@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Five
There’s flour dusted all the way up to Diego’s elbows, splattered across the front of his black shirt. There’s even hints of white against Klaus’ cheekbones and the soft fanned edges of his short hair.
Tortillas were a mess even when you knew what you were doing. When you had a guy in there with you who was enthusiastic but not the most kitchen oriented, it made things kind of a disaster. A fun, flour dusted one but still a disaster.
“We need the right-” Feel. But Diego can feel the word sticking in the back of his throat. So he does the only other thing he can think of. He grabs Klaus by the hand and jams his hand down into the dough they were working on.
Tortillas were deceptively simple, especially flour ones. All you needed was flour, a little salt, a little water and some kind of fat. Diego had scoured recipes on the internet while he was waiting to hear back on his loan for this place, and he must have tried a dozen of them. Vegetable oil. Butter. But none of them came close to the way his mom used to make them. With lard.
So Diego made them with lard. The trick with the lard though, was trying to figure out just when you had the right consistency to get the dough where you needed it to be, for the tortilla press. And even if Diego could have words falling off of his tongue without any chance of stuttering, he was still pretty sure he wouldn’t have the words for this.
But his mom, she didn’t even follow a recipe. All the cooking she did, she did with her senses. She used to tell him that all you needed to cook were your eyes and your nose and your ears. That it didn’t even matter what the ingredients were, if you knew how to listen to your nose and your heart, that you could make anything. And make it good, too.
“Feel?” It takes effort to get that one word out, with Klaus’ long, bony fingers beneath his hand. Diego has to press his tongue against the roof of his mouth and work it out slow, the same way he was going to do with the dough.
She used to tell him that too. That words could be just like food, if he thought about them hard enough. That sometimes, the special ones, they took care and time and work, just the way that good food did.
Diego missed her like a fucking limb sometimes. But she was happy up in Maine, and despite the fact that he did not get it at all, she was happy as hell with her new husband. So Diego wasn’t going to cause her any trouble. Any more than he already had, at least.
Klaus nods, and Diego can feel the thin press of his back against his own chest when he breathes outwards. It’s only then that he realizes he’s bracketed Klaus in between both of his arms, the metal mixing bowl on the table in front of him.
Deep breath. Picture the word in your mind. Diego closes his eyes, and it’s easier to keep talking that way.
“We don’t want it to feel like sand. Or quicksand. It needs to be tighter than that. Where you squeeze it in your hand and it leaves all the indentions against it. Like the handle of a knife.” It’s the only way he can think to picture the consistency of the dough they need.
“It’s still too dry.” Diego can feel the dough clumping in between their almost laced fingers. He reaches past Klaus with the hand not in the mixing bowl and splashes a little water from a measuring cup into the bowl again.
The wooden spoon is picked up left handed, not because Diego is left handed but because he don’t want to let go of where he’s got hold of Klaus’ hand. So he stirs it, slow and clumsy until the dough starts to come together. “Try again.”
This time, it’s Klaus who catches a handful of dough and gives it a squeeze. He opens his hand, palm up and in between them, a clump of white dough sitting right across his life line. (The only reason Diego knew anything about that kind of shit was because Klaus had a palmistry poster up in his shop.)
And there it was. The perfect consistency written into the edges of the dough, like parts of Klaus’ personality or his destiny or something had been imparted into the very dough himself. “Now we got to roll it into a ball.” For that to happen, Diego needed to get the hell out of Klaus’ space. But his feet weren’t going anywhere.
Klaus looks back over his shoulder at him, and Diego could swear that he could count every fleck in those pretty green eyes. Or maybe every line on his lips. Did people read lips the way they read palms? Would he be able to count every indent, every crack in Klaus’ pretty mouth and know his history?
Diego? He hears his name distantly, like it’s coming through the depths of water or a couple of closed doors. Diego has to swallow before he turns his eyes back to the dough in Klaus’ hand. Plucking it from where it rests, Diego rolls it deftly into a ball between his flour dusted palms. This part was easy, at least.
“Now we gotta flatten it out.” And now Diego had no more excuse to stand so close. He drops his arms and steps away from Klaus’ back, feeling the cool(er, it was still hot as hell in this tiny shop) air hit his chest in the place that Klaus just vacated. “You can do it by hand, but that shit takes too long.”
Diego points to the ancient, slightly rusted tortilla press that took of place of pride on the prep counter. It was his mom’s, sent on her insistence when he called to tell her that he got the loan for the place.
