Chapter 23 Egg Yolk
Egg Yolk
Poppy
“Are you sure?”
“Poppy.”
“It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“Absolutely not.”
I sigh, sliding my phone into my apron pocket. “Fine. But just so you know, people have been asking for a pasta making video.”
“I’m teaching you to cook. Not the general populace.”
Jack’s scowling as he delivers that statement, like usual, but his words make me smile. I tuck my hair underneath my bandanna,
watching as he sets out a sparse number of ingredients: flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt. I’ve been gaining enough confidence
with basic cooking skills that he decided it’s time to level up—with pasta. My mouth waters at the mere thought.
And perhaps the fact he’s wearing his glasses today.
I may have hidden his contact lens solution this morning. Payback for him threatening to cut off the water when my shower went
too long. I know he knows, but he hasn’t called me out on it.
Somehow, we’ve shared the houseboat for an entire week. Seven days of close quarters, with relief only coming when he takes
his pillow and blanket above-deck to sleep. I’ve tried every night to get him to swap with me—I’d fit on the couch, however
lumpy—but he refuses.
I brought up finding a new apartment over breakfast the first morning. He said, quote, “Fuck no,” and that’s where we left it. Kiara offered to have me move in with her, in case I didn’t feel comfortable on the houseboat, but it’s growing on me.
Or maybe it’s Jack who is.
Things have been shifting, slowly but surely, since the trip to Horseshoe Island and subsequent Cockroach Infestation. It
isn’t just that it’s easier to be around him—my interest in cooking is ramping up with every lesson. He’s starting to think
about the menu in earnest, and it’s fascinating to watch him consult cookbooks and Sal’s old notes as he searches for ideas.
He was right. Learning a restaurant—and what goes into prepping its food—in and out has helped me understand how to present
it online. I’m itching to know more. To experiment. I’ve been trying my hardest this week to prove I’m worthy of helping with
the menu, not just the front of house.
I lean over the prep table, watching as Jack adds a scale and pasta machine to the setup. “What kind of pasta are we making?”
“I figured we’d start with some pappardelle.”
“Those are the noodles that look like worms, right? Flat and wide?”
“Really?” he says, an eyebrow lifting. “Of all the comparisons you could’ve chosen?”
“They’re basically tape worms,” I say cheerfully.
I know he’s amused by the way he rolls his eyes. “We’re using semolina flour for this. And a higher ratio of egg yolks to
whites.”
“Why?”
“Semolina is southern Italian-style. And more egg yolks make a richer pasta.” He gestures to the flour. “Weigh out three hundred
grams of that.”
As I weigh out the flour, he separates the egg whites from the yolks. He cracks each egg one-handed, with the ease of someone
who has done this a million times before. The motion is oddly mesmerizing; he catches me staring by the last one.
“What is it?” he asks.
I look down at the scale hastily. “Nothing. What’s next?”
“Let’s form the dough on the table. More space to work that way.”
Over the next few minutes, he shows me how to bring the pasta dough together, starting with a ring of flour, with space to nestle the eggs in the middle. We mix it with a fork, adding splashes of water when it starts to dry out.
“This is easier than I thought it would be,” I remark, once the dough has formed into a pale-yellow, half-crumbled paste.
He nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Wait until we roll it out.”
“We knead it first, right?”
“Yep. We need to bring it together all the way. And then it’ll rest.” He sprinkles a bit of flour on the tabletop before gesturing
for me to press together the half-formed dough. I cup it between my palms gently, liking the floury smell.
“It reminds me of Play-Doh.”
He huffs out a breath. “Were you the kind of kid who ate hers?”
“Regrettably.” I look back slyly. “The blue tasted the best.”
His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting a smile. He leans over my shoulder, his hands covering mine. A lick of fire goes through
me, settling in a decidedly inconvenient location. My toes curl in my sensible, kitchen-approved sneakers. I learned the other
day that the pine scent that clings to him comes from the beard oil he uses, and it’s all I can focus on now. Pine and salt,
and the nearly irresistible desire to shift my hips against his.
I force myself to stare at the dough instead. Now that I’ve thought of it as Play-Doh, I can’t get that out of my brain. Something
I’ve noticed I enjoy about cooking is how tactile it is. Actively doing something is much better for my ADHD than sitting
around thinking.
“Like this,” he says, guiding my hands to knead it. “Be gentle, but firm.”
I bite back a squeak. That has no business sounding so hot. I keep my gaze on the table, mimicking the movements Jack makes. Unfortunately, that just gives
me a front-row seat to the way his toned forearms are flexing. I refocus before doing something reckless, like leaning down
to nip one of his many tattoos. Slowly, the dough comes together.
