Her brows lift. “Seriously?”
A chuckle rises in my throat. “Yup.”
“Why?”
“That,” I say on a sigh, “is a secret known only to Smitty.”
“He likes cupcakes?”
“Maybe?” I shrug. “But no more than the rest of us, I think. Sometimes, hockey doesn’t make any sense.”
“You mean, sometimes Smitty doesn’t make any sense.”
“Also that.”
We grin at each other.
Then she has me add the dry ingredients in a little at a time, until it actually starts looking like cookie dough.
“Now the raisins,” she says, pulling the bowl free and nodding to the bag.
I tear it open, dump them in, and when she passes me a spatula, I mix them into the dough. “Did your mom teach you how to cook?”
A shake of her head. “No, actually. She was terrible at it. I learned because I got tired of choking down inedible food.” Her smile is soft, full of memories. “We didn’t have a lot of money growing up and my mom worked really hard to provide for us. We couldn’t just throw away food, even if her cooking left…a bit to be desired.”
“So you learned?”
“Yeah. Through YouTube. I was pretty terrible at first, but I figured it out, and pretty soon I was making all of our meals. Later, I started a little side hustle at school, selling cookies and other treats to my classmates. I wasn’t rolling in it, but it took the edge off. And it was good practice.” She shrugs and hands me a spoon, snagging one for herself. “The rest is history. I got the bug and didn’t stop experimenting.” She scoops up a hunk, shows me how to roll it into a disc of deliciousness, and places it on a parchment-paper-lined cookie sheet.
“And now you’re making a living at it,” I say, scooping up some dough and trying to repeat her motions.
I’m slow and clunky.
But eventually I roll a shape close to what she made.
“Yes, I am,” she says as we work through the dough. “It’s not always easy, and sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. But food…is happiness and memories and connection. I love being able to give people that.”
“Even in a dimly lit kitchen in the middle of the night,” I tease.
“Especially then.” She puts the cookie sheet in the oven, brings the next one over, and we fill that one. “What about you? Did you ever bake growing up?”
“God no,” I say.
Her brows flick up. “Not even with your billet families?”
“I was really busy then.”
“I bet.”
I force a smile. “I wasn’t all bad. A couple of the families I stayed with did try to teach me some basics so I wouldn’t starve when I moved out on my own.”
Her eyes study mine for a long moment. “So what? You learned how to make ramen noodles and pour bowls of cereal?”
I laugh, thankful for the change in subject. “Something like that.” I take the empty bowl, place it in the sink, start filling it with water. “I can also make a mean grilled cheese.”
The timer interrupts her giggle, and she goes to the oven, pulls out the first batch of cookies.
It smells…