She kept telling him that he could ask her new husband for the cash to start the place up. Apparently he was flush with it. But the last thing Diego wanted was to owe anybody money, least of all his brand new stepdad. So he sucked it up and went to the bank. And tried to tell himself that he wasn’t carrying the old man around in the back of his head like a safety net in case his shitty credit wasn’t enough to get him through.
“We use the wax paper to keep it from sticking. It’s a pain in the ass when it sticks.” Diego points to two circles of wax paper, freshly cut from the industrial sized box of wax paper sitting on a shelf overhead. With the first circle down on the bottom of the tortilla press, the slapped the dough ball down on it, and then more carefully placed the second circle of wax paper on top.
“You do the honors.” This was always his favorite part when he was a kid, and there’s something fucking dumb about how it makes his heart race to share this with Klaus. But Klaus wasn’t looking at him like he was dumb. Klaus was watching him with bright glass eyes and pink flushed wide across his cheeks. He was fucking beautiful.
Klaus curls a hand against the lever, and with a sweet hesitance, he pulls the lever down, pressing the two metal plates together. Between them, the sheets of wax paper held everything together as the dough was pressed into an even, neat disc.
“Nice. Good job.” Later, when it was all said and done, Diego would realize just how many words he got out without even thinking about stuttering. About just how fucking magic being in the kitchen with Klaus was. “Now we’re ready to cook.”
Almost. They were almost to the best part, and Diego could feel the anticipation starting to prickle at his scalp. Next to the flat top where he fried his meat and onions and peppers, there were two gas burners. This was where he blackened the chiles for his sauces, right on the flame. But for the moment, he had a big black cast iron skillet.
Diego turns the flame down to low, watching the ring of blue cling close to the burner. “With cast iron, you gotta be patient. It takes a minute to come up to temp, but this shit runs hot. So you don’t want to rush it. Otherwise, you’re going to burn your stuff and you’ll have to start over.” It was better to do shit right the first time, then waste the time doing it over.
Another lesson from his mother, though her version was a lot more PG. She was a classy lady like that. Diego had never even heard her say a word like ‘crap’, let alone a real curse word in either language they both spoke at home.
Holding a hand out over the surface of the pan, Diego feels the heat like pressure up against his palm. Yeah, it was ready to go. He turns to Klaus, and is pleased that he doesn’t have to say anything. Klaus waits for Diego to pull his hand away and then he puts his own right near the bottom of the pan. Klaus even pulls it away with a playful hiss, blowing on his palm.
“So with a tortilla, you cook them straight on a hot, dry pan. No oil, no butter, no nothing. Bring me the wax paper.” Like a good sous chef, Klaus hurries over to the tortilla press, springing the lever open so that he can get a hand above and below the sheets of wax paper, carrying them over to Diego still trapped between his palms.
Klaus hands over the two discs of paper gently but with a flourish, like he was on the Price is Right or something, and Diego peels the top off, dropping that side down onto the pan with a sizzle. Once it’s settled, he peels the other piece of wax paper away. He drops them back on the counter to be used again. No reason to let that shit go to waste.
“We’re looking for bubbles. That’s how we know to flip.” Sure enough, within a few seconds, Diego is able to point at where a bubble has swollen up on the surface of the tortilla. Klaus nods, hands carefully out of the way of the stove, though he was still leaning in close to get a better look at the action. Diego grabs a wooden spatula, flipping it over onto the other side. The fresh side of the tortilla hisses and sizzles when it makes contact with the hot pan. “Same on the other side. But we’re listening here. Smelling, too. You’ll know when it’s done. Watch.”
Diego waits out the tortilla, until he can smell the first singe of heat against the dough. He taps his nose, and Klaus lights up, delighted. I smell it! He’s so damn handsome that Diego thinks he might be dizzy because of it. Or maybe that was the heat of a kitchen used all day, and the leftover heat of the summer sun baked into the bricks of the building. Either one.
The tortilla is slid from the pan onto a waiting plate, a real one, actually from Diego’s apartment and not the paper shit he serves customers on. It was as fancy as he got. A pat of butter is smoothed across the freckled surface of the fluffy tortilla, leaving a golden sheen that he sprinkles with just a little salt.
Diego hands the plate over to Klaus, his heart sitting high and fast in his chest like a hummingbird. He’s never cared so much about what somebody thought in his whole damn life. But now he needs to know.
“How is it?”