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At first glance, they resembled donuts—round, glazed, with a hole in the center. But upon closer inspection, it was clear they were something else entirely. The dough looked crisp and flaky, full of delicate layers.
"They’re cronuts!"
"Cro-what-now?"
Elara deftly sliced one in half. "Half croissant, half donut, but entirely its own thing. Eating one should be a transcendent experience. If I've done my job right, that is." She gently squeezed the pastry, and some kind of delicious-looking cream oozed from the inside.
“Free will and transcendence, huh? You a baker or a philosopher?”
She giggled. "Both! Each pastry is a debate on the nature of happiness."
I took a moment to figure out what she’d just said. "And what flavor is this debate?" I asked, pointing at the cronut.
"Meadow honey and Meyer lemon,” she replied, eyes dancing.
"Meyer lemon?" My head spun. Elara was operating on a whole different level.
"Give it a whirl!"
Taking a deep breath, I picked up one of the pastries and bit into it. Sweet, buttery, and utterly divine. There was so much going on, much more than just lemon and honey. But damn if I could tell what it all was.
"It's . . . a lot," I managed.
Elara's brow furrowed. "A lot?"
"In a good way! It’s delicious. I'm just trying to process it all."
"It's a lot."
"Like I said, I'm kind of a beer and pretzels guy. When I drink coffee, I can’t pick up on pomegranate and aniseed, or whatever you’re meant to taste. I just taste coffee."
She looked like a puppy. "You don't like it."
"No! I do. I really do. All the complexity is wasted on me, that's all."
She bit her lip and for the first time, looked a little sad. "Try this one." She cut a second cronut, this one topped with vibrant pink cream. "Rhubarb, white chocolate, and Pastéis de Nata."
"Pastéis de—"
"Custard. It's basically custard."
"Custard I can get behind," I said with confidence. The second cronut was equally sweet, equally delicious, and equally complex. "Damn, Elara. I've never tasted anything like this. My taste buds are doing cartwheels."
"So . . . you approve?"
"You should be teaching this class, not taking it. How do you even make something like this?"
Elara waved a hand. "Ah, it's boring."
"I doubt it."
"It takes three days."
My jaw dropped. "Longer than this tree house should take, in theory."
"Well, I'm not working round the clock, but yeah—lots of waiting, mixing, proofing, more waiting."
"Worth every second," I assured her, savoring another bite. "I may not be an expert, but I know great food when I taste it. And this, Elara, is great food. It's like . . . going for a swim in a river."
