Not of being hurt again—no, not that.
What if I miss out on something extraordinary because I was too scared to reach for it?
I’ve survived everything else. I’ll survive love too.
From: [email protected]
I have an idea for a launch party. Call me.
THIRTY-FIVE
Nico
I’m aboutto shit my pants.
But at least I’m wearing them.
“Hey, everyone,” I tell the crowd of approximately one fuckin’ hundred, my voice only trembling a little. “Welcome in. My name’s Nico, and this isNakedReactions.”
Hawk Publishing had this fuckin’ idea for a launch party for the cookbook, that I do a live, fully clothed cooking demonstration for one of the recipes in the book, with a live Q and A session afterwards. So here we are, at this independent bookstore in Brooklyn, and I hope to freakin’ god I don’t shit my pants.
“Today, I’m gonna make you all brown butter grilled cheeses with hot honey drizzle,” I say, gesturing to my rig, the portable induction burners, the cast iron skillets, saucepan, my mise en place—all things I’m staring at ‘cause I can’t for the life of me look anyone in this crowd in the eye, “and hope it’s good enough to convince you to buy the cookbook.”
That gets a laugh, which spurs me on.
“First on deck is the butter,” I tell my saucepan, like it’s my emotional support animal. “Regular and unsalted. Alwaysunsalted, anytime you use butter. You want control over the salt levels.”
It softens, then melts, then begins to foam.
“Now, browning isn’t just melting. We’re cooking the milk solids. They sink to the bottom and toast. That’s what creates all those nutty, toffee-like aromas—Maillard compounds, lactones, all the good stuff. You’ll know it’s ready by the smell. Just follow your nose.”
I swirl the pot as the butter hisses, then sings.
“If it smells like something you’d pour on your naked body, it’s ready.”
Laughter detonates across the room. A few gasps. I look up and grin.
“Hawk Publishing saidfully clotheddemo. They didn’t specify the rating.” Someone fans themselves with a promo postcard.
If Annie were here, she’d be rolling her eyes.That’s the corniest fucking thing I ever heard, Nico.
Phones start to come up. I hear someone, someone old, whisper, “Wow, he’s hotandsmartandfunny,” and my soul leaves my body.
“Next, we gotta heat the pan.” I indicate to the knob on the induction burner. “Cast iron, always. Why? One, heat retention. Once it’s hot, it stays hot. Two, even heat distribution. No cold spots or patchy browning. You want a sear so even it looks airbrushed? Cast iron’s your guy.”
A camera shutter clicks. Someone goes, “Preach.”
“Now,” I continue, “brown butter tastes incredible, but it burns fast.” I lower the induction setting. “So we keep the heat medium-low to low when it hits the skillet. Those toasted milk solids? They’re flavor, but they’re fragile. Too hot, and they turn bitter faster.”
I swirl the browned butter in, slowly, carefully. The scent blooms, nutty, caramelized, intoxicating. Someone in the crowd mouths “Oh my god” like it’s a prayer.
“We’re not drowning the pan,” I go on. “Just giving it enough fat to crisp and conduct. Fat is basically an edible blanket. It insulates, browns, and carries flavor. Without it, you’re just burning carbs and your dignity.”
That gets another round of laughter. A girl near the front claps once, unironically.
I pick up the slices of sourdough.
