“Well, that was fun,” Danny says sarcastically as he pushes himself to a stand and looks at me groggily. He rubs his face and yawns loudly, his hair all wonky and his eyes sleepy. Only he could look so damn cute after a night on the couch.
“It’s how we all like to wake up,” I agree. “A Paul figure having a breakdown and screaming at us.”
“Yeah. And who the fuck uses the wordcanoodling?” Danny is still adorably half-asleep and disoriented. It takes a minute, but he hasn’t forgotten. “So, you’ll volunteer at Wakefest, right? Even though there are no polar bears?”
“Sure. I’ll do anything.” It’s impossible to look at him directly because I’m sure I look gross and morning-ish. “Breakfast interest? There’s something I’m going to try. It’ll probably suck, but…well, if I fuck up, then I can make you a boring bagel or whatever.”
“Go for it, I say.” His sleepy smile is enough to make me throw him back on the couch. “Take failure off the table.” His confidence is enough to make me believe him. Before I can say anything else, he saunters off and is back in a heartbeat with a glass. “Icy orange juice for you. Drink up, cook what you want, and then tile later. I’ll take Shallots out for a bit.”
Watching him leave is only tolerable because I know he’ll be back.
Eggs Benedict sounds so easy, but all of my research tells me how crazy complicated it is. The real skills have to do with the poached eggs and the hollandaise sauce, but I at least have the eggs down.
I want to make and serve this successfully so badly that it hurts.
The oven preheats while I set a pan of water over a low flame, drop Canadian bacon onto a cookie sheet, crack an egg into a small bowl, and pop English muffin slices into the toaster, so they’re at the ready for when it’s go time. The kitchen is full of old cooking equipment, but I know I’ve seen a stainless bowl somewhere. All of the videos I’ve watched about making hollandaise sauce insist on using one, so Iclarifybutter—a term I find annoyingly pretentious, but it’s apparently necessary, so I do it anyway. I grab a whisk and beat the shit out of egg yolks and lemon juice in the stainless bowl over a simmering pot of water, periodically taking them off the heat so that they don’t scramble, until they are pale yellow and doubled in volume, and I somehow use my free arm to set my slices of Canadian bacon into the oven. My whipping arm is already aching, but I keep going and slowly drizzle in the melted butter while I continue beating egg yolks. This whole ordeal takes about eight minutes, and I’m embarrassed at how much my arm muscles are burning, so this sauce had best be a damn success. I take the bowl off the heat and season it with salt and a hit of Tabasco. My taste test makes me think the hollandaise is right, but I’ll need to hear it from someone else.
Now that I know what I’m doing to some degree, it only takes a short time to poach the egg.
My assembly might not be perfect, and I should probably have some kind of fancy garnish, but I don’t. Oh, until I remember that I have chives in the fridge. No idea why I bought these, but it sounds like something that would work, so I quickly chop up a bit to sprinkle over the top. It doesn’t escape me that in the past weeks, my knife skills have gone from zero to something. And that I’m even thinking things likeknife skills.
When Danny and Shallots return, I present my plate. And I cannot help but hover and tremble. “Eggs Benedict. Or at least, my attempt.”
He sits and asks, “Wait, where’s yours?”
“Oh.” It hits me that I only made one serving. “I guess that I only cooked for you.”
“Shit, that’s an honor. Thank you.” Danny raises his fork as a toast. He takes a bite and groans. Like, heliterallygroans. “Are you kidding me with this? What is this damn sauce? I want to mop up everything I eat in this! I didn’t even really know what eggs Benedict was when I mentioned it. That was a joke.”
Oh. Okay, I pulled off hollandaise, and I hold back a smile as he devours his food.
“Danny! Come on!” Paul’s voice booms from the yard. “This is getting done today!”
Danny polishes off his plate, and he pulls himself away. “Brilliant. Totally brilliant, Callie. Finishing your roof now before I beg for more food.”
As I’m cleaning up the kitchen, Paul steps in. “C’mon, tile girl. It’s your time.”
Fear and excitement overtake me. This could be a great day, or it could be a disastrous day. This bathroom might end up in ruins.
For hours, Paul hovers over me. Even though he approved my plan, he still stays with me every step of the way while I cut and place everything. And I can’t complain about his relentless presence because I don’t want to screw this up, but my God, I’m wiped when I finish placing the last tile.
My body aches all over but wonderfully so. Every jolt of pain feels marvelous.
“Good job, Callie,” he says. “Damn good job.”
“Thanks.” The cerulean tile is officially in. Being soaked in sweat and heartache couldn’t be more perfect. “But I’m not done,” I acknowledge.
“That’s right. You’ll have to grout and seal.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and makes me sit up. “Look around. This bathroom is going to be like no one else’s,”
So, I do. It’s hard to admit, but he might be right. Even though I want to pass out, I manage to say, “Thank you. And I’m ready, Paul. I’m ready for the fireplace.”
Cleaning up after my tiling today isn’t fun, and taking a call from my mother is significantly less fun.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi. I just tried to do a video call with you, but you didn’t pick up.”
“Something’s going on with my camera. Sorry.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want her to see the state of the house, which she’d likely criticize, so I didn’t accept her call.
