“Probably not well, but I know that my mom always sifted things. I wanted to sound smart,” I admitted.
Georgia smiled and squatted down, coming up three times, placing a different container in front of me each time.
“This is...” I shook my head, my kitchen prowess fleeing by the second.
“Flour. Sorghum, tapioca, and white rice.” She tied an apron around her waist and tossed one to me.
“I ... um...”
“This is a gluten-free bakery. I don’t use wheat flour at all. So, listen carefully, or you’ll fuck it all up...”
Georgia
Keeping his mind off of that letter was working, even if it was at the risk of opening myself up more than I wanted to. More than I needed to.
The look on his face last night, and then again on the swings, was too painful to swallow. If he wanted to talk about my bakery and his reasoning for why the theme was what it was, I’d allow it.
“I’m listening.” He didn’t make funny faces or weird noises when I uttered the phrase “gluten-free,” so we were seemingly off to a good start.
“How much do I use?” He tied his apron around his narrow tattoo-free waist and waited for instruction.
I placed the sifter and a large stainless bowl in front of him. “A cup of each, then add in a half teaspoon of baking soda and a half teaspoon of salt.”
“Salt?” His lip curled up in question.
“You have to put salt in baked goods, or you won’t taste it.”
“But that’s such a small amount for all of that flour.” His eyebrows pulled in as if we were in a chem-lab. We were, sort of.
“Trust me. Add the flour and baking soda. Then I’ll scoop out a few tablespoons and we’ll make one muffin without the salt. After they’re done, I’ll show you the difference.”
I take my salt seriously.
“Okay.” He shrugged and started carefully measuring the flour, dispensing it into the bowl with equal caution.
I moved to the large stand mixer in the corner of the kitchen and began creaming the butter and sugar, adding the eggs one at a time.
“What’s the name?” Regan asked.
“Of?”
“The bakery. There’s no sign out front.”
“Oh ... there isn’t one. I couldn’t decide.” I cleared my throat at the questioning of an interloper in my sanctuary.
One I’d invited in, but that doesn’t always matter when your soul is inches away from total exposure.
“What about Mad Hatter’s, or something?”
“Too obvious.”
“Yeah. This is all sifted. Do you have coffee? I swear I smell coffee.” The adrenaline rush of the ocean and the decor of the bakery seemed to be waning in his voice.
I pointed to a ledge behind him. “Right there. Cream and milk are in the fridge, sugar is over there.”
“I think I need black today.”
I chuckled. “I get it. I have days like that, too.”
Most days, really.
“How long have you been baking?” Regan yawned as he brought the bowl over to where I was. He leaned against the counter and loudly slurped his coffee.
I began the process of adding the dry ingredients to the bowl, scooping in yogurt between additions.
“Forever, it feels like. My grandmother was always in our kitchen, especially on Sundays, and she’d make sweet breads, brownies, cookies, muffins, sandwich bread. All by hand. After church I’d spend all day planted on a stool next to our island.”
“Church?” Regan tilted his head to the side. Interrogation was exhausting.
I nodded. “Yeah, you know, church. Sunday. Jesus. Crown of thorns and all that?” I drew an imaginary circle around my head with my index finger.
“I get it...”
“Anyway, baking has always been a meditative and especially rewarding escape.” Once the ingredients were all combined, I went to the deep freezer to pull out a bag of blueberries I’d picked and frozen over the summer. “Like music for you, I guess.”
Regan sighed. “Yeah. I don’t know what I would have done most of my life without it.”
“Did it start as an escape for you?”
His lips twisted. “What four-year-old needs to escape something?”
You have no idea.
“You know what I mean,” I huffed, hoping he hadn’t read too much into my question.
He didn’t seem to. “At first I was really proud. Excited. I got a lot of attention because the violin came so easily to me. I worked hard because I wanted to be better. To get more attention.”
Using an escape to get attention was foreign to me on every level possible. But, he’d just said he hadn’t started out on the violin to escape.
“After a while,” he continued, “it became a self-fulfilling escape, if that makes sense. All of the praise I’d received and all of the pride I had in myself grew to pressure in no time.”
I pulled out a fresh muffin tin, handed Regan a small ice cream scoop, and took one for myself. I scooped some of the batter up, clicked the handle to pour it in the tin, and looked at him. “Like this. So, pressure?”