He takes another step closer and my smile drops. Our faces are less than a foot apart. But before I can react, he reaches up and his fingers are on my face…pulling a piece of pistachio from my eyebrow.
“There,” he says softly, stepping back. “There’s still more where that came from, but mostly in your hair. And might I say, green is your color.”
I let out a choked cough, still surprised by the close contact with this near stranger and not impressed by his poor attempt at flirtation. I turn away and gather my blond-with-temporary-green-highlights locks up into a high ponytail. I can write off any remaining chance of looking cute in this video.
Clearing his throat, Benny asks, “Would this make you feel better?”
I look over in time to see him dipping a finger in his light green batter and smearing it like war paint in a single stripe under each of his eyes. I laugh in spite of myself and shake my head.
“You look like you’re fixing to play a St. Patrick’s Day football game, while I was caught in an explosion at the Planters factory.”
His head falls back as he laughs and before I know it, he has more batter on his fingers and reaches over to put two stripes under my own eyes. “When the nut factory explodes at noon but you have to play in the big game at one.”
I shake my head, but I’m fighting a laugh, too. I notice Margie twirling a finger in a “wrap it up” motion, so I try to regain control of the situation.
“Okay, we can do this,” I say, shaking myself to refocus on the task at hand.
Benny takes a deep breath and turns back toward his side of the counter. “Yep. Your ’stach stash is down by about half, but that’s fine. They’ll just be more creamy than nutty.”
I finish processing the pistachio paste with the lid fully on, and Benny starts piping his batter onto a cookie sheet in neat little circles, giving me further instructions as he goes.
The rest of the prep goes off pretty smoothly. He supervises cream production while the cookie parts of the macarons bake, and both finish almost simultaneously. While the cookies are cooling, the camera keeps rolling. Margie and Charlie are talking with each other and not really paying attention, so Benny and I both relax a bit. We use the time to pick at the cookies with air bubbles that cracked while baking, popping little bites in our mouths. They are light, sweet, and delicious.
“These are good,” I admit before I can stop myself. I clearmy throat and try to backtrack. “I mean, seriously, did they give you a recipe before this? Believe me, I’m not trying to pump your tires any more, but there’s no way you just knew all the steps on the fly.”
One side of his mouth quirks up, a dimple appearing in his cheek. I blink back down toward the cookies quickly. Up close like this, the boy’s face is dangerous. Which he absolutely knows.
“No recipe, thank you very much. My parents own an Italian restaurant in San Francisco, where I’m from. Pops runs the kitchen for the most part, all the entrées and stuff, but desserts are all Ma. Her specialty is cannoli because, y’know, Italian, but she went through a French pastry phase a couple of years ago. Our kitchen at home was like a macaron factory for months while she perfected her recipes, and my brothers and I were her line workers. I’ll probably remember how to make macarons even if I get to be old and decrepit and forget my own name.”
I smirk at that. “So what you’re saying is that you got lucky.”
“Oh, extremely. No matter what ingredients were here, we would’ve had to find a way to make ’em into pasta or pastries. It’s all I got.” He pauses, then adds, “But with your newfound skills at putting the lid on the food processor, who knows what we’re capable of?”
“Cute,” I deadpan, feeling around my hair for a piece of debris. When I find one, I throw it at him.
Benny laughs as he dodges, then leans over to check on his cooling cookies. Margie and Charlie return their attention to us.
“All right,” Benny says finally, rubbing his hands together. “I think we’re ready to pipe.”
I hold the frosting bags while he spoons the cream in, then we each take a bag and half the cookies. I watch as Benny does his first couple, hesitant that I might mess something up again.
“Learning from the master, eh, Reese’s Cup?” he says cockily without lifting his head from his work.
I roll my eyes and lean over to start doing my own. I’m about to squeeze out the first dollop when Benny’s voice cuts the silence again. “The trick is to be fearless. The macaron can smell your fear.”
“I think my only fear was making a fool of myself, and that one already came true, so…”
“Nothing to lose!” He fist-pumps with the hand not piping.
I start piping,fearlessly.In a matter of minutes, we’ve each made our own share of little cookie-sandwich-y macarons. Without planning it, we both pick up one of the delicate desserts and turn to each other.
“Cheers,y’all,” Benny says with a wink that looks to be more for me than the camera. I narrow my eyes again, but tap my macaron against his and we each take a bite.
And for a dessert made by one near-novice and one semi-apprentice working entirely from memory? They turned out damn good.
I say so through a mouthful, then slap a hand over my mouth, cheeks reddening. “You probably can’t say ‘damn’ on a video,right? Cut that out, please. My mama will fly to Seattle to stick a bar of soap in my mouth.”
Benny makes a sound halfway between a cough and a laugh. “Wait, are you serious? That’s a little 1800s. She never actually did that, did she?”
