out of her eyes, feels her mouth tick up into a self-conscious smile as Yumi tries unsuccessfully to smother her laughter.
"Alright," Yumi says, sliding the remainder of the flour away from her. "Maybe flour is too advanced. Why don't you cut the butter instead?"
"I didn't know it was so…floaty!" Aelita protests. She breaks, snickering at the sight of Yumi's flour-dusted face.
"Uh huh," Yumi snorts. "Just try not to stab yourself while I clean the counters."
Aelita rolls her eyes, turning to the butter. Cutting shouldn't be too difficult.
. . … . .
"Careful, Aelita." Warm hands, smooth except for the calluses on the fingertips, catch her hands. "It's hot."
Aelita tilts her head back, teeters on the stool she's perched on. There's a warm laugh, slender arms curling around her and hugging her close. She smells vanilla and cinnamon.
"What are you doing?"
"Cooking. Like you, maman," she says.
Laughter, warm like fresh bread or her favorite blanket. Her mother reaches past her, plucks the play fruit from where Aelita had been trying to cook them on the stove. "Let's not use plastic food, yes? It'll melt, ma lutine."
Aelita huffs, crosses her arms. "But my stove won't cook 'em," she whines.
One of her mother's calloused fingertips presses against her forehead, right between her eyebrows. Aelita screws up her face, tries to stare at the finger pressing into her skin. "Utilise ton imagination, chérie." Her mother steps back. "Put these away, then you can help me make supper properly, without burning down the house."
"Okay, maman!"
. . … . .
Ulrich pulls a face as soon as he bites into the cookie. He continues chewing, slowly, but he sets the cookie down like it's poisonous.
Odd chatters away, chews and swallows the cookie, reaches for another without noticing Ulrich's raised eyebrows.
Yumi coughs, reaches for her lemonade. "What are they again?"
"Shortbread," Aelita replies, voice wavering slightly.
"They're uh, a bit dry?" Jeremie suggests.
Hiroki spits his out without pretense. "Ugh!" he complains. "These are disgusting."
"Hiroki!" Yumi hisses.
Hesitantly, Aelita reaches for one of the cookies on Yumi's kitchen table. She nibbles along the edge. She pulls a face reminiscent of the one Ulrich wore earlier. "I think I mixed the sugar and the salt," she comments. She scrapes her tongue against her teeth, reaches for her own glass of lemonade.
"I think so," Yumi replies, refilling their glasses.
"Eh, I've had worse," Odd states. He reaches for a third cookie.
. . … . .
Aelita wakes up when it's still dark outside. The air is cool, the house quiet except for the occasional groan of shifting foundations and settling walls. She creeps out of bed, pulls on her fuzzy slippers and pokes her head out of her bedroom door.
Her father's door is shut, but that doesn't mean much. She creeps closer, presses an ear to it, listens intently. There's silence on the other side. Strong, unrelenting. She steps back, bounces a bit to warm herself up.
The third and fifth stairs creak, so she skips past them nimbly. The downstairs is blanketed in darkness, furniture looming in the shadows like the specters she still dreams about – the faceless people who stole her mother away. Aelita swallows past the pain, the bright flare of unstopped grief that threatens to engulf her, to drown her, anytime she thinks of her mother. Of the absence of her mother.
She heads for the kitchen, quietly pulls out and unfolds the sheet of paper in her hand. She had carefully copied out the recipe, line by line, had gone to the market and filled her shopping basket with all the necessary ingredients. Carefully, she begins to assemble her freshly purchased ingredients.
The Hermitage doesn't have a mixer, but she figures she can make due with the old whisk. The oven takes some coaxing to turn on and begin heating. Aelita focuses on measuring out her ingredients, carefully following the recipe:
Flour – the recipe calls for 219 grams, but she adds a few extra spoonfuls just to be safe.
Cocoa powder – her father loves chocolate and 62 grams doesn't seem nearly enough. She doubles it.
