“You’re not. I have the next few days off work anyway.” He didn’t need to know I’d requested them off to be around for him. “Why don’t you take that time to think about it? But just know, I’m in no hurry to kick you out.”
“You’re sure?”
“A thousand percent. If it helps at all, I want you to stay. This place isn’t like the fancy schmancy digs where you were living, but I got the room and you’re welcome here. I mean it.”
“Your place is a bit more my style. Vincent is the one for flashy and showy displays.”
“Well then, that already means this is a better place for you, don’t you think?”
“Right,” he replied, fidgeting, looking increasingly uncomfortable. I didn’t know if it was the mention of Vincent, the talk about sharing this place, or that he was just overwhelmed by the entire situation.
“Tell ya what. I want you to rest and take the time you need, but I also know how rest can flip into getting stuck. So, when the world becomes heavy and everything feels like too much, what’s one thing you do that helps?”
“Well, I do yoga, but I think that’s off the table for the time being.”
“Yeah, can’t imagine that body contortion and mindful breathing would feel too hot right now. Is there anything that isn’t quite so physical we could do?”
“I umm... I guess, something else I like to do is bake. It’s meditative. It gives my hands something to do, my brain something to be distracted by. It’s creative in a way. I don’t always follow the recipe. I improvise a lot. I decide the rules, or break them without punishment. When I’m baking, I’m... free.”
“Baking. Fantastic! Well within our current situation limitations. What’s your go-to comfort food?”
“Soft pretzels. They’ve always been one of my favorites.”
“A top-tier comfort carb. Hugs in edible form. What’s not to love? How ’bout it? You up for our first joint task as housemate best buds?”
“You’re serious?”
“Hell yeah. Why not? You can show me the ways of pretzel perfection. I promise I’m coachable, and if all else fails, I’m an excellent taste-tester.”
“Yeah, alright.”
He followed me into the kitchen.
“Alright,” I said, opening the cupboard doors. “Let’s see what we’ve got. What mystical ingredients does the art of pretzel making require?”
“Nothing mystical. We’re going to need yeast, flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and oil.”
“I’m reasonably sure I’ve got most of that,” I said, squinting at the shelf. “Baking soda might be a toss up. Yeast too, unless past me had the foresight of a prophet. If I don’t have those, though, I can make a quick run to the store.”
Shuffling aside half-used spice jars, a tin of cocoa powder, and a canister of breadcrumbs, I reached into the far corner and came up victorious.
“Ah-ha! Yeast! Unopened too. Behold its unexpired majesty! And wait for it... yes! Baking soda. We are in business.”
Oliver walked me through the other items we needed and the first steps to getting the dough started. “Next we’ll stir in a tablespoon of sugar,” he said after we’d added warm water and yeast to the mixing bowl, reaching for the canister and measuring it out. “The yeast feeds on the sugar. It helps it activate.”
“Feeding the yeast,” I said. “Got it. The little guys need breakfast too. I respect that. Awaken, noble microorganisms. Your moment has come. How do I know it’s working?”
“You’ll see bubbles. Foam. That means it’s alive.”
“I see, we’re looking for a party in a bowl. Good. I prefer my yeast lively and spirited. I’m a fun-gi like that, get it?”
“You sure are something,” Oliver teased. “Do you have kids?”
“Nope, no kids, no romantic partner either. I’m a one-man rodeo.”
“You could have fooled me with all your dad jokes.”
“Listen here, my dad jokes are awesome. I happen to have learned from the best, my dad himself, so you know they’re certified.”
