"Because there's a difference between simple and easy. Rather like the difference between observing and doing."
"You're never going to let the observation comment go, are you?"
"Not in this lifetime."
She showed him how to measure flour, how to cut cold butter into small pieces, how to rub the butter into the flour until it resembled breadcrumbs. His first attempt resulted in something that looked more like lumpy snow.
"You're overthinking it," Marianne said, watching him work. "It's meant to be intuitive."
"Nothing about this is intuitive. Why are we rubbing butter into flour? What's the scientific principle?"
"The scientific principle is that it works."
"That's not science, that's faith."
"Welcome to baking." She moved closer, reaching around him to demonstrate the proper technique. "Like this. Light touches, quick movements. You're not trying to strangle it."
She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her and smell that cinnamon scent again. Her hands covered his, guiding them through the motion, and he found himself paying far more attention to the contact than the pastry lesson.
"Mr. Fletcher, are you listening?"
"Absolutely."
"What did I just say?"
"Something about strangulation."
"Of the dough, not in general."
"Ah. Important distinction."
"Are you always this impossible?"
"I prefer to think of myself as challenging."
"That's one word for it." But she was smiling as she said it. "Now, add water. Just a little—no, that's too much!"
Water went everywhere. The dough, which had been cooperating marginally, turned into something resembling paste.
"What did you do?"
"Added water, as instructed."
"I said a little water!"
"You didn't define 'little.'"
"It's intuitive!"
"We've established that I lack baking intuition."
"You lack all intuition. How much water did you add?"
"The amount in the jug."
"The entire jug?"
"You didn't specify a partial jug."
