Page 20 of The Gingerbread Cafe
Their red cheeks deserved something warm after that chilly walk, so she went to the cooker and put the flame under theGlühweinshe’d been tasting earlier. She remembered her mum warming her hands around a glass of it at the Christmas markets, orChristkindlmärkte, where they’d spent many of her early Christmases – although Gretel had always loved the non-alcoholicKinderpunsch.She couldn’t help a touch of disappointment when Lukas gently shook his head. IfGlühweinwas far too Christmassy for him, she’d have to sip his too.
The smell of red wine, orange and spices began to intoxicate the air in the kitchen, making Gretel feel heady enough for a little sass. ‘So you didn’t tell me the second rule of working in a kitchen. Anything to do with keeping a spoon in your back pocket?’
He turned to look at her and she felt her icy cheeks fire up like an oven. Although it wasn’t there today, she’d often wondered about that spoon she’d seen sticking out of his back pocket. Now it seemed like she was into checking out his bum – which she obviously wasn’t. It wasn’t her fault if shiny things caught her eye.
She was sure she noticed the shadow of a smile accompany his slightly too long stare.
‘It’s my tasting spoon.’ He moved to his backpack and pulled it out.
She pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. It had a spoon bit on each end, like a two-headed monster. It pleased her that she wasn’t the only one with odd quirks.
‘Yes, very funny. It’s double-ended. Some might say two heads are better than one.’ He shook his head and busied himself, filling a clean food waste bag with cremated gingerbread limbs. ‘Not that there’s much worth tasting around here. How have you got this so wrong? It’s just basic gingerbread.’ Yet his tone was gentle.
Gretel sighed as she gave theGlühweina last stir and poured it into one solitary glass mug.‘But it’s not, though, is it? Nothing Nell ever made tastedbasic. Even her standard gingerbread people hadsomething else. I’ve been trying so hard to recreate that, even though I have no idea what thesomething elsewas. She didn’t leave a single recipe. I just want to try and do her justice.’
Lukas stopped what he was doing. ‘I can’t pretend to understand what the hell Nell was thinking, the dear old girl.She knows I can’t stand Christmas, for a start. But I’m guessing if she wanted you to morph into her, she would have left you instructions. Maybe there’s some merit in trying things your own way. Whatever Nell was doing, it wasn’t exactly working for her. This place was a ghost town for most of the year.’
‘My own way? I seriously don’t have one.’ Her eyes found the floor.
‘So did you follow some sort of recipe?’ He waved an arm over the murdered biscuits.
She shrugged. ‘I found something online. But I was trying to use some artistic flair to make the gingerbread people taste like Nell’s. They were always so … sweet?’
Lukas winced. ‘The second rule about working in a kitchen is that cooking’s a science before it becomes an art. Until you know what you’re doing, just follow the recipe. You can get creative once you’ve mastered the basics.’ He went back to clearing up incinerated body parts.
‘I don’t come from a background of cooking or baking,’ she admitted. They’d rarely had a proper kitchen to call their own, until they’d settled in the village. ‘The way I grew up didn’t really allow for it.’
He raised an eyebrow.
She didn’t usually share things about her childhood, but she missed her family more than ever today. She took a few sips of the spicy warmGlühwein. ‘Before we moved to Mistleton I travelled a lot around the Christmas markets of Europe with Mum. I lived on waffles and pastries and doughnuts dunked in chocolate. And the special treats from the Austrian markets. Like these.’
Gretel was making her way to the cupboard before she could think better of it. Did she really want to share her last few biscuits? She’d ordered them for herself and she wasn’t used tosharing. ‘Vanillekipferl. They’re Austrian biscuits. Mum always said it wasn’t Christmas without them.’
He walked over, peering inside the packet. ‘Can I?’
She nodded, quietly thrilled she was introducing him to something new and strangely keen for him to like them.
Lukas assessed a crescent moon-shaped biscuit and took a bite. ‘Mmm. Buttery, like a shortbread. Somehow infused with vanilla, and something else …’ He held a finger in the air. ‘Ground almonds? Yes! With a melt-in-the-mouth texture and a generous dusting of vanilla sugar.’
He had some of it around his mouth. She tried not to giggle.
‘Delicious. Right. I think I’ve got this.’ He began moving around the kitchen, gathering ingredients, stopping at times to tap the worktop whilst he thought, and then weighing things into glass bowls, ready to do who knew what.
She wanted to feel annoyed at him inviting himself to recreate her favourite biscuits, and at how effortless he made his baking preparations look, even without a recipe. She always struggled to get Nell’s funny old-fashioned scales to stop wobbling about and actually balance, and she couldn’t go near a packet of flour without a full-scale snow disaster.
Yet for all the panic she usually felt in a kitchen, there was something cathartic about watching him work. He was peaceful, creative and … happy?
‘Mind if I mix things up and add a touch of ginger and spice?’ He looked up from the work he’d been immersed in, his eyes genuinely questioning.
‘Erm … if you like?’
Gretel found herself watching his hands as he worked. She blushed, realising she’d be mortified if someone was observing her so closely whilst she was trying to create. But he simply looked up absently and apologised, saying he ought to explain things, in case she wanted to make more of her own.
‘I’m kneading the mixture into a dough,’ he said, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards, his hands working the floury, buttery mixture in the bowl. ‘It takes a bit of time. Respect the dough, but be firm with it.’
Gretel usually found this part, when the ingredients looked like a load of crumbs that would never stick together, frustrating and gungy. She often gave up and chucked it into the mixer, sometimes adding more liquid so it would just hurry up. Against everything she would have expected of Lukas, he was remarkably patient with his work. For once he seemed at peace.
‘Then the dough needs to rest in the fridge. Don’t miss out that bit,’ he explained, as though guessing the impatient child in her didn’t usually bother. ‘The chilling process will cool the fat, and give you depth of flavour and a more even bake. A simple step, but trust me, it’s worth it.’