“What does kneading it do?” I finally ask, trying desperately to focus on something other than the hard, muscular body brushing against my backside. If he’s realized where he’s touching, he’s either much better at ignoring it than me . . . or it’s not accidental.
I shake that thought away immediately. Begrudging awareness of attraction does not a crush make. He’s being professional,
like he always is in the kitchen. I’m the one wondering about dirty things, like if the bulge I keep noticing is as big as
it seems.
“It builds up the gluten,” he replies. He steps away, leaving me to continue kneading on my own. I swallow my disappointment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I think I notice him adjust his jeans, but it might be wishful thinking. “It makes it strong,
but elastic, so it’s pliable for when it gets rolled out. I’ll show you on the machine once the dough rests.”
We put the dough in the fridge and clean up the workstation. While I catch up on content creation—guiltily sending a call
from my dad to voicemail in the process—Jack goes out front to meet Herman; they’re working on painting the walls. He comes
back a little while later with a streak of blue underneath his eye.
My heart somersaults against my ribcage.
Apparently, rolling out pasta dough is nearly as satisfying as making it in the first place. Once it’s thin enough, we cut
it into strips by hand—using a ruler because Jack is nothing if not precise when he cooks. He directs me to portion out the
pasta while he goes into the walk-in, emerging a few moments later with a container of clearly homemade tomato sauce.
“When did you make this?” I ask.
“Yesterday, when you were out looking at glassware.” He takes out a saucepan, lighting the burner underneath it, and pours
in the sauce. He fills a pot with water, adding it to the stovetop on another burner.
“Fresh pasta only needs a few minutes to cook,” he says. “And I don’t care what anyone says about sodium content—you salt
the hell out of the water. Doesn’t taste the same otherwise.”
“Heard,” I say, laughing when he mimes dumping the entire salt well into the pot. “Speaking of glassware . . .”
“No.”
“But it’s so pretty!”
“Pretty and expensive.”
“That’s usually how things go together.” I sigh longingly as I think about the beautiful coup glasses that I tried to convince
Jack to buy for the bar. Each one is expensive, yes, but I’m sure we’ll have a signature cocktail for the pop-up, and they’d
look perfect in them. “Think of it as an investment.”
“Well, it has to be that or the steak knives,” he says. “And I vote we go for the steak knives. There’s no point in serving
top of the line protein if you don’t have the proper knives to cut it.”
“I mean, yeah. Or I could pay—”
“Absolutely not.” With the water at a rolling boil, he tosses in a portion of pasta, then turns to stir the tomato sauce.
“Get some parm from the walk-in.”
I do as he asks, but cross my arms when I get back to the kitchen, unwilling to let this go. “Why not? It’s my money, not
my family’s. I can invest a little in this too.”
“We’re working from my savings. That’s it.”
“Don’t be so stubborn. I want to help. “
His eyes soften as he takes out the pasta, setting it in a bowl graced with a dollop of tomato sauce. “You’re already helping.
I get why you’re asking, but no.”
“Fine. I’ll see if I can get the glasses in exchange for promotion or something.” I watch him coat the pasta in more sauce,
tossing it in the bowl with tongs. He finishes it with grated Parmesan cheese and a grind of pepper, plus a few torn basil
leaves. “And I’ll put in the order for those knives.”
“Great.” He offers me a fork loaded up with a bite. “Here, try it.”
I take the fork from him, covering my mouth as I chew. My eyes widen at the burst of flavor. The pasta is perfect. Utterly
fresh and toothsome, coated in a lightly scented tomato sauce.
“Oh my god,” I say as I hand back the fork.
“Yeah?”
“That’s incredible.” I laugh slightly, full of wonder. I’ve had pasta before, great pasta, but none of it would hold a candle
to this simple dish. “We made that?”
He gives me a self-satisfied look. “Yes.”
“We really just whipped that up in under an hour.”
He nods, taking a bite himself.
I stare at him in astonishment. Nearly everything I’ve tasted in this kitchen has been delicious—minus my rookie mistakes,
like burnt broccoli and dry chicken—but this is transcendent. It blows everything that we’ve made so far out of the water.
I drag him into a hug.
I don’t know what I’m thinking. The more accurate way to describe it, probably, is that I’m not thinking at all, but right
now, I don’t care. That tasted like a gift. A little slice of perfection.
He’s stiff for a beat, long enough I nearly pull away with an excuse, but then he returns the embrace, his big hands spreading
out over my back. I suppress a shiver, breathing in that pine scent, mixing with flour and tomato. My eyes slide shut. I focus
on his heartbeat—elevated, like mine—and his ragged breathing. When he hugged me at my apartment, it helped calm my panic.
This time, however? His embrace feels like approval.
“That felt like magic,” I mumble against his apron.
He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out strangled. “Yeah. Sometimes cooking is like that.”
He strokes down my spine once, lightly, before we break apart.