“It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“Absolutely not.”
I sigh, sliding my phone into my apron pocket. “Fine. But just so you know, people have been asking for a pasta making video.”
“I’m teachingyouto cook. Not the general populace.”
Jack’s scowling as he delivers that statement, like usual, but his words make me smile. I tuck my hair underneath my bandanna, watching as he sets out a sparse number of ingredients: flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt. I’ve been gaining enough confidence with basic cooking skills that he decided it’s time to level up—with pasta. My mouth waters at the mere thought.
And perhaps the fact he’s wearing his glasses today.
Imayhave hidden his contact lens solution this morning. Payback for him threatening to cut off the water when my shower went too long. I know he knows, but he hasn’t called me out on it.
Somehow, we’ve shared the houseboat for an entire week. Seven days of close quarters, with relief only coming when he takes his pillow and blanket above-deck to sleep. I’ve tried every night to get him to swap with me—I’d fit on the couch, however lumpy—but he refuses.
I brought up finding a new apartment over breakfast the first morning. He said, quote, “Fuck no,” and that’s where we left it. Kiara offered to have me move in with her, in case I didn’t feel comfortable on the houseboat, but it’s growing on me.
Or maybe it’s Jack who is.
Things have been shifting, slowly but surely, since the trip to Horseshoe Island and subsequent Cockroach Infestation. It isn’t just that it’s easier to be around him—my interest in cooking is ramping up with every lesson. He’s starting to think about the menu in earnest, and it’s fascinating to watch him consult cookbooks and Sal’s old notes as he searches for ideas.
He was right. Learning a restaurant—and what goes into prepping its food—in and out has helped me understand how to present it online. I’m itching to know more. To experiment. I’ve been trying my hardest this week to prove I’m worthy of helping with the menu, not just the front of house.
I lean over the prep table, watching as Jack adds a scale and pasta machine to the setup. “What kind of pasta are we making?”
“I figured we’d start with some pappardelle.”
“Those are the noodles that look like worms, right? Flat and wide?”
“Really?” he says, an eyebrow lifting. “Of all the comparisons you could’ve chosen?”
“They’re basically tape worms,” I say cheerfully.
I know he’s amused by the way he rolls his eyes. “We’re using semolina flour for this. And a higher ratio of egg yolks to whites.”
“Why?”
“Semolina is southern Italian-style. And more egg yolks make a richer pasta.” He gestures to the flour. “Weigh out three hundred grams of that.”
As I weigh out the flour, he separates the egg whites from the yolks. He cracks each egg one-handed, with the ease of someone who has done this a million times before. The motion is oddly mesmerizing; he catches me staring by the last one.
“What is it?” he asks.
I look down at the scale hastily. “Nothing. What’s next?”
“Let’s form the dough on the table. More space to work that way.”
Over the next few minutes, he shows me how to bring the pasta dough together, starting with a ring of flour, with space to nestle the eggs in the middle. We mix it with a fork, adding splashes of water when it starts to dry out.
“This is easier than I thought it would be,” I remark, once the dough has formed into a pale-yellow, half-crumbled paste.
He nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Wait until we roll it out.”
“We knead it first, right?”
“Yep. We need to bring it together all the way. And then it’ll rest.” He sprinkles a bit of flour on the tabletop before gesturing for me to press together the half-formed dough. I cup it between my palms gently, liking the floury smell.
“It reminds me of Play-Doh.”