She forgot to pick up buttermilk, so she adds a stick of butter to a cup of milk, warming them in the microwave and mixing thoroughly.
The sun begins to peek over the trees, illuminating the small yard and tall trees outside. Aelita works quickly. She wants to get the cake into the oven before her father wakes. She takes some of the coffee grounds from her father's stash, adds them to the mixture and whisks away.
/
Something went wrong.
She realizes it as soon as she looks into the oven.
The cake looks distinctly uncakelike.
Aelita stares at it through the oven door, bottom lip caught between her teeth. She isn't sure where she went wrong, but she must have gone wrong somewhere because it's sunken and oozing and cake shouldn't bubble like that.
Her father enters the kitchen ten minutes later to the sight of her sitting on the floor, dishes piled in the sink, flour and sugar dusting the countertop, and tears streaming down her face. The cake is still in the oven, hopefully baking and not becoming sentient.
"Aelita?" he asks.
She looks up, sees her father blink at the mess. He has dark, purple-gray circles around his eyes and he's in yesterday's clothes still. Fresh tears threaten to fall because she knows he's been up all night again; knows he's still trying to find her mother.
"I'm sorry!" she hiccups.
Her father runs a hand through his messy hair. He crouches down in front of her. "Come here, ma fée." His arms open wide and Aelita can only resist for a heartbeat before she's crawling into his embrace. Her father's arms close around her, hold her close and run trembling fingers through her hair. "What's all this, then?"
"I wanted it to be perfect," she hiccups. "For your birthday."
"Ah," he says, and falls silent.
She wonders if he remembers how her mother always got up early, always had a delectable birthday cake ready for breakfast. Chocolate-on-chocolate for her father and an almond-strawberry for Aelita – the icing always matching the shade of her hair.
"I messed it up," she continues. "I couldn't get the cake right!"
Her father's fingers comb through her hair, slide down to rest on her shoulders. Carefully, he pushes her back until he can meet her eyes. There's a sadness in his eyes that she's become familiar with these past few months. He cups her chin, smiles at her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he states. "This, right here, is the best birthday gift I could have. You, safe, creating memories we can laugh at later…"
He trails off and she fills in the words left in the silence: later, when your mother is back and we can tell her all about it.
"Come," he says. He releases her, stands and shuts off the oven. "We'll start a new tradition. There's a bakery in town, we'll go there for breakfast." He holds a hand out. "Come on, up you get. Go get dressed."
"Yes, Papa," she agrees. She takes his hand, lets him pull her to her feet.
"It will be alright, ma fée," he tells her. "Trust me."
. . … . .
Yumi's in the shower, getting ready for work. Aelita hovers in the kitchen doorway. Yumi had forbade her from touching the stove, or the oven, or the new stand mixer, and especially not the rice cooker. But there was fresh fruit and a blender, and honestly, what could she do with a blender that would be so terrible?
She takes yogurt from the fridge, rinses off berries, and peels a banana. She adds each of her ingredients to the blender, splashes in some orange juice for a dose of vitamin C as well. She hears the shower turn off, Yumi's voice carrying through the apartment as she sang along to the song playing through her speakers.
"Aelita?" Yumi calls.
"In the kitchen!" Aelita calls back. She hits the blend button without looking, already reaching for the cabinet where the glasses are kept. The blender whirrs to life as the bathroom door swings open.
Aelita yelps as cold, clumpy goo lands on her. She throws her hands up, warding off the sudden onslaught of half-blended smoothie. She fumbles with the blender, managing to finally shut it down. In the aftermath, she takes in the destruction. Half-liquified fruit and yogurt coat the cabinets, the countertops, drips off of Aelita's nose and soaks into her pajama shirt.
She hears a sigh and a stifled laugh. Turning her head, she sees Yumi, towel-wrapped around her hair, leaning against the kitchen doorway. She's smirking and shaking her head. "You're a disaster," Yumi states.
"I forgot the lid," she admits.
"I can see that." Yumi walks over to one of the cabinets, pulls out a towel and tosses it at Aelita. "I told you not to touch anything."
