I closed the door behind me and followed the scent like a cartoon character. The closer I was, the more potent it was.
Apples. Pancakes. That’s the best my nose could make out.
Then I started to hear thin sizzling, or was it boiling? Along with the scent, warmth invaded the space. But it wasn’t stuffy like it should’ve been. It embraced me like a grandmother would. Like my grandma did when I was little. Her house would smell like this in the afternoon. When she baked an apple pie and told me to eat it warm with a cheeky scoop of vanilla ice cream.
My legs moved on their own, hypnotized by the anomaly, until they reached the kitchen where the source of said anomaly stood in a T-shirt and striped pyjama pants. Hael’s hair was as fluffy and elevated as a cloud in the morning.
“Good morning, Rain,” he said with pure enthusiasm.
This was a fever dream.
“Um, good morning,” I replied, my eyes naturally migrating to the pan. In it was an open apple pie?
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“An apple pie?”
He grinned and turned off the stove.
“Sort of. It’s a crossover between an apple pie and pancakes. People call it a Dutch Baby. It’s not really Dutch, though. It has German roots, but it’s more common in the U.S. I, personally, like the convenience of the recipe. It’s nothing cultural. Just a great way to start the day!”
His zeal sickened me, but seeing the sauce sliding past apple slices like river currents quieted me down. My stomach spoke in my stead to keep the conversation alive; with an unflattering sound no less.
“It’s done,” he said, lifting the pan. “Let’s eat.”
Let’s eat? Together?
He headed for the dining table, and I…followed him. I had no intention to. He set it down on a cutting board and hooked exactly two wooden spoons—which were already on the table. He planned this.
“I wasn’t sure if you were home, but I took the risk. Then you came back at prime time; like serendipity.”
I’d disagree with him if the pan hadn’t been the only thing I could focus on. The word “serendipity” rang true when looking at the Apple Dutch Baby. My self-control turned to dust the second I opened the door. My appetite took over and robbed me of judgment. That’s the only logical explanation. Appetite over mind and matter.
I set my coffee on the table and my bag on an empty chair. Before I took a seat, I noticed Hael didn’t have a coffee like me. That was a diabolical lack when having a sweet breakfast. I decided to make him one in gratitude for the pie and no other reason. I didn’t expect he’d share his breakfast with me, but he did. Along with the choice of making him coffee, I decided it was the first and last breakfast from him I’d accept. Also the first and last coffee I’d make him. If there is a next challenge, I’ll be ready to go against my appetite. This one had caught me by surprise.
“Would you like your coffee hot or iced?” I asked, the machine already chiming behind me.
He turned to me wide eyed, unaware the chime was for him. “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I’ll get myself a coffee later. I feel indebted enough to be living here for such a low price… This pie is nothing.”
“Please,” I said.
My tone came out sharper than intended. The rumbling of my stomach was more prominent, and my patience ran low. The coffee was a piece of cake compared to an entire Dutch Baby. How do you even make that? One thing’s for sure, I, of all people, wouldn’t try. I buy frozen pancakes.
Hael inhaled into a frown, his expression stiff. “Hot,” he said, releasing that breath and the tightness on his face.
I suspect he chose that option to make it easier for me. I didn’t press.
Soon after, he had a full mug by his side. Its steam merged with the pie’s, and the house couldn’t ever be more pleasantly fragrant than this.
“It’s easier to eat directly from the pan, but I can plate your portion if you’d like,” he said kindly.
I didn’t answer and poked my spoon in the pan with a thud. I made sure to scoop a little of everything. The steam was intimidating. One eager bite and I’d burn the roof of my mouth. Seems my appetite didn’t rob me of total judgment. I held the bite in the air and in the midst caught Hael staring at me with anticipation. I wanted to smile, but I stopped short of it. The corners of my lips were left hanging in the process.
“Be careful not to burn yourself,” he said.
Then, as though he noticed my unease, he looked away. He reached for his mug and hummed with satisfaction at the scent.
Within seconds, the steam on my spoon lessened enough to tempt. I took the chance, then pure bliss. A trance. The dictionary lacks the words to describe that feeling. It surpassed my childhood memories and forced its way into a new category of memories. The aroma of apples, cinnamon, and surely a myriad of spices I’ve never heard of flooded my senses like never before. The taste was intoxicating. It kept me reaching for spoonful after spoonful. I didn’t have the courage to bear a mouth empty of this heaven.
“Good?” he asked, his spoon still clean.
I saw this man in a new light. I’d never heard of a Dutch Baby before, but hearing it was a crossover between pie and pancake was enough to know this wasn’t a regular Dutch Baby. It was more.
I dropped my spoon to talk. “My question stands. Are you a chef, or just a talented cook?”
He dug his spoon in. “You flatter me. It’s just a hobby.”
It was almost a waste that he wasn’t using his skills for the commercial. I’d line up for a seat at the café or restaurant he baked for.
“And where did you get apples?” I asked. This household rarely had apples, and the nearest supermarket wasn’t within walking distance. Hael could drive, but he sold his car back in Germany and planned to buy one here in the next days—or so I’ve heard from my mom.
“I found a little farmer’s market on my morning stroll. I bought the apples on a whim and figured a Dutch Baby would be the quickest and most effective way to use them. As for the other ingredients, I’ll replace them as soon as I can get to a supermarket,” he said, his ramblings in impeccable order. He’s an odd character for sure.
“No need to. I ate with you, and I probably won’t use these ingredients. I’m not much of a kitchen fairy, you see.”
“No, no,” he was quick to say. “It’s only fair that I replace what I used.”
I’ve been so absorbed in my discomfort that I failed to notice his guilt. His guilt was his discomfort. He appeared to fear burdening others as much as I fear others. And while it wasn’t up to me to ease his fear, I can’t say it didn’t affect me. Choosing to take action was another story.
“Suit yourself,” I told him.
There’d be no winning against him, and any effort would end up resembling care. Care which I do not have.