Chapter 17
Ten balls of stroopwafel dough sit by the oven, doing something that means we can't cook them yet.
"The yeast is a surprise ingredient to me," I say. "I would never have guessed it was in them from the stroopwafels you sent me a few months ago."
"It was a surprise to me too," he says. "And I asked the pastry chef in Wafeland about it, and he said something about the rise and the taste." Nate grabs a cloth and comes over to wipe the table, but stops when he sees me and lets out a laugh.
"What?" I ask.
"You have flour on your cheek," he says.
"So do you," I reply, even though he doesn't.
"No, I don't."
Feeling playful, I swipe my finger through the pile of flour still on the table and dab it against his nose. "Now you do."
His eyes are full of laughter as he looks at me. "What was that for?"
"You said I have flour on my cheek," I say.
"You do." He reaches out and brushes it away with his thumb, the touch feeling far more affectionate and like it means far more than it does.
I catch my breath. He's just brushing away flour. It doesn't mean anything other than that.
Except that it feels like it does. The air around us feels heavy with something I don't recognise, but want to explore.
Nate clears his throat and pulls back, leaving me with a disappointed feeling within me. He brushes the flour off his nose and wipes down the table.
"We should be about ready to make the stroop," he says, a strange note in his voice.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"I'm fine," he says. "Do we have everything we need?"
I frown, feeling as if things aren't fine, but not really knowing why.
Instead of questioning it, I look over the ingredient list printed in his neat handwriting, and check against the things we've got, including the jar of keukenstroop that arrived with my cousins earlier.
It's been a long time since I've tried any.
Curiously, I pull it towards me and open the lid.
It's thick and dark, and mostly smells sweet.
"Here," Nate says, holding out a spoon to me.
I take it from him and touch the edge to the syrup to get a little bit to try. My eyes widen as it hits my tongue. "It's not as sweet as I thought."
"No. But it will be when we've added a load of sugar."
"And butter, and cinnamon. That's going to taste good. Are we making a caramel?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "It shouldn't go that far." He measures out the ingredients into a pan and takes it over to the stove. "You should also bring the waffle iron, we'll need to heat it and then brush it with butter."
"Does it need rebrushing between each of the stroopwafels?" I ask, grabbing the iron and bringing it over to the stove.
"No, it should be fine without, they've got enough butter in them."
Nate lights a stove for himself and does one for me too. The whoosh is enough to draw Ember's attention, but she soon settles back down.
"She's probably disappointed that we haven't been out to the ice house and brought her meat back," I muse as I place the waffle iron heat to start warming it.
"I can do that when we're finished. I need to go get the croissant dough to do another turn on it."
"Do you always make croissants this much?"
"It's one of my daily tasks," he says. "I find it gives me a lot of time to think."
"What do you think about?"
He looks at me, an intensity in his gaze that I don't think I've seen before. "Home." His voice cracks as he says the word.
"I'm sure your parents have missed you," I say.
"I'm not sure my father has." He gives the pot of stroop a stir, sending a sweet, rich, and buttery smell into the air. "But Ma has. It's been good to see her."
"Your father will come around," I say.
"Just in time for me to leave, no doubt." He pulls the stroop off the stove. "This is ready. You should grab a spoon if you want to try it, but be careful not to burn yourself."
"As if I'd do that."
He gives me a look that says he definitely thinks I might burn myself.
"I've learned a few lessons in the past five years too," I point out. "And I own a dragon now, that comes with burns."
"Hopefully none that were too bad."
"I only had to go to the doctor once," I promise as I dip my clean spoon into the stroop mix. I blow on it before putting it in my mouth. "Oh, that is very cinnamony."
"Is that a word?"
"It is now," I respond. "It's good."
"It is," he agrees as he sets up a station next to the stove. "All right, so I think you should do the cooking, and I'll do the slicing. At least until you've seen me do a couple."
"All right. What do I need?"
"Just the balls of dough and a timer for a minute."
"Are they done that quickly?" I'm surprised by that, especially with how dense the dough is and the fact that it's yeasted, but I trust that Nate knows what he's talking about.
