poured my heart into these dainty, heart-shaped pastries || selfpara.
Hara hates cooking.
That’s a lie. She doesn’t hate cooking, but she says she does because she sucks at it; she’s an utter mess in the kitchen 90% of the time, and it’s easier to say that you hate something as opposed to admitting that you suck at it. She can make a great smoothie (but if you couldn’t manage a smoothie, you really were a lost cause), she could cook a steak (but a basic steak was nearly impossible to mess up, unless you overcooked or burned it), she could do basic breakfast items (eggs Benedict sounded fancy and all, but it was pretty much just half of an English muffin, a poached egg, ham, and some sauce made from those powder packets) but when it came to anything even remotely complex – Goo Hara was at an utter loss. She couldn’t follow recipes.
So she wasn’t quite sure what drove her to decide to try her hand at macarons, of all things – according to a few of her friends who had already attempted making the French pastry, it wasn’t particularly easy, especially if you were lacking expertise in the kitchen department in the first place. Still, she eventually pulled herself out of bed a little after nine, dressed in her sweatpants and a mask tugged over her face, groggily clutching at the recipe her friend had given her for raspberry macarons. Somehow managing to gather all the ingredients at the market without making a fool of herself (by not asking the cashier where she could find icing sugar – duh, Hara, baking section.), she offered a polite nod to the lady who had so kindly directed given her tips (“Fresh raspberries will fare better than frozen ones, you’re in luck that we have them available!”) before shuffling back out and down the street, taking the time to inhale the fresh and slightly chilly morning air in an attempt to wake herself up, lest she end up making any fatal (for the macarons, not her) mistakes in the kitchen.
Pushing open the front door, she nodded her head sleepily at Hyungnim, who had hurried over to greet her as she kicked off her sneakers, the pup letting out a slightly disgruntled snort at the lack of attention from the female, who usually showered him with affection and toddled off to entertain himself instead. As she set the grocery bags down on the counter, Hara resisted the urge to crawl back into the comfortable (albeit empty) bed, opting to tie her hair back into a comfortable ponytail instead, her lips curving up into a fond smile as his voice resonated through her mind.
“Don’t burn down my kitchen.”
Breathing out a chuckle, she moved to wash her hands, making sure to clean under her fingernails (in case he got suspicious and asked if she even washed her hands properly) before measuring out the ingredients to st into the food processor, leaving the machine running as she pulled out the carton of eggs, prepared to use at the very least, half of the carton, despite the fact that the recipe had asked for only two. The first two eggs went the same way; she cracked it too hard and the yolk spilled into the whites, eliciting a quiet curse from Hara’s lips as she set it to a side to use for an omelette or the likes sometime in the future. The third egg cracked fine, but as a shard of the shell fell into the egg, her clumsy fingers managed to break the yolk – again – and she grumbled out, setting that one to the side as well. The fourth and fifth egg, thankfully, cracked fine and she managed to separate the yolks from the whites, more or less. (There was actually more whites she could separate, but she was afraid that if she tried again, she’d break the yolk and ruin it all.)
Then the fun part came; she pulled out the electric mixer, careful to turn it to a low setting as she whisked the egg whites, breathing out a sigh of relief as they formed soft peaks, as her friend told her they should before continuing on with the recipe, meticulously measuring out the proper amounts of caster sugar into the bowl, then a drop or two of pink food coloring, then the almond and icing sugar mixture, her lips curving up into a pleased smile as it began to, more or less, resemble what it should look like.
Aha. Maybe she wasn’t too terrible with this whole cooking, baking thing, after all.
She preheated the oven, a low temperature set to the machine (which she avoided touching most of the time; Hara was always prone to burning or injuring herself in some form or another) as she leaned down, eyes trained on the baking sheets as she carefully piped one tear drop, and then another one, the edges touching to form a heart, before repeating the same pattern all across the sheet, until she ran out of batter, nodding a little to herself as she pushed the tray aside carefully, letting the mixture stand.