"You never said anything about the blender."
"Consider it added," Yumi comments. She pulls out her phone, snaps a picture of Aelita standing in the mess of breakfast fruit smoothie. "This is definitely going to the boys."
Aelita huffs, brushes sticky hair out of her face. "And I thought you were my friend."
"Oh, trust me, I am." Yumi turns back to the hallway. "I'm going to finish getting ready. You probably want a shower before your train!"
A moment later, her phone chirps with a new message from Yumi to their group chat. The picture of Aelita is accompanied by Morning mayhem. She sighs, turns back to her mess and begins cleaning.
. . … . .
Odd hums, sitting on a barstool and doodling on his sketchpad. Aelita can feel the back of her neck flush each time Odd glances up at her. Pauline must notice because she crosses her arms, frowns at her brother. "Go away," she orders.
"I'm not doing anything!" Odd protests.
"You're being distracting." She makes a shooing motion with her hand. "You aren't going to get the cupcakes any sooner by sitting there making puppy eyes at us."
Odd snorts, foot thumping against the counters. "Oh, trust me, I'm just here for the show." He flashes Aelita a grin. "Princess is a real wiz in the kitchen."
"Shut-up," she mutters. She throws a dishcloth at him, laughing when it tangles in his hair.
"Probably because you and your shark circling make her nervous." Pauline plucks the dish towel off her brother's head, frowns at him. "Go. Away."
"Fine, fine. Keep your shirt on, Polly."
/
Pauline has a lot of patience. Aelita wonders if it comes naturally, or if it's something she developed from looking after four younger siblings. Aelita mostly shadows Pauline as she bustles around the kitchen. The older girl sets her in front of a bowl of dry ingredients and places a whisk in her hand, instructs her to mix slowly and carefully. Once that task is completed, she's moved to the stove where a pot of water is heating up.
"Let me know when it starts to bubble," Pauline orders.
"Okay."
She's not quite baking, more assisting, and it's going well. She watches the pot, glances out the kitchen window to where two of Odd's sisters are stretched in the late morning sunshine. The grass looks soft from here and Aelita yearns to be outside. There's a hissing sound and she looks down to see the pot boiling, water foaming out to sizzle on the burner. She quickly lowers the temperature.
"It's boiling!" she calls.
Pauline appears at her shoulder instantaneously. She raises an eyebrow as she looks at the pot. "A bit much," she says, "but it should be fine." She places a glass bowl on top of the boiling water. It's filled with toffee-colored chips. Aelita jumps as Pauline thrusts a wooden spoon into her hand. "Stir that until it melts. Don't let it get too hot."
"Okay," Aelita repeats.
Pauline disappears back to where she's working on the cake. Aelita dutifully stirs the butterscotch chips in the bowl. Despite the heat from the boiling water, the chips are slow to melt and Aelita feels her attention drifting. She's not quite paying attention until she stirs a bit too hard, the spoon sticking to the clumps of half-melted butterscotch. The bowl tilts dangerously on the pot and Aelita reaches out quickly to right it.
Some of the mixture lands on the stove. Pauline is at the island, back to Aelita. Carefully, silently, Aelita nabs a paper napkin to run along stove top and clean up the mess she'd made. She isn't expecting the napkin to catch fire. She squeaks, knocking the bowl again and spilling more butterscotch. The paper towel burns brightly.
Without thinking, she tosses it at the sink. She only remembers the curtains when her aim misses and it lands on the countertop.
"What-?" Pauline questions, half-turning.
The smoke detector chooses that moment to start blaring. Aelita turns back to the stove, sees the black smoke curling up from the where the spilled butterscotch has blackened on the burner. Pauline grabs the hose attachment on the sink, spraying the burning paper towel and the dish towel it's ignited.
"What's going on?" Odd's father questions, entering the kitchen. He gently pushes Aelita out of the way and shuts the stove off. Pauline leans over the sink, opening the window and waving the smoke out the window.
