Benny returns to my side, wiping his hands dry on his apron. “I’m sorry to report that we are. Benny’s my nickname.”
“Really? Then what’s your re—”
“Let’s get started on these macarons, eh?”
He doesn’t want to talk about his real name. Duly noted. I’ll bring it up if he calls me Reese’s Cup again.
“How do you know that’s what we’re making?” I ask.
He puts a hand to his chest. “Chef,” he says in the same tone with which you would sayduh.When I raise a skeptical eyebrow, he adds, “In training. And it was a hunch based on the stuff laid out for us. Plus, it’s the example Margie used when pitching the video earlier. Enough chitchat, let’s shake ’n’ bake!”
Benny rubs his hands together excitedly and starts pushing bowls my way. I have no idea what to do with any of them, and while I hate to look like the student in this little production, he seems to actually know what he’s doing. Or he’s confident enough to fake it well.
“So I should probably just tell you I’m about as green as thesepistachios when it comes to macaroons. I’ve never even eaten one, let alone made—” I begin self-consciously, but Benny cuts me off.
“Macarrrons,” he says, throwing his hands up emphatically and rolling therfor longer than seems necessary. “Not macaroons. Important distinction, Reese’s Pieces. Two different cookies.”
I shake my head on an exhale, trying hard to keep my composure. “Right, well. Painful as it was to admit it the first time, I’ll repeat that I’ve still never had a macaron,so you’ve gotta, like, tell me what to do.”
Benny grins at me, then looks directly into the camera. “It would be my honor.”
He shuffles around more bowls and I mock-whisper to the imaginary audience, “Apologies in advance to, well, feminism as a whole.”
“Did you say something?” Benny teases, pushing the pistachios toward me with finality. “There are just so many recipes, so much knowledge in my head that sometimes it’s hard to hear anything outside it, you know?”
“Keep it up, Benjamin,” I say in the warning tone that my mamaw would use to tell my papaw that he should very muchnotkeep it up.
“Not my name,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Blanch those nuts.”
I cock my head to the side. “Do what now?”
He reaches for the flour and a sifter. “You’re in charge of thefilling, and first you’ll need to make pistachio paste. Fill a pot with water and bring it to a boil.”
Something tells me this is going to be a long and involved process. I’ve always known that even a supershort episode on Friends of Flavor is a highlight reel of footage that can take anywhere from hours to days to prep and film. But this is the first time I’ve considered what that could mean for Benny and me. I’d feel better about the prospect if I’d eaten lunch.
Benny tells some stories about trying macarons in France when he visited while spending the summer in Italy with his grandparents. I’m half listening while I wait for the water to boil. But mostly, his stories add to the insecurity I’m feeling right now. He knows complicated recipes off the top of his head; he’s traveled around Europe. I’m good at button clicking, sure, and I can handle my familiar comfort food recipes, but I don’t have his ease around a kitchen. And so far, I’ve felt in over my head in Seattle. I’ve never resented the fact that I haven’t been far out of the Southeast before, not when I’ve had the internet at my disposal for all kinds of armchair travel and self-education. For most of high school, I was desperate to leave—it’s why I applied to UW, just about as far as I could get in the States without having to fly over an ocean—but that was because of the people around me, not the place. I love Kentucky and dare anyone to hate on it to my face. But I have to admit to myself that right now, my upbringing makes me feel like some country bumpkin who’s out of her depth.
Benny recaptures my attention once the water is boiling and gives me the next few instructions. Put the pistachios in the pot,take it off the heat, let it sit a couple of minutes before draining. Then I should be able to rub the flaky brown skins off with ease.
“Easy there, Girl Scout, you’re not trying to build a fire. Gentle.” He puts his big, floury hands over mine and delicately flicks the skin off a pistachio to demonstrate. I flinch at the contact, momentary as it is, then let up on the pressure I’ve been applying to the cluster of nuts between my palms. They really do come apart with the lightest touch.
I’m pouring the nuts into the food processor when I notice Benny is already pulling a bowl out from under the stand mixer and starting to fold in dry ingredients by hand.
“Why do I feel like you’re way ahead of me?”
He gives me that lopsided smile. “Mine still have to bake. Relax, it’s not a competition. But if it were, I’d probably win.”
I push the processor button aggressively, like I’m trying to tune out his voice, but in my haste make a fatal mistake. Okay, not fatal, but messy.
I don’t get the lid fully locked in place.
It’s secure enough that the food processor still starts, but in the two seconds my finger is on the button, the lid goes flying across the counter, sending pistachio bits in every direction. Mostly, it seems, toward me. They’re in my eyes, nose, mouth, and all across the front of my ugly apron. Forgetting the nuts are edible and probably even taste good, I sputter and try to spit them out, stepping back from the counter as if the damage isn’t already done. As my senses return, I hear Margie, Charlie, and Benny…well, losing their shit.
After a moment, I drop my head and start to laugh too. The tears that come to my eyes help flush out some of the stray pieces that are stuck in my lashes, and I try to wipe off the rest of my face with the bottom of my apron. It takes a couple of minutes for everyone to regain composure. Benny is the first one to address me.
“You good, Hurricane Reese?” he asks, stepping closer and swiping once at his own eyes.
“Aside from being covered in green chunks and hugely embarrassed? Sure,” I offer with a reluctant smile.
