Kitchen Chronicles 1

“This is like zesting leather,” Macaron cringed; glancing into the stainless steel bowl that he had sitting on a damp cloth on the counter in front of him. The lemon shavings felt like sawdust between his fingers; not the almost oily peelings that a decent lemon would produce. The lemons Kaitod had in his little hole-in-the-wall of an apartment (“It’s an absolute steal: the landlord is practically letting me live here for free!”) must have been a month old or more; dried into hard, yellow golfballs. Macaron regretted not bringing fresh lemons from home.

“I figured they should be used up before I bought any more,” commented Kaitod as he lamely pressed the flour, butter, and confectionery sugar mixture together with a wooden spoon.

For reasons unknown; Macaron had agreed to teach Kaitod how to bake lemon squares. The crust felt like a safe project for Tod; yet somehow he had spilled half of his mixture onto the counter twice (scooping it back up each time and returning it to his bowl), and it still wasn’t as incorporated as it should be as there were still large chunks of butter.

Macaron struggled through his second dehydrated lemon, thanking his lucky stars that he had been proactive enough to at least bring his zesting grater from home.

Macaron frowned as he worked—not an accurate representation of his mood; that was just his face. Kaitod ******iled and hummed as he tried to press the butter into the dry ingredients alternating using the spoon and his fingers. He glanced up at his friend, grinning because of Macaron’s company in his little postage stamp kitchen. Macaron did occasionally crack a ******ile or ******irk in his friend’s company, but only if Tod was looking away or Macaron was facing a different direction: the last time Macaron had been caught, it caused Kaitod entirely too much joy to be the cause of his best friend’s ******ile.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the scraping of bowls and the muffled music from Kaitod’s dingy Bluetooth speaker (“Once I sell a big piece, the first thing I’m going to buy myself is a really nice sound system. Like, I know this one sounds terrible, but it’s my motivation to work hard and improve.”).

Mac was pleasantly surprised that the insides of the lemons were still juicy, and once he had squeezed them he only had to add a little of the bottled lemon juice he had brought.

“Tsk, that lemon juice tastes awful,” grimaced Tod.

“What lemon juice?” Mac glanced up to see his friend gesturing to the bottle, sucking in his cheeks as though the sour liquid was already in his mouth.

“The name is a scam: it should be called ‘Fake Lemon’—it just tastes sour, not like lemon at all.”

“Lemons are sour,” was all Macaron said in reply, glimpsing Kaitod’s unimpressed expression—though he raised his eyebrows for a moment as though he conceded to Mac’s statement. The chef bit the inside of his cheek to quell the ******irk that he could feel tugging at his facial muscles.

“What is that…?” Kaitod queried in a teasing tone, peering into his friend’s face. “Is that a —are you ******iling?”

Mac dipped his face, chin to chest, hiding it as best he could until he stayed his features. “No, I’m not ******iling.” He said, finally looking up again to reveal his stony expression.

“******iling won’t hurt you,” Tod shrugged, returning to his mixing task.

“Yes, it will; like sugar hurts your waist—“ Mac’s hand darted out as he uttered the last word and poked his friend’s stomach; knowing that the other man was ticklish.

“HEY,” Kaitod jumped, damn near squealing at the contact. He saw Mac rubbing his lips together to stave off a laugh and thought that his best friend wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought he was. He shrugged, shaking off the tickle he could still feel against his tummy. “But they feel nice,” he eventually added.

“What ‘feels nice’?”

“******iling,” Kaitod answered Mac, looking up at him “Eating sweet things,” Mac stared at his friend a long moment, not quite believing the other man’s cheesiness. He rolled his eyes, picking the whisk up from the counter as he quickly began to beat the lemon and eggs together until there was a thick layer of foam on top.

“The filling is done and you still haven’t even finished the crust, which we need to pre-bake.” Mac pretended to huff, crossing his arms over his chest and blinking at Kaitod.

“Is this ready now?” He asked, holding the bowl up for the expert to inspect. Mac peered into the bowl; it looked pretty good, like fine crumbs. He nodded, pushing the glass dish that the squares would be baked in towards Tod.

“You want me to press it in?”

“Why not; your hands are already covered in flour and butter.”

Kaitod poured his mixture into the glass dish, pressing it down with his palms; hesitating only for a moment as Macaron reached over and pushed up the artist’s sleeves.

“Thanks, Mom,”

“Shut up,”

When Kaitod had pressed the crust out firm and as even as he could, Mac pricked it with a fork before placing it in the little countertop oven that looked about forty years old. It looked recently scraped clean, but that and the fact that it, technically, still worked were its only two positives. They had argued about it before (“It looks like a fire hazard, and look—something fell off into the pie!” “It still works; I’m not getting rid of it just because you think it’s ugly. And you can just pick that off—see, no harm done.”), just like they’d argued about paint brushes in the sink when Mac had come over other times to make things for his friend.

