Chapter 7 #3
“No, what that is, is a monstrosity.”
I studied the poor, crumpled twist of dough sitting on the tray.
“It’s just different. A little misunderstood, sure, but that doesn’t make it wrong.
Not everything has to be some symmetrical, bakery-window supermodel.
This pretzel right here? It’s a rebel. It refuses to twist itself into society’s idea of what a pretzel should look like.
Honestly? Inspiring. Besides, once it’s golden, warm, salted, and in our stomachs, we won’t care what it looked like, only that it tasted good. ”
“You do realize most people just bake the pretzel, right? They don’t give it a backstory.”
“Maybe they should,” I shot back. “Maybe that’s what baking is lacking. I’m what you might call a doughmestic partner. Where you knead dough, I knead meaning into its existence.”
“Luke, you should be ashamed of yourself. I’m filing for doughvorce.”
“Ha! I knew you had it in you. The power of the pun cannot be denied.”
“Don’t get too excited. That was a one-time lapse in judgment,” he warned.
“Nope. Too late. You’ve crossed into my territory now. You’re knead-deep in it.”
Oliver groaned. “No. No more puns. I’m begging you.”
“And if I don’t stop, what are you gonna do? Bake up a plan to stop me?”
“Or maybe I’ll just . . .” He trailed off, hand reaching into the bag of flour and throwing it at me.
The white dust hit my chest in a soft poof.
We both froze. Oliver’s eyes went huge, like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.
Within milliseconds his expression crumpled, his hands raising in a defensive gesture, like he expected to be hit for daring to have fun.
His mouth opened in what was sure to be an apology.
But I didn’t give him the chance. Grinning, I reached into the bag of flour. “I see how it is,” I said, tossing a pinch of flour at him.
He blinked in shock as the flour dusted his shoulder. “You did not just . . .”
“Oh, I did,” I said, scooping up another handful.
“You’ve declared war.”
“Correction, I accepted your challenge.”
That was it. All bets were off.
Faster than I expected, Oliver reached for the bag. I sidestepped, narrowly dodging what would’ve been a face full of flour. My counterattack landed square on his chest. “Bullseye!” I yelled triumphantly.
Flour flew everywhere. The air went hazy white, catching in the light like we were trapped in a snow globe mid-shake. My entire front was dusted over. His too.
“Okay, okay!” I said. “Truce, before we both suffocate or summon a chaos demon or something.”
Oliver froze mid-throw. He looked down at the disaster we’d created on the counters, and floor, and every innocent nearby appliance. “We made such a mess.”
“Worth it. I mean, look at this teamwork. This is peak bonding activity right here. Level one housemate initiation complete. Achievement unlocked.”
“Yeah, well, you’re on your own for cleanup.”
“Hey now, you threw first! This is a joint crime scene.”
“Yes,” he said, smirking. “And I’m the one recovering. I’m supposed to be relaxing. Weren’t those your exact orders?”
Ah, hell. Reality clicked back in. “Crap, you’re right. Okay, deal. I’m on full-scale cleanup duty once we finish these pretzels and get them in the oven. You, my friend, are officially benched. No lifting, no bending. Not even a finger.”
“Luke, I wasn’t serious.” He glanced around, half smiling. “I’m not going to leave you to clean this up on your own. That hardly seems fair.”
“I’m sure it’ll balance out down the line,” I said. “These things always do. And who’s keeping score anyway? If it makes you feel better, you can oversee the job, boss me around, tell my how crappy my technique is.”
“As enticing an offer as that is, how about you cover the floor, and I’ll handle anything within upright reach.”
Hmm. Stubborn streak. I could respect that. He wanted to be useful, I got it. If moving around a little helped him feel normal again, I wouldn’t fight him on it.
“Alright,” I said with a nod. “That’s reasonable. We can clean up this disaster zone while the pretzels are baking.”
“Glad you can see reason,” Oliver said.
Cheeky. I dug it.
“Man, look at us. Tackling the next hurdle, housemate negotiations. I told you I had a good feeling about this arrangement.”
He rolled his eyes, but I caught the hint of amusement he tried to hide.
“Seriously, though, we didn’t get too carried away, did we? You didn’t hurt anything?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. “A little sore maybe, but as my new housemate might say . . . worth it.”
Brushing off my shirt, I said, “Well, now that we’ve both risked our lives in the Great Flour Uprising, care to enlighten me on the sacred art of the pretzel twist before I invent some new pastry abomination?”
“Alright, let me show you how it’s done,” Oliver said.
Guiding me step by step, he demonstrated again how to roll the dough. I mirrored him as best I could. This time the result resembled an actual pretzel, even if one loop sat askew.
“Look at that,” Oliver said, leaning in to inspect it. “It’s almost respectable. Almost.”
“Sheesh, everyone’s a critic,” I muttered as I placed my pretzel into the bath of baking-soda water. Adding a quick brush of melted butter and a generous sprinkling of sea salt, I then placed it on the parchment-lined tray.
One after another, we continued the assembly line.
“Alright,” Oliver said, slipping the tray into the oven and closing the door. “Timer’s set.”
Ten minutes later, with the kitchen restored to spotless order, floor swept, countertops gleaming, dishes drying, the pretzels came out.
“Look at these beauties,” I said. “And see, even my deformed pretzel turned out alright. Would you believe it? The little rebel pulled through.” Taking it from the tray, I inspected it.
The twist veered off-center, the base leaned lopsided, but it had become a pretzel.
“I knew it could do it. I had faith. Never doubt the underdog.”
Oliver chuckled beside me. “Well, the true test, as you declared, is in the tasting.”
“Let’s find out, then.” I tore the pretzel in half, revealing the pillowy interior. A plume of fragrant steam escaped from the center. I handed one half to Oliver, then took a bite of my own.
Salt hit first, followed by the richness of butter, and then came the bread itself. Soft, warm, with a hint of nutty flavor.
“As I foretold . . . delicious.” I took another bite. “Way to go, partner! Our first joint task as housemates is a resounding success. Here’s to many more.”
“I . . . yeah, I had fun. Thank you for this. I can’t remember the last time I felt this at ease.
Even when things were good with Vincent, in the back of my mind I always braced for the moment it reverted back.
I think that’s why I held onto the good moments so tightly, because inevitably they would end. He always ended them.”
“I accept your gratitude, but I also need you to hear this. You shouldn’t have to thank anyone for making you feel safe. That’s the basement, not the ceiling of what you deserve. It’s the foundation every relationship should be built on. I’m sorry that hasn’t been your experience.”