“There you are,” he greeted. “Okay, crush those saffron threads and then mix them in the bowl.”
After a moment of blank staring, I picked up the tiny bowl and mallet I assumed was meant for thread crushing and started pressing. It was a strangely satisfying exercise. Kile did most of the work, smothering the chicken with the yogurt mix and throwing it in the oven. The other teams were at various stages of prep as well, and in the end, the dessert was ready first, followed by the appetizer, and our entrée pulled up the rear.
Realizing belatedly that Kile and I should have made something to go with our chicken, we decided to use the wrapped asparagus as a side, all laughing at how poorly we’d planned this.
The whole lot of us crowded around one end of the long table. I was sandwiched between Burke and Kile, with Henri across from me and Fox at the head. Erik was slightly removed but still clearly enjoying the company.
Honestly, I was, too. Cooking made me nervous because it was totally foreign to me. I didn’t know how to cut or sauté or anything, and I despised failing or looking foolish. But the majority of us had limited experience, and instead of it becoming a stressor, it became a joke, making this one of the most relaxed meals I’d ever had. No formal place settings, no assigned seats; and since nearly all the china was in use for our very full house, we were using plain plates that looked so old, the only reason they could possibly still be here was sentimentality.
“Okay, since they were supposed to be the appetizer, I think we should try the asparagus first,” Kile insisted.
“Let’s do it.” Burke speared his asparagus and took a bite, and we all followed. It appeared the results were inconsistent. Henri nodded approvingly, but mine tasted awful. I could tell Fox’s was bad as well based on his poorly concealed grimace.
“That . . . that is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Fox said, trying to chew.
“Mine’s good!” Burke said defensively. “You’re probably just not used to eating such quality food.”
Fox ducked his head, and I gathered something I wouldn’t have known otherwise: Fox was poor.
“Can I try a bite of yours?” I whispered to Henri, using my hands and happy to find he understood without Erik’s help.
“Do you mind?” Fox replied quietly, and I pretended to be too focused on the food to hear him. And Henri’s piece actually was much better. “Who’s to say it’s not because of your cooking?”
“Well, maybe if I had a better partner,” Burke snapped.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Kile insisted. “There’s no way yours could be worse than ours.”
I giggled, trying to break the tension. I could feel Burke’s anger like an actual, physical thing hanging in the air, and I wanted nothing more than to return to the relaxed feeling we had when we’d sat down.
“All right,” I said with a sigh. “I think the first thing we need to do is cut each piece of chicken in half to make sure it’s cooked through. I seriously don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Are you doubting me?” Kile asked, offended.
“Definitely!”
I took a tentative bite . . . and it was pretty good. It wasn’t undercooked; in fact, some of the edges were a little dry where the paste hadn’t covered it all. But it was edible! Considering that I’d only done a fraction of the work, I was maybe a little too proud.
We ate, sharing pieces of the asparagus that hadn’t turned out too bad, though I genuinely worried I might be sick later.
Finally, I’d had enough. “I’m ready for dessert!”
Henri chuckled in understanding and went over to where his pastries were cooling on a rack. With careful movements, only using the edges of his fingers even though the rolls seemed firm, he transferred them all to a plate and set them in front of us.
“Is korvapuusti,” he said, giving the dish a name. Then, taking my hand, he gave me a very important speech; I could tell by the intensity in his eyes. I wished so badly that I could understand him on my own.
When he finished, Erik smiled and turned to me.
“Korvapuusti is one of Henri’s favorite things to prepare as well as eat. He says that if you do not like it, you should send him home tonight, for he’s sure your relationship could not survive if you aren’t as in love with this as he is.”
Fox laughed at my shocked face, but Henri nodded, assuring me he meant it.
I took a deep breath and picked up one of the delicately rolled pastries. “Here goes nothing.”
Right away I could taste the cinnamon. There was something else in there that reminded me of grapefruit . . . but I knew that wasn’t it. It was deliciously sweet, but more than it being a fantastic recipe, I could tell it was made by a fantastic chef. Henri had poured himself into this. And I was willing to bet part of that was for me . . . but I thought it was mostly for himself, that he couldn’t allow himself to make it anything less than incredible.
I was blown away. “It’s perfect, Henri.”