Page 31 of Secrets and S'mores
Cedar crosses his arms, eyes narrowed at me when I look up.
“So what now? We’ve got thirty minutes,” she says, dusting off her hands.
“Want to pick out a video game?” I suggest.
She props a fist on her hip and raises an eyebrow. “I believe I was promised a tour of a cheese kitchen?”
“If you want to.”
It’s not a quiet bedroom, but I can work with a cheese kitchen.
Ember follows me through the laundry room and into the addition my father built years ago.
“This is not what I expected,” she mutters, the sunlight from the sky lights highlighting her cheekbones and the delicate tip of her nose.
We’re squeezed into a narrow kitchen, standing on sealed concrete floors. Gleaming stainless steel lines the walls, including a commercial triple sink, a wide 8-burner range, and two refrigerators - one to store ingredients and one to age cheese.
Slipping my arm around her waist, I guide her forward, past the row of pots so large a small child could sit inside them.
“Honestly, I don’t know anything about how cheese is made,” she says, slowing her gait so she presses back into me.
I’m surprised at the euphoria that shoots through me at her nearness and the way she smiles at me. I’m thoroughly ensnared, and the danger of who she is and what she’s done is fading away.
“It’s pretty simple. We take the milk, it’s stored in this fridge,” I thump my palm against the closer fridge. “It gets cooked with rennet, which is actually a kind of mold, I think. Cedar can explain that better. Anyway, it forms curds, and we press out the whey which is like water until the curds are solid. It gets dried, aged, or whatever depending on the cheese.”
Her lips part as she listens to me ramble. “That doesn’t sound very simple.”
With a rolling laugh, I herd her closer to the fridge to see what cheeses we can sample. She peers over my shoulder as I pilfer my father’s current stock.
“Here, try this. It’s fresh farmer’s cheese, totally plain.” Prying the lid off of a round plastic container, I grab a spoonful of the spreadable cheese.
Ember hesitates, pressing her lips into a line while she leans away.
“It’s not bad, I promise.”
With a little coaxing, she opens her mouth and takes a small nibble.
“So what do you think?”
“It tastes like milk.” Her eyes open again, flitting from my chest to my face. “I can see how that could be good in a recipe.”
“Yeah, it’s not really a snack cheese,” I agree.
“Got any others to try?”
We try a hard cheddar, a brie-style round, and some mozzarella.
“You can make all these different cheeses from goat's milk?” she asks, popping another pearl of fresh mozzarella in her mouth.
“Yeah. I mean, there’s a flavor difference. But it all depends on what you add and how you treat the milk.”
“Wow,” she says, watching as I sprinkle salt flakes over the last bite of mozzarella and offer it to her. She eats it off the end of the toothpick and runs her tongue over her top lip to get the extra salt.
An alarm buzzes from the house, and Ember’s eyes brighten. “Ready for some bread?”
“Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” I say, shoving containers back into the fridge before I can follow her. I’m just in time to watch her tug the oven mitts off of her hands.
Steam trails off the bread loaf, filling the room with the warm, nutty smell. My brother is nowhere to be found, and I’m grateful I don’t have to share this moment with anyone else.