As she allowed the shells to crust (so far, so good), she began to try her hand at the filling with the mindset that she’d mess this one up in some way or another (she heard that if you boiled cream too much, it’d begin to curdle and you’re pretty much fucked.), pouring the cream into the saucepan and watches it warily, careful not to let it boil before pulling the pot from the element and stirs the white chocolate into the cream and lets it melt. Licking dryly at her lips (thank God she didn’t do this for a living, why did people bake for fun?), Hara glanced over at the sheet of shells again before checking the oven, opening it and sliding it in, sure to set a timer for the bare minimum time before turning her attention back to the ganache, stirring slowly at the pot to combine the now-melted chocolate and the cream, setting it into the fridge to let cool before breathing out a low sigh, allowing herself to rest against the counter for a brief moment.
Rubbing gently at the bridge of her nose, she brought the dirty bowls and utensils over to the sink, turning on the tap for a few minutes to run water over the supplies, reaching under the sink to pull out the chopping board, carefully slicing at the raspberries (and couldn’t resist to pop a few of them into her mouth, while she was at it) before patting them dry with paper towels (which the recipe didn’t ask for, but she supposed that you didn’t want the fruits too moist).
80% done. Now all she had left to do was to make sure she didn’t burn the macaron shells, and everything else was a piece of cake – who came up with that metaphor, anyways? – so she allowed herself a moment of rest, slumping down on the counter as she sat herself down on one of the island stools, chin rested on her folded arms as she watched the ticking numbers of the timer, glancing down as she felt a furry object brush against her bare foot.
Pico, of course.
Casting a glance down to the feline, a mewl escaping the cat (most likely demanding for attention) as he bumped his head against her foot again, Hara breathed out a chuckle, about to reach down to allow the cat to settle in her lap before the alarm went off obnoxiously loud, and she immediately abandoned her treasured cat (who reacted much like Hyungnim did, and went off to find some sunny area of the house to nap) to check on the oven, stupidly reaching in without her oven mitts over her hands.
God damn, thank god the oven was only set at a low temperature of about a hundred something, not three hundred – but she yelped anyways, drawing her hand back and immediately sticking her fingers into her mouth to soothe the burning sensation, letting out a muffled grumble around her fingers. Turning on the tap to run the cool water over her fingers, she gave it a few moments before wiping her hand dry, putting on the oven mitts – let’s give this another try – before pulling out the trays of macaron shells, blinking slightly at them.
… they looked more or less like the ones she saw at the store. Good enough.
Setting the trays aside to somewhere where she wouldn’t burn herself, she allowed the pastry shells to cool, popping her head into the fridge instead to check on the ganache, pulling out the pot and rests her hand tentatively on the side of the pot, nodding to herself when she found it to be cool to the touch. She poured in the bowl of chopped raspberries into the pot before reaching for a wooden spoon to stir in the berries gently, humming lowly to herself with a slightly proud smile tugging at her lips.
The next part was easy – piping the ganache onto the shells, and this part was actually enjoyable (not that the entire process was completely terrible, but if she had it her way, she’d much rather buy the macarons than make them herself) her lips curving at the way the heart-shaped macaron shells sandwiched to form the little French pastries. As she finished up and placed them into the fridge to set, Hara went off in her search to find one of those clear, disposable gift boxes she had bought the other day, a length of ribbon trapped between her fingers as she headed back towards the kitchen to pack up the macarons, glancing at herself briefly in the mirror before leaving the house, box clutched in her hands as she got into her car.
Arriving at the building, she parked somewhere in the back (it wouldn’t be good for her to be seen delivering gifts to him; after all, the fans didn’t know they were back together), making her way down the halls before pushing her way silently into the room, tiptoeing over to the figure with his back to her before wrapping her arms leisurely around his shoulders, laughing at the surprised grumble tugging from his lips before pressing her scorched fingertips to his lips, as if his kisses could soothe burns (she was utterly convinced they could) , dropping the box of macarons into his lap. As she turned her head to press a kiss to his cheek, smothering a quiet "I love you" against his skin, she realized that despite the fact that she absolutely hated cooking and baking and sucked at it, 90% of the time, that as long as she was doing it for him, she’d be happy, if he was happy.
