I hold up the paper with my clean hand. “Beating the butter like it says to do.”
Okay, now he’s laughingat me. Full-fledged belly-laughing with tears forming at the edges of his gemstone eyes.
“What is so funny?”
“With a mixer,” he chokes out, trying to catch his breath. I’m glad I’m a fucking clown to him.
“It doesn’t saymix.” I point to the paper with so much force I nearly tear it. “Mixers are supposed to mix. It’s in the name.”
Calmer now, he snaps one of the extensions off the mixer.
“Great, now you’ve broken it,” I say. “We’re never going to get this right.”
“I didn’t break it. It’s an attachment, and it’s called a beater. You beat with a beater. Didn’t you read the part where it says ‘on medium’?”
“I thought that meant the pressure. Like when you knead dough. I don’t know. I’m new at this!” He’s swapped his smirk for a tickled grin. “Wipe that look off your face. I’m trying here!”
“Whatever you say, Rocky Balboa.” He taps me out and starts in on the properbeatingtechnique. It’s like the damn maul all over again. I hate how useless I seem to him.
As he adds the vegetable oil, he asks, “Not much of a baker, huh?”
“Nope,” I huff. “Not even atthis time of year.” I hate all those Hallmark movies that show this as some sort of yearly ritual that all familiesshoulddo. As if my parents and I don’t have better things to accomplish than baking something we could buy at the store that will probably taste a million times better.
He measures out one cup of powdered sugar from a clear, blue canister. “This time of year? Dude, don’t tell me you’re a Hashtag Holiday Hater.”
Hating Christmas is the one way I get to manage my familial expectations. I don’t get my hopes up over silly traditions or false illusions of togetherness. It’s safer than admitting that as a child I used to bleed red tinsel for this entire month.
“Speaking hashtags out loud should be illegal,” I retort when I’ve regained my bearings.
“You’re not denying it.”
“What are you, one of Santa’s helpers sent to see which list I should be put on?” My defensiveness fires up. “News flash: it’s the naughty one! That’s why I’m here serving my sentence. Can we drop it?”
“Just saying it’s weird you’re trying to throw a Christmas charity gala if you hate—”
“I said: Can we drop it?” I’m surprised when my eyes well up. I turn away quickly, blinking back the sudden-onset flooding. It’s unnatural and unfair that my emotions get to pick and choose when they show up to the party.
“My bad, dude.” And without another pause, we’re back at it. “Egg?” he asks. I swipe one from the yellow carton in the fridge, tap it lightly on the side of the bowl, and watch the gooey contents land in what will soon be our dough. Not even a fleck of shell falls in. “Didn’t know how to beat butter, but you can crack an egg no problem?”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve had a cocktail with egg in it.”
“Oh, I’ve lived a thousand times over thanks to my dad’s coquito.”
“What’s coquito?”
“Puerto Rican eggnog with rum. It’s coconuty and cinnamony and amazing. My family can’t get enough of it.” His expression grows pensive at the mention of his family, brows knitting together.
“What I wouldn’t give for a strong drink right about now.” My mouth waters. I’m thirsty. Both in the parched way and the from-looking-at-Hector’s-thinking-face-too-long way. “I do—ordid—plenty of entertaining, so I know my way around a cocktail mixer.”
“You mean a shaker,” he corrects.
“Whatever! Same difference.”
I cut open a tea bag with a pair of scissors from a nearby drawer, getting horrific flashes of Mom going to town on my Amex card, while Hector adds the flour. To my dismay there’s no comical mishap where the bag explodes and his face gets powdered. It would be nice to laugh at him for a change.
To avoid further conversation, he reaches for a clean bowl to start the icing in. He forces me to take the lead, telling me, “You can’t possibly mess this one up.”
Four ingredients get mixed together, and before I know it, the texture firms up into something resembling icing, stringy and sweet. By the time I’m done, we’re scooping out the dough onto a baking sheet and sticking it in the oven. Fifteen minutes later, humming along to the Christmas tunes I’d forgotten I knew the melodies to, we’ve got cookies, lightly brown around the edges, a little burnt on the bottom. Not terrible for two novice bakers.
