The Bad Boy Has A Secret

Chapter 16- Szarlotka

Y/N---

It's 21:14, and I've just seen a recipe I will die if I don't try right now.

It's baking time.

Mother's gone out for an evening walk with one of her friends. I do hope it won't turn into a walk with a puff of tobacco as well. But at least for now I have the house to myself.

I rush downstairs, daring myself to skip the last step and jump straight down. I do, landing gracefully, strutting into the kitchen with the manner of a victress.

I have all the necessary screenshots, and after a quick scan and retrieval through the each cupboard, all the ingredients available too. I prop my phone against the wall for easy reference while I am busy at work. For some ambience, I play Radiohead on shuffle- having heard only a couple of songs from them and wanting to know more.

I blink at the screen. The recipe is of Szarlotka, Polish apple pie, something sounding and appearing absolutely delicious. My mind flicks through its memoir, and I remember from some time ago Mother telling me my father was Polish. She doesn't really mention him anymore. Maybe he would be proud of me, to see me making this pie. And maybe he would also share the frustration of having to listen to a 15 second advert in between your music, as I glare at the down sized people on the screen. I go back to the task at hand once it ends.

Making the Szarlotka will take- a total time of 1 hour and 40 minutes? Dang it- that means I'd finish at about 11 pm. Mother's nagging about sleeping early (rather hypocritical for her to say) won't be enough to discourage me from starting though. The oven gets pre heated to 180°c to the tune of the opening to 2+2=5. I combine 250g of flour, 200g of sugar and 3/4 of a tablespoon of baking powder (oddly specific) into my red bowl rather fast, making mental note to sweep the evidence later. I look at the next instruction.

"Cut in the butter (125g) with a pastry blender, two knives or by rubbing with fingers til it resembles coarse meal."

Coarse meal.. got it. I begin using the pastry blender, not before doing the obligatory pretend gun poses. I imagine myself to be a spy- with a top secret mission. I would make something sweet to bring to a meeting with the enemy side, in hopes of appeasing them. Except an explosive would be hidden inside it, and after everyone on my side would be cleared out, it'd go off in a surprise, wiping them out instantly.

Then I crack two eggs to add to the bowl- separating the white part from one. After a few minutes of working it in til the dough is crumbly, it's time to cover and refrigerate it for half an hour. I flex my fingers- looks like the baker's got some spare time on their hands.

And what better way to spend it than to scroll on tiktok adding videos to my collections.

I sigh at myself.

Then realise I don't give a shit. I'm not gonna spend too long on there.

I notice an author whose book I had read (and thoroughly enjoyed) a month ago has gone live, so I join to see what she's doing.

She's signing copies of her book while occasionally pausing to read the chat, which is going at a rather calm, moderate speed, so everyone's comment has their momentary shine. I decide to type something myself.

"@rosymaplemoth99, thank you for the appreciation! I'm glad to hear you like the book. As for any authors I currently love- hmm- ItsIrene21 's stories are severely underrated! They have one ongoing in particular I'm very invested in. You guys should check it out! @skibidisigma420, weird username haha, asks.."

I tap out of the live beaming. I'm so happy she noticed my comment- she writes in a way that makes me wish I had her inhuman creativity. I'll have to have a look at her recommendation either tonight or tomorrow. For now-

A dreadful thought breaks in and catches me off guard. What if Elliot's already posted about me and Damien, and started the rumour chain? I absolutely despise being involved in any drama, so I hurriedly type what I'd expect his username to be and...

Oh. I wasn't far off.

His account, @EKTheGossipMaster, is one I would rather never have to see in my life. But I have to check for my sake, or else I won't stop thinking about it.

I slump back in my chair, letting out a heavy breath of relief to see nothing yet, and that he hasn't uploaded in a few weeks. Nothing to worry about so far.

Damn that dust ball.

Damn that Damien- ...

A few scrolls, saves and likes later, with the occasional middle aged man exploring the most exotic filters that fall into his hands, it's time to check back on the Szarlotka dough.

It's risen considerably, and is rather fun to prod at like slime. The next step is to separate the dough into thirds. I save one third for the crust and pat the remaining two into a 9 inch ish springform (not SPRINGLOCK, as my mind mistakenly associates) pan, covering the bottom and sides evenly. The pie is now starting to actually look like a pie when I stand back and inspect my masterpiece in progress. I can already envision the end result! I have to finish this.

Now it's time to add the apples- wait- I forgot to slice them!

I burst the fridge door open, almost wanting to slap myself. My eyes dart from shelf to shelf, double checking in disbelief when I see a ziplock packet of apple slices, covered in lemon juice to stop them browning. Thank goodness. I remember now- Mother had wanted us to have apples more, so she premade some snacks for us to have at some random interval of the day. She surely won't fuss if I use them all in my Szarlotka.

The ziplock bag has an estimated 3 apples' worth of slices, so according to the recipe, I only have to cut about 2 more apples. However much more, as long as the total amounts to 2 and 1/4 pounds. At least my job is made somewhat easier, so I waste no more time in whipping out the deadly duo- chopping board and knife. My playlist switches from Exit Music to Creep, which I know just the chorus to, so I sing that part (not too awfully dare I say). Coincidentally though, when the song draws to an end, so does my slicing. I stretch my fingers and wash the deadly duo at the sink.

Fatigue is beginning to bite its fangs into me already. The apples meet the dough for the first time as I toss them into the pan. They'll be stuck together forever, even after I eat them up. So if they hate each other, sucks for them. I smoothen out the top of the pile, watching it rain cinnamon. It's probably my favourite spice ever. Which is why some would say I put too much. But is there truly such thing as too much cinnamon? I think not.

Finally, the last thing to do before the Szarlotka goes into the oven to bake is to crumble and sprinkle the remaining crust over the apples. So for them, the weather changes from rain to hail. Not a good day to be an apple slice in my house right now. I take one more view at my phone screen.

'Bake for about 50 minutes, until crust is golden brown and apples are tender. If it seems to brown before the apples are tender, loosely tent with aluminium foil.'

I should hope nothing goes wrong. I set the oven timer to the appropriate mark with tired fingers. Now I have to wait. Again. Oh well.