Outside, Elisabeth and Marie look up from where they've been sunbathing. "What's going on?" Elisabeth calls.
"Nothing!" Pauline shouts back.
Odd appears then, suddenly standing at her shoulder. He pulls her out of the way while his father assesses the stovetop. "I'm sorry," she says.
Pauline sighs, brushes blonde hair out of her face, and stares at her. "I thought Odd was exaggerating," she admits.
"Never," Odd replies, affronted. "I tell nothing but the truth."
Odd's father snorts, but doesn't comment.
"I can help clean?" Aelita offers.
"That's alright. Odd, why don't you and Aelita take Kiwi for a walk?" Odd's father questions. "He's been yapping at the door since the alarm went off."
"Sure thing," Odd agrees. He slings an arm around Aelita's shoulders. "C'mon, Princess, before you set fire to the salt."
"Odd," she protests, but allows him to guide her away.
. . … . .
"Are you sure about this?" Ulrich questions. He's crouched down, hands poised in front of the door knob.
Aelita inhales slowly, swallows thickly. "No," she admits. "But it seems the thing to do." She shifts her bags of groceries from one hand to the other.
"I hear charcuterie boards are in," Ulrich comments, but he resumes picking the lock. Aelita hums noncommittally. "Alright, we're in."
He pushes open the door to the dining hall kitchens. They pause, listening for movement. The room is dark, deserted. Ulrich gets to his feet, steps in and feels along the wall until he finds a light switch. He flicks it on and they blink at the sudden onslaught of overhead lights.
"Right, this should be simple," she lies.
"Ai…" he pauses, rubs the back of his neck. "It's admirable, but are you sure? You don't want to accidentally give him food poisoning."
"That's why you're here."
Ulrich snorts. "Jer's doomed."
"Ulrich, please." She stares up at him until he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, sighing loudly. "Thank you!"
"Yeah, yeah, don't mention it. Come on."
/
An industrial kitchen is somehow more intimidating than Yumi's or Odd's kitchens ever were. It's impersonal, like a laboratory. Aelita feels at home in the sterile surroundings, but the machines are oversized and loom ominously.
"Do you know what you're doing?" Ulrich questions for the umpteenth time.
"Not a clue," Aelita replies easily. She sets out her ingredients – brussel sprouts, chicken, baguette, carrots, lemon…
"I'll handle the chicken," Ulrich announces. "No need to actually get food poisoning."
"Your faith in me is much appreciated," she remarks dryly.
"Years of experience," Ulrich counters. "Think you can manage sautéing the sprouts?"
"Yes."
/
Jeremie must see the text Aelita sends him during his robotics meeting because he shows up at her dorm at seven on the dot looking perplexed. Aelita can't suppress her grin as she blocks his view into her room. "Close your eyes."
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Nothing, don't you trust me?"
He looks momentarily conflicted. "Yes," he says, voice sincere, "but I also know Odd…"
"Odd's no where nearby. I think he and Ulrich are busy." Jeremie pulls a face and Aelita laughs. "Close your eyes, Jeremie."
He does as she asks and she reaches out, grasps his arm and pulls him into her room. She closes the door securely behind him, then guides him over to the space between her bed and desk. Carefully, she presses on his shoulders.
"Sit down." She helps guide him down, then takes steps carefully across the floor to take a seat across from him. "Okay. Open your eyes."
Jeremie's eyes open almost immediately. He stares, mouth opening slightly, at the makeshift picnic she's spread out on her floor. There's lemon chicken and sautéed brussel sprouts mixed with carrots, fresh baguette, and a small chocolate cake she'd picked up in town.
"Aelita, what? How?" He looks up at her, face pink and eyes wide. "Why?"
She grins at him. "I figured we should celebrate you getting into l'X."
A shadow passes briefly across his face, but disappears as quickly as it appears. He reaches for her hand, links their fingers together. "You did this?"
