"You combine 200 grams flour, 50 grams sugar, and 100 grams unsalted, molten butter. You can add lemon zest from an organic lemon if you have one... this gives the crust a nice flavor. Then you knead and rub the stuff with your fingers until it's kind of grainy. Finally, you add an egg and knead it some more... this should turn it into a tender dough. A bit like shortcrust. You let it rest for at least half an hour, then you can roll it out on a baking parchment and transfer it to a large pie plate."
The dough in question was sitting snugly and silently in its plate on Art's kitchen table. Monica had prepared it in her apartment and brought it over for finishing the pie at his place.
"I..." Art hesitated. "I wouldn't have thought you know how to cook like that."
She grabbed a wooden ladle intended for the salad and turned to face him. "And what... my dearest, heroic neighbor... are you trying to say here?" Her dark eyes glittered as she moved the tool towards his nose.
Art held up his right hand and took a step back. Since his fall from the bridge, his will for survival had grown stronger, and he wasn't eager for death by ladle. But his escape was stopped short by his back making contact with the fridge. "I never thought that you..." He ogled her weapon in trepidation and sought for the right word.
She slit her eyes.
He finally found one. "I never thought you're a... homemaker."
Yes, homemaker has enough negative connotations. A safe word.
She didn't lower the tool, but the corners of her mouth twitched once.
"I may only be a waitress, but I know how to do pies."
"Yes, of course." Art tried to push the ladle away, but she made a threatening move at his fingers. He pulled his hand back. "I just didn't expect you to bake. Baking pies seems like something Adriana would do... or would have done."
Do they do pies in prison?
Any trace of a smile disappeared from Monica's face. "Adriana? Do you think she's more of a homemaker?"
The question felt dangerous, like a trap waiting to snap at him, but he couldn't put his finger on the exact nature of its threat.
"Yeah, she's a homemaker as in... someone who's spending lots of time at home, cooking, and baking."
She tilted her head. "And, do you like that in a woman?"
Art scratched his head. "All the things I like in a woman stand right before me."
Darn... maths is definitely easier than talking to this girl.
"Okay." She lowered the tool. "But..." She tapped it against the cast enclosing his left forearm, the not-too-gentle knocks making his mending bones rattle. "...be warned, my wrath doesn't spare cripples. With me angry, you wouldn't be as lucky as with that bridge. There won't be any fluffy snow drift giving your ass a soft landing." She turned away from him, put the ladle back onto the table, and started scattering ground almonds onto the dough.
Art let go of the air trapped in his lungs. "It wasn't exactly soft, my landing... I was knocked unconscious, and Jake thought I was dead."
"Of course... my hero."
Dead...
What was on the other side of death? What happened when biochemistry broke down, and synapses stopped their restless firing? Whatever it was, Art had decided that it could wait—there was so much yet to be discovered and explored on this side of it.
"Would you get the zwetschge, dear?" Her sweet and innocent voice was one of the things to be discovered and explored. "Open them for me?"
"The... tswedgke?"
YOU ARE READING
The Egg at Dumstreet
Mystery / Thriller[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex. The university he works for has fo...
