Me: I don’t have an apron.
Olivia: You can borrow one.
I arrive at Wilder and Olivia’s house bright and early with my first successful sourdough starter in a mason jar. I’ve been working on it ever since Angie said she had a craving, and it finally doubled in size… whatever that means. It has a weird bubbly texture and the tangy smell Olivia told me to look out for. She’s been helping me with Operation Denver Coloradough, but we’re keeping it hush-hush for now.
I find Olivia in the kitchen with a bunch of ingredients and tools laid out on the island. She’s wearing one of her pink frilly aprons, and there’s a matching one draped over the back of a nearby stool.
I set the starter on the counter and pull on the girly apron,tying it around my waist. It’s way too short, and it hugs my belly the same way it cradles Olivia’s baby bump, but I’m too old to give a damn about how ridiculous I look.
“How’s my niece?” I ask.
She runs her hand over the top of her growing belly. “She’s very active lately. Lots of hiccups.”
“That’s a thing? Like… you can tell?”
Olivia giggles. “Yeah. It’s really weird. But also kind of cool.”
I make a mental note to ask Angie about it once our little one starts moving. God, I can’t wait to feel that first kick. I can’t wait for all of the milestones we’ll get to experience together.
I pick up a spatula and point it at Olivia with a dramatic flourish. “Ok. Teach me, oh wise one.”
Olivia slides a clear bowl across the counter, along with a scale and measuring cup. “The first rule of sourdough is patience.”
I pat my pockets, looking for a pen. “Should I be writing this down?”
“No need. I already wrote it down for you.” She pulls out a notecard from her apron and slides it into mine, giving my chest a tap.
Leave it to Olivia to have everything perfectly planned out.
“First, we’re going to mix one hundred fifty grams of Miss Denver here with three hundred fifty grams of water.”
“This is way too science-y,” I mutter. I can play the guitar, fix a car’s engine, even last eight seconds on a bucking bronco with or without a saddle, but this shit intimidates the hell outta me.
She shows me how to measure everything on the scale and hands me a weird-looking whisk with a wooden handle and a circular metal tip. Once it’s combined into an almost milkysubstance, she adds salt and flour, and I mix it again. Olivia’s nothing but patient as I make an absolute mess of things.
There’s flour all over the counter, and I’m pretty sure what’s left of Denver is starting to overflow out of the jar.
The sound of the front door opening and closing draws my attention. Wilder strides into the kitchen, his face pulling into a shit-eating grin as he bends to kiss his wife.
“Cute,” he says, gesturing at my apron. “Bet you’re glad you gave up your rodeo career for this.”
I narrow my eyes and flick some of the stray flour at him. “Fuck off.”
“Not a chance.” He pulls out his phone and snaps a few photos. Seconds later, the family group chat explodes with unwanted commentary.
Hayes Family Group Chat
Jaxon: The apron really brings out his eyes.
Mama: Is that sourdough starter?
Callie: Oh my god, are you making bread for Angie?
Me: How did you know?
Callie: Group chat. No men allowed.
Jaxon: Rude.