"Yeah." She laughs as he tugs on her hand. She sways forward, meets his kiss over the plate of warm chicken. Jeremie's fingers come up, brush her hair back behind her ear. He smiles at her and it's so painfully tender that her heart aches. "Well," she admits, "Ulrich wouldn't let me touch the chicken in case I actually gave us food poisoning, but the vegetables are all me!"
Jeremie laughs, soft and warm. "I love it. Thank you."
"You haven't even tried it yet."
He shakes his head, pulls her into another kiss. She smiles into it, loops her arms loosely around his neck and hopes they don't overbalance into the food.
. . … . .
Jeremie is passed out from a combination of too many late nights and a probably unhealthy amount of cough syrup when Aelita gets the craving for something sweet. She yawns, checks the time. It's eleven o'clock, not too, too late for a snack. She sets aside her laptop and the photos she had been editing in Photoshop, carefully slides out of bed so as not to disturb Jeremie.
She figures she'll see if they have some cookies tucked away behind the cereal, or maybe some fruit with Nutella, in the kitchen. However, when she opens the cabinet door, her eyes light on the boxed mix of blondies. She hasn't had blondies since the last time she visited Yumi and Yumi had made them special for her. Warm and gooey with melted ice cream and drizzled in Nutella…
Her mouth waters at the thought.
It doesn't take long to mix the wet ingredients into the boxed dry ingredients. They don't have ice cream, but she knows there's still some Nutella next to the honey, so she pulls that out for later. Yawning, she slides the tray into the oven and checks the time on the clock. Eleven-thirty. She debates on setting a timer, but she doesn't want it to go off and wake Jeremie. Their apartment isn't big and the sound carries. He's been stubbornly denying his cold for days now and she wants him to rest.
Instead, she curls up on the sofa and turns the television on low. She bundles into the throw blanket Louise had gifted them last Christmas and turns the closed captions on. She settles on an Audrey Hepburn movie and waits for her blondies to finish baking.
/
"Aelita. Aelita, wake up."
She groans, yawning. Her eyes blink open and she frowns at Jeremie's face peering at her. His eyes look wide and a bit owlish behind his glasses at this angle and his nose is a rosy red color. "Jeremie?" she murmurs. She yawns again. "What is it?"
"Er, were you making something?"
Instantly, she wakes up. "My blondies!" she shouts, sitting up quickly. Jeremie stumbles back to avoid getting hit in the head. "What time is it?" she demands, trying to extricate herself from the knitted throw.
"Six-thirty," Jeremie states.
"Oh my God!" She finally frees herself, stumbling into the kitchen. Jeremie trails her, sniffling through his stuffed nose. "Where are they?" she asks, noticing the empty oven.
Jeremie huffs slightly, opening the cabinet and gesturing at the rubbish bin. "I tried, but I think you successfully created cement."
Inside the rubbish bin, the pan of blondies lies. There are slight divots in the hardened baked good, as though someone had tried to chisel it away. Aelita flushes, runs her fingers through her hair. "I must've fallen asleep watching the movie."
Jeremie chuckles, closes the under-sink cabinet door. Before she can say anything, he's pulled her into a loose embrace, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I just wanted a midnight snack," she mumbles into his shoulder.
"Maybe stick to pre-baked snacks?" She groans, ignoring the way his shoulders shake with laughter. "We'll need to pick up a new pan at the store, we can get some ready-made blondies too."
"It's not funny," she protests weakly.
"It's a little funny," he counters. "At least you didn't catch a kitchen on fire this time."
"That was one time!"
Jeremie gives up the battle, shoulders shaking earnestly now as he laughs. His arms tighten around her and she sighs, burrows closer into him, and smiles against his t-shirt. "Hey," he murmurs, hands stroking her back, "it makes you human, not being perfect at everything. It's not a bad thing."
"Except when I set kitchens on fire?"
"Yeah, except then."
Translations:
Maman – mom
Ma lutine – my elf/pixie
Utilise ton imagination, chérie – Use your imagination, darling
Ma fée – My fairy