“Ugh,” Macaron groaned the third time he was putting the lemon squares back into the oven after testing to see if the filling was baked, “These are taking forever—if we had done this at my apartment — in a real oven! we could already be eating them by now.” Through the grease-flecked oven door he scowled at the unattractive indentation his finger had made in the yellow custard. Kaitod didn’t say anything, he just gave Macaron a slight hip bump as the other leaned on the counter watching the progress within the little machine on the countertop. He didn’t want to push his luck and say to his friend that watching it would make it take longer.

The final rays from the setting sun penetrated the room. Pink and purple was the dim light that crept through an alley between two buildings that blocked Kaitod from having anything of a view. On days it was not overcast, this was the most beautiful view he would get—a street-ushered late sunset. Looking past the crack in the ceiling, or the cheap appliances he picked up (or old, nearly heirloom, pieces handed down from an ailing family member), he was content in this apartment. Being neither spacious nor overly comfortable, he passed little of his free time there.

The sink had held more paintbrushes than dishes, and the living room had no tv but instead an easel. Kaitod admitted he spent more on paints and charcoals than on various curios to lazily place on shelves. He glanced again at his friend, noticing a becoming sheen on Mac’s face as the chef rested his head on his arms as he kept watch of the squares. Air from the oscillating fan rumpled the fringe on Mac’s forehead, while seconds later Kaitod felt it ruffling his own, longer, locks.

Ding. The timer on Mac’s phone went off again, and deftly he put on his green oven mitts to grasp the burning hot glass dish. While the pastry chef checked the steaming topping again with a soft tap of his finger, his friend leaned over him as he fussed to get a better ******ell of the buttery, lemon sweetness that now perfumed the air. It was one of the major draws to having Macaron come over and teach the artist how to bake simple things — the aroma that would fill his little abode. In five hours he might be working on a preliminary sketch into the wee hours, but the tiny room would still be as aromatic as a patisserie.

Their mouth’s watered, but the lemon squares were still too hot to cut. Instead, the boys stood shoulder to shoulder, picking at the countertop’s peeling linoleum and watching the scented vapour rise from the gamboge confection. After a few long minutes, Macaron was dishing them up two piping hot, crumbling slices. Impatience being Kaitod’s virtue, he burned his tongue seconds before his best friend did. They opened their mouths with a pained gasp, exhaling puffs of steam as though they had transformed into dragons. Kaitod burned his throat, but Macaron cut the rest of his square into tiny pieces and blew on them.

It was messy, but the crust melted on the tongue while the sour citrus caused them to suck in their cheeks. The powdered sugar meant to be sprinkled on top was forgotten until six pieces had been consumed by the pair, each slice getting progressively cooler and developing even more flavour.

“Those were better than the cookies we made last time,” Remarked Kaitod once they had cleaned up the kitchen and sat basking in a sugar-haze at a rickety kitchen table the artist had quickly removed his paints from.

“Agreed,” The other replied with a nod of his head that rested against his table-propped hand.

The chef had his eyes closed and he ******iled. Kaitod wondered if his friend didn’t know he was ******iling. He chuckled, glad that a sugared and spiced Macaron was a happy Macaron.

“What do you want to make next time?”

Kaitod thought for a moment, feeling full and tired. “How about eclairs?” He eventually mused.

“Beyond your skill level,” Mac snappily retorted. “How about tiramisu?”

Kaitod pretended to consider the compromise; as if there was anything to really have to mull over when he clearly knew—as Macaron knew, too—that tiramisu was his favourite.

“Okay,” he pretended to concede, poking the inside of his lemon-puckered cheek with his tongue. “But only if we get to make the cookies from scratch.”

Macaron raised his eyebrows and then scowled, “They’re called ladyfingers,” As if sensing Tod’s next comment he quickly added: “And we’re baking at my place this time—“

“What—no way!” Tod whined to his friend, “We’re always at your apartment doing stuff—watching movies, having sleepovers—“

“At this rate, you should just move in—“

Macaron’s eyes shot open as the words slipped from his mouth, and the friends sat there agape, staring at one another. Neither could honestly claim they hadn’t thought about it or, heck, even wanted it.  especially when they had been commuting between apartments just to hang out during the week now that they were no longer on nearby campuses.

“Did you just ask me to move in with you?”

“What!?” Mac spluttered. “No—that wasn’t—I mean I don’t know,” he hesitated, “…Maybe?”