Cooking with Him
By BloodRose
By BloodRose
The kitchen was a mess, but it was our mess. Flour dusted the countertops, butter smeared across the edge of the cutting board, and the faint scent of burnt coconut milk lingered in the air. I stood by the stove, stirring the custard mixture with the same patience I’d applied to a thousand cooking disasters.
He, of course, was a force of nature—slightly chaotic, a bit too carefree with his measurements, but undeniably good-hearted. He leaned over my shoulder, watching the custard thicken, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“You sure we shouldn’t add more sugar?” he asked, his tone that mix of curiosity and confidence that made me laugh every time.
“No. We’re fine.” I flicked a glance at him, catching the mischievous glint in his eye. “We don’t need more sugar. The recipe says it’s sweet enough.”
He grinned. “But you never know until you try.” He grabbed the sugar jar and sprinkled an extra spoonful in, despite my protest. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips.
“I don’t even know why I bother,” I muttered, but I wasn’t really upset. Cooking with him was never about perfection.
I lifted the custard off the heat just in time—just as the mixture started to bubble a little too enthusiastically. The burnt sugar smell from last time still haunted me, but this time, I knew what I was doing. As I poured the custard over the pressed rice, the warm scent of vanilla and coconut enveloped us both, and the chaos faded for a moment.
“Alright,” I said, trying to sound authoritative, “now we steam it again. Make sure the bamboo steamer has enough water this time.”
His face shifted slightly, a look of guilt flashing before he quickly masked it with a playful smirk. “Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he said, turning away to check the water level, but I saw him subtly trying to adjust the bamboo basket, hoping I wouldn’t notice.
“You didn’t put enough water in again, did you?” I asked, crossing my arms.
His sheepish expression was answer enough. I couldn’t help but laugh. “I told you last time, if you don’t add enough water, it burns. Remember the bao incident?”
He groaned. “That was an accident! I was distracted by your pasta sauce that had… too much cheese.”
“Don’t blame the cheese,” I shot back, pretending to be offended, but we both knew I loved his enthusiasm, even if it led to a little overcompensating with the cheese. The pasta sauce had been more of a cheesy disaster than a gourmet triumph, but I appreciated his heart in it.
“Fine, I admit it,” he said with a mock sigh, “I didn’t listen about the water. But at least we don’t have to steam bao again. That was a lost cause.”
I shook my head, reaching for the water jug. “This is the last time, okay? If you burn the rice dessert, we’re calling it quits on steamer food forever.”
He chuckled, his voice warm and familiar. “You know you love cooking with me. Even when I mess everything up.”
I glanced at him, our eyes meeting for a beat. “I do,” I said softly. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
We stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, the bamboo steamer now properly filled with water and perched on the stove. The custard steamed away, and despite the tiny disasters of the afternoon, I felt content. The dessert might not be exactly what the recipe promised, but I knew it would taste like us—imperfect, but sweet in its own way.
An hour later, we sat at the table, the still-warm dessert in front of us. The custard had settled into the rice, the sweetness a little more pronounced than it should’ve been, but it was surprisingly good. Not perfect, but it didn’t need to be.
“Well,” I said, taking a spoonful, “it’s not exactly what we thought it’d be, but it’s not bad.”
He laughed, picking up his own spoon. “Yeah, I’d say it’s a success. Maybe a little too much sugar, but… still edible.”
I raised my spoon in mock toast. “To disasters in the kitchen.”
“To disasters,” he echoed, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t mind that everything hadn’t gone according to plan. With him, even the messes were worth it.
He, of course, was a force of nature—slightly chaotic, a bit too carefree with his measurements, but undeniably good-hearted. He leaned over my shoulder, watching the custard thicken, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“You sure we shouldn’t add more sugar?” he asked, his tone that mix of curiosity and confidence that made me laugh every time.
“No. We’re fine.” I flicked a glance at him, catching the mischievous glint in his eye. “We don’t need more sugar. The recipe says it’s sweet enough.”
He grinned. “But you never know until you try.” He grabbed the sugar jar and sprinkled an extra spoonful in, despite my protest. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips.
“I don’t even know why I bother,” I muttered, but I wasn’t really upset. Cooking with him was never about perfection.
I lifted the custard off the heat just in time—just as the mixture started to bubble a little too enthusiastically. The burnt sugar smell from last time still haunted me, but this time, I knew what I was doing. As I poured the custard over the pressed rice, the warm scent of vanilla and coconut enveloped us both, and the chaos faded for a moment.
“Alright,” I said, trying to sound authoritative, “now we steam it again. Make sure the bamboo steamer has enough water this time.”
His face shifted slightly, a look of guilt flashing before he quickly masked it with a playful smirk. “Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he said, turning away to check the water level, but I saw him subtly trying to adjust the bamboo basket, hoping I wouldn’t notice.
“You didn’t put enough water in again, did you?” I asked, crossing my arms.
His sheepish expression was answer enough. I couldn’t help but laugh. “I told you last time, if you don’t add enough water, it burns. Remember the bao incident?”
He groaned. “That was an accident! I was distracted by your pasta sauce that had… too much cheese.”
“Don’t blame the cheese,” I shot back, pretending to be offended, but we both knew I loved his enthusiasm, even if it led to a little overcompensating with the cheese. The pasta sauce had been more of a cheesy disaster than a gourmet triumph, but I appreciated his heart in it.
“Fine, I admit it,” he said with a mock sigh, “I didn’t listen about the water. But at least we don’t have to steam bao again. That was a lost cause.”
I shook my head, reaching for the water jug. “This is the last time, okay? If you burn the rice dessert, we’re calling it quits on steamer food forever.”
He chuckled, his voice warm and familiar. “You know you love cooking with me. Even when I mess everything up.”
I glanced at him, our eyes meeting for a beat. “I do,” I said softly. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
We stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, the bamboo steamer now properly filled with water and perched on the stove. The custard steamed away, and despite the tiny disasters of the afternoon, I felt content. The dessert might not be exactly what the recipe promised, but I knew it would taste like us—imperfect, but sweet in its own way.
An hour later, we sat at the table, the still-warm dessert in front of us. The custard had settled into the rice, the sweetness a little more pronounced than it should’ve been, but it was surprisingly good. Not perfect, but it didn’t need to be.
“Well,” I said, taking a spoonful, “it’s not exactly what we thought it’d be, but it’s not bad.”
He laughed, picking up his own spoon. “Yeah, I’d say it’s a success. Maybe a little too much sugar, but… still edible.”
I raised my spoon in mock toast. “To disasters in the kitchen.”
“To disasters,” he echoed, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t mind that everything hadn’t gone according to plan. With him, even the messes were worth it.
toppings will be doneby me
