“Honestly? She looked relieved that it was just me.” He walks through the doorway and shows me the three eggs as if they are prized possessions, and they kind of are. Two brown and one blue.
“Perfect,” I reply. “I’m going to teach you how to make omelets. Have you made them before?”
“Made them, yes. Ate them, no,” he answers.
I nod my head. “All right, well, you’ll need asmall onion from the cabinet, the half block of cheese from the fridge, and six eggs. Normally, I would make them with red bell peppers, some fresh garlic, crispy bacon, and my favorite gouda cheese, but we’ll make this work. Promise. You’ll need a cutting board, knife, bowl, whisk, small frying pan, and a spatula, if you want to gather those up.”
“Got it.” Then he’s a blur around the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets like he’s even unsure where these basic cooking necessities are located. But finally, his movements slow, and he comes back into focus with an eager expression peeking out from behind his beard.
I grab the bowl, whisk, and three of the eggs. I begin cracking them into the bowl.
Boone’s shadow is soon blocking any light from behind, and his warmth is radiating as if he’s fire himself and the flames are licking at my skin. “Shouldn’t I be doing this?”
“I’m going to make the first one so you can watch, and then you can make the second,” I explain, trying to keep my hands steady as I crack the second egg. “Do you mind getting some milk out of the fridge?”
He takes one step over toward the fridge, retrieving the milk in seconds. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “I like to just put a drizzle of milk when whisking my eggs. It makes the omelet a little fluffier.”
Then I go to work chopping onions, trying not to think about how Boone is watching my every movement. I know he’s not judging me and that he truly wants to learn, but his gaze is incredibly intense, as if this is much more serious than making a simpleomelet. As if I’m performing some kind of life-saving surgery.
I quickly have everything ready to go and turn the burner on. “Okay, we only have butter to work with since we couldn’t find any cooking oil, so we want to cook at a very low heat, which is fine because the trick with cooking an omelet is finding the perfect temperature that allows the egg to not cook too quickly while the ingredients inside of it have enough time to melt together.”
“Oh,” Boone sighs. He’s taken to leaning up against the small kitchen wall with his arms crossed, making his muscles quite literally look as if they’ll rip his flannel shirt.
“Oh?” I question as I make sure the butter coats the pan entirely.
“Yeah, I always cook everything on high. It gets done quicker, right?” he admits while he shrugs his shoulders.
“While there are a few foods that are great done quickly, the best things take a little extra time at lower heats. It makes things more tender and flavorful.” I try to explain while carefully pouring my whisked eggs into the pan, hearing the soft sizzle as they hit the pan.
“Was that statement just about food or about life?” he questions.
“What?” I watch as the egg thickens enough so I can add in the onions, cheese, and spices.
“It’s just the way you said it made it seem like it could be applied to things other than food.” He pushes himself off the wall and takes the two short steps over to me, looking into the panat what I’m doing.
“I guess other things in life are better when they’ve had a little extra time,” I muse, not wanting to compare myself to a pan full of eggs, but aging could kind of be that way if you allowed it. I’ve been watching my friends for the last several years reject the idea of getting older, as if aging is some kind of curse and not a gift. But I am approaching the age in which my dad had died, and I want to feel what he didn’t get the chance to.
Am I getting better with extra time? I sure hope so.
“It smells amazing,” he comments, inhaling deeply as he stoops over my shoulder, once again invading my personal space and making carbon dioxide reside a little too long within my lungs.
I fold what appears to look like an egg tortilla in half, allowing it to fully form into what it needs to be, clearing my throat. “See how the egg isn’t burnt at all on the outside? It’s perfectly fluffy, expanding as the ingredients inside cook, too.”
He nods his head, his breath heavy above me.
“Plate, please?” I request with my hand held out.
A chipped floral plate that has seen better days is soon heavy in my hand. I take the spatula and gently lift the omelet, sliding it effortlessly onto the dish.
“Your turn,” I say, handing over the spatula.
Nerves stretch out the skin around his eyes, and his eyebrows shoot up in protest. “You’re going to coach me, right?”
“Nope,” I reply. “I’m going to eat my omelet over here while you make yours.”
I strut over to the small kitchen table, lowering myself down to the chair with a smirk stitched on my lips.
