Arouse: A Spiral of Bliss Novel (Book One)

m learning a new language that includes words like braising, sautéing, and flambéing. Chef Tyler Wilkes discusses different ways to cook vegetables, stocks, and cuts of meat, the best uses of herbs, and the best utensils for various dishes. Today we’re making hollandaise sauce and learning how to poach eggs.

 

I smack yet another egg against the rim of the bowl and break the shell. Holding my breath, I pull the shell open and watch the egg slide out—a gloppy mess of whites and a broken yolk. Plus bits of shell.

 

Shit.

 

I glance at Charlotte’s station. Her egg is sitting all bright and shiny in the bowl, waiting to be poached, and her hollandaise sauce smells heavenly.

 

Double shit.

 

“You okay, Liv?”

 

I glance up at Tyler, who has stopped on the other side of my station. I wipe my hands on my apron and sigh.

 

“Yeah. Just can’t crack an egg to save my life.” I gesture to the trash bin, which holds the evidence of at least four decimated eggs.

 

“It’s okay,” Tyler says. “There are plenty of eggs in the world.”

 

“Doesn’t make it less of a waste,” I mutter.

 

“Look.” He comes around the counter to stand beside me and picks up an egg. “Don’t crack it against the bowl. Tap it on the counter until there’s a small dent, then hold it like this and press your thumbs in to pull the sides apart.”

 

He demonstrates and drops a perfectly formed egg into the bowl. Then he nods at me. “Your turn.”

 

If it was frustrating before, it’s even more so now with Tyler watching me. I break another egg too hard and poke my thumb right into the yolk.

 

“This is stupid,” I mutter, dropping the egg into the trash. “Can I make scrambled eggs instead?”

 

“Poached eggs with hollandaise sauce. You can do this, Liv.” He picks up another egg and puts it in my hand. “Tap it.”

 

I tap the egg against the counter until it’s dented. Tyler moves closer to me and reaches out, as if he’s going to put his hands over mine. Then he pauses and glances at me.

 

“Okay?” he asks.

 

Don’t be an idiot, Liv.

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

His hands settle around mine, his thumbs pressing against my thumbs.

 

“Slowly,” he says.

 

He pushes his thumbs and guides my hands to pull the crack apart. The shell breaks open gently, the whites and yolk slipping out fully formed into another bowl. No bits of shell follow.

 

“There.” Tyler steps back with a grin. “Save that one for poaching. Remember how to separate the eggs for the sauce?”

 

He continues to watch me as I break another egg and try to separate the yolk from the whites. Although he makes me a little nervous, I appreciate him letting me do the actual work. After a few attempts, I have four yolks in a bowl, and Tyler guides me through the sauce-making process again so the eggs don’t scramble and the emulsion doesn’t break.

 

“Okay, you’re ready to poach now,” he says, gesturing for me to pick up the egg in the bowl. “Keep the water just below a simmer.”

 

I lower the heat on the stove, swirl the water around with a spoon the way Tyler showed us, then hold the egg over the pot. I look at him.

 

“What do you think?” he asks.

 

“I think it’s ready.”

 

“Be gentle. Slide it in slowly.”

 

I slip the egg into the pot. We both peer into the bubbling mixture of vinegar and water as I use a spoon to push the whites over the yolk.

 

“It’s coming apart.” I point to the strings of white breaking off the egg.

 

“No, it’s fine. Just trim those after you take it out. Time it carefully, decide how firm you want the yolk. Don’t forget to use a slotted spoon.” He nods. “Looks good, Liv.”

 

It’s a little ridiculous how pleased I am at the compliment.

 

 

 

 

 

“Poached eggs with hollandaise sauce.” I set the plate in front of Dean and watch as he examines my offering.

 

In the four days since learning this recipe at cooking class, I’ve tried to make it twice at home. This is my third attempt. The sauce is too thin and grainy, but I hope Dean doesn’t notice.

 

“Looks good,” he remarks.

 

“Supposedly a French classic. Took me forever to learn how to crack an egg.”

 

He takes a bite. I chew my thumbnail.

 

“How is it?” I ask. I’d tasted it myself (Taste your food being one of Chef Tyler Wilkes’s oft-repeated mantras), and thought it was okay, but this is the first time Dean is sampling anything I’ve made. Actually, it’s the first real dish I’ve cooked for him.

 

He coughs and reaches for his coffee. “Good. Uh… salty and… lemony.”

 

“I added more lemon juice and cream to try and fix the sauce, then salted it again at the end.” I pick up my spoon and try it. My tongue twinges with the bite of excess salt and sour lemon. “Damn. I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay. It’s good, Liv.” Dean gamely picks up his spoon again, and I love him for it, but I reach out to take the plate away.

 

“I’ll try again another time. Toast and cereal coming up.”

 

I turn away from him and scrape the eggs into the trash.

 

 

 

 

 

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