“Pepper flakes,” I say, and my voice is rougher than it should be for a cooking lesson. “A pinch.”
She sprinkles them in with a hand that isn’t quite steady.
“Turn down the flames and chop the parsley,” I add.
She does, faster now, a little more confident.
“Add it,” I say, then the timer on the pasta goes off. “Now taste the pasta.”
I reserve a mug of pasta water while she does.
She pulls one strand out, blows on it, and bites. “It’s still hard.”
“It’s close,” I correct, and the corner of my mouth lifts. “But it needs two more minutes. Which is exactly when this broccolini needs to go in.”
I scoop the broccolini from the counter and drop it into the boiling pasta water. Bright green blooms almost immediately.
“That’s all it needs in here,” I say. “We’re not killing it.”
I set a second skillet on the stove and heat it until it’s properly hot for a good sear.
“This part is mine,” I tell her, and I feel her relief in the fact that she doesn’t have to do it.
I add a thin slick of oil, then lay the shrimp in one by one. They hit the pan with a hard sizzle.
“Don’t touch them,” I say. “Or you won’t get a good sear.”
I flip them after a minute, note the pink center, browned edges, then pull them off before they go rubbery.
“Okay,” I say, setting them aside. “Now the broccolini, then you can drain the pasta.”
I pull the broccolini out with tongs, and she takes the pot to the sink.
“Slowly or it will splash at you,” I tell her as I slide the broccolini into the hot skillet with a little oil, salt, and a squeeze of lemon.
I toss it once, twice, just to get a little char at the tips.
“The pasta goes into your skillet.” I watch carefully as she tosses it in. I throw in a splash of the starchy water and hand her the spoon so she can stir.
“Now taste,” I say.
I watch her lips as she takes a bite, her throat as she swallows.
I watch the concentration on her face soften into surprise. “It’s good.”
And I think, wildly, dangerously: I could live like this. Every night. With Elsa, in the kitchen, cooking together.
“What now?” she asks.
“Does it need anything?” I ask.
Her brows draw together. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had this.”
“Use your instincts,” I say. “What do they tell you?”
She takes another bite, concentrates on it.
“Maybe… something fresh?” She makes a face at herself. “I don’t know what that means. Ignore me. You taste it.”