"It's really quick. Once they're done, open the iron and I'll cut them in two and put the stroop between them. Then maybe you can have a go."
I nod, getting ready to start the cooking process. Excitement fills me at the thought, especially when this isn't something I've made before, but I do know what it's supposed to come out like. Those are my favourite kind of baking projects.
"Where should I put it?" I ask Nate as I hold one of the golden brown balls over the heated iron.
"Slightly more towards the hinge than the front," he says. "And then make sure you close it firmly. There's a latch on the end to keep it in place."
I nod and put it where he suggests, closing it and squeezing the handles together. Nate flips over the timer, and the sand starts to fall.
"Once half the time is up, flip the iron," he says.
"Half the time? Wouldn't it be better to have an hourglass for thirty seconds instead?"
"We don't have one here," he says. "I'll send you one when I get back to Wafeland."
His words are both sweet and torturous at the same time. I like the idea that he wants to send something to him, but the reminder that he's leaving still hurts more than I want it to.
"Evie," Nate says.
"What?"
"Flip it."
"Oh, sorry." I turn over the iron, but one look at the timer says that I've probably not done a good job at turning it halfway through.
When the sand finishes dribbling through to the bottom, I lift the iron off the stove and hold it over where Nate is working before releasing the waffle inside.
It falls to the mat, looking a little too dark around the edges.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, tears threatening to fall as I look at the waffle. I'm not really almost crying over a waffle, but I can see how it looks.
"It's fine," Nate assures me. "We've got nine more to try and make."
"I ruined it..."
"You overcooked it. Do you think I never do that?"
I bite my bottom lip.
"I can show you how to split it with this one?" he suggests. "It's probably going to fall apart because it's cooled for too long, but it'll be good to show you."
"All right."
He smiles reassuringly at me and picks up a knife.
He slides it into the middle of the waffle and spins it around while sawing with the knife.
Despite his warning, the waffle splits in two easily, and he pulls it apart to show me the perfectly white insides.
"Then you put the stroop on, leaving a gap around the edge," he says, showing me with a few gestures.
"Sandwich it together and press it a little bit until you see the stroop. "
"As simple as that?" I ask.
"Yes." He smiles. "Ready to try again?"
"I think so. I won't get distracted again." I can't completely guarantee that, but I'm going to try to. The last thing I want is to keep ruining the waffles.
I pick up a new ball of dough and place it in the position he told me to.
This time, I count in my head as well as watching the timer, and flip it at the exact moment needed.
My heart starts to race slightly as the timer approaches the last few seconds, and I have to remind myself not to pull it off too quickly.
Underdone is as much of a problem as overdone.
Eventually, I release the golden brown waffle to Nate, and he quickly slices into it, pulling it apart while it's still steaming. He adds the stroop and squishes the pieces together, creating a stroopwafel exactly like the ones he's been sending me.
We go through the same motions with the rest of them, the system becoming easier for me as time passes, and by the time we're on our tenth stroopwafel, I feel like I've got it down to an art.
I release the final one and turn off the stove, giving myself a moment to watch Nate as he works. I admire the way he works with such confidence, likely having done this dozens of times before, potentially more if the notes in his journal are anything to go by.
"All right, done," he says.
"What do we do now?"
"Eat one," he says, picking up a stroopwafel and holding it out to me.
"It's still warm," I say as I take it.
"That's when they're best. Though you can warm them up over a hot drink. A lot of people do that in Wafeland."
"I prefer this way," I respond, biting into the stroopwafel and letting the flavours linger on my tongue. The cinnamon is a lot less overpowering in this form, and the whole thing is delicious. "I see why Veronica wants more of these."
He laughs. "I can too."
"Though I don't think I'm going to be able to make them on my own." A hint of the former sadness creeps back in.
"You might be able to with practice," he says.
"But I'm going to have to do that alone." The words hang between us, taking away a lot of the sweetness created by the stroopwafel.
Going our separate ways is going to be something we have to face sooner rather than later, and I'm not looking forward to it one little bit.