"Now we make the filling," she announced.
"This involves cooking?"
"It involves mixing. Even you can't ruin mixing."
"That sounds like a challenge."
"It's not a challenge. Please don't take it as a challenge."
"Too late."
The mincemeat filling was already prepared—a mixture of dried fruit, spices, suet, and brandy that smelled like Christmas concentrated into a bowl. Marianne showed him how to roll out the pastry, how to cut circles, how to fill and seal the pies.
"You're putting too much filling in."
"You said to fill them."
"Not to capacity! They need room to breathe."
"Pies don't breathe."
"Metaphorically they do."
"You're making things up."
"My kitchen, my rules."
"That's tyranny."
"That's baking."
By the time they'd assembled two dozen pies, half of what was needed, Alaric had flour in his hair, mincemeat under his fingernails, and a new appreciation for the complexity of what had seemed like simple food.
"These look..." Marianne tilted her head, studying their work. "Rustic."
"That's a polite way of saying ugly."
"I was going for diplomatic."
"They're geometrically inconsistent."
"They're individually unique."
"They're disasters."
"They're... well, indeed, they're disasters. But they're edible disasters."
"That's my new life saying. 'Edible disasters.'"
"Could be worse."
"How?"
"You could be an inedible disaster."
"The day is young."
Marianne laughed again, and Alaric realized he'd lost count of how many times he'd made her laugh this morning. It was becoming something of an addiction, the way her whole face lit up, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.
