All I Want Is You

Chapter 8: Presenting Presents

Early in the morning, long before even the sun had risen and huddled over the oven as it preheated to the required temperature, I beat some butter and caster sugar together in a mixing bowl — occasionally glancing at the recipe sprawled out in pen on the page of a notebook, laid out on the worktop beside me.

As much as I wished I could have stayed snuggled up with my angel upstairs, I had something very important to do. So, while Cas snored the early morning away, I'd snuck out and crept into the kitchen; getting to work.

Once the mixture was sufficiently smooth, I stirred in the flour to create a silky dough-like paste and then dusted the worktop with some more. I transferred the paste onto the surface and grabbed a rolling pin, gently rolling it to the desired thickness and ensuring there were no gaps.

Finally, it was time to begin cutting it into shapes. I'd checked the cupboards beforehand but found no cutters, so I was going to have to eyeball it. I grabbed a thin, sharp knife and got to work. I was concentrating so deeply that I didn't even notice someone enter the room.

"I never thought I'd see the day..."

I spun around and put my hand on my heart, sighing in relief.

"Mum! Don't do that!" I hissed and tried to steady my racing heart.

"I do happen to own this house you know," She retorted and I gave her an unimpressed look. She frowned. "Sorry..."

I turned my back on her and continued my work, ignoring her presence as she stepped closer and watched me work. I guided the knife through the mixtures with my index finger, as if I were sketching on a blank canvas. I stepped back to inspect my handiwork.

"Theodore Edwards is actually baking again," My mother mused and I sighed, shaking my head.

How did I know she would bring this up again?

"Mum—"

"I know, I know," She dismissed and made the motion of zipping her lips.

I finished up, sprinkled some caster sugar on the shapes and carefully placed them on a tray covered in greaseproof baking paper. I slipped on some oven gloves and slowly opened the door, allowing the heat to plume out of the gap — creating condensation on the kitchen window. I picked up the tray and popped it inside the oven, setting a timer for twenty minutes.

Setting the gloves down on the worktop, I took a deep breath and began cleaning up with a damp cloth. My mother hovered behind me, and I knew she wasn't done with our conversation.

"Theo..." She began and I closed my eyes, mentally preparing myself. "I'm not trying to start an argument, I just want to talk."

I held the cloth over the sink and squeezed it, wringing out the water and dirt, before turning to face my mother. I leaned back on the counter and nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

"I just wanted to know what made you decide to bake again," She explained and smiled slightly. "I mean, it's been years since you even touched a wooden spoon — let alone those recipes you wrote out." She gestured to the recipe on the side and I picked it up, the old paper frail in my hand. "What's changed?"

It was written in my handwriting, or rather, my younger self's handwriting to be precise. I chewed my lip and looked at all the notes I'd written alongside it, one of them catching my eye: 'Too much butter makes it moist, too much flour makes it crumbly — is there a middle ground?'

I smiled as I recounted the early days of baking, struggling to find the fine line between the two extremes. I used to spend so many nights creating and trialling new recipes, sometimes adding to existing recipes and other times starting from scratch. I had hundreds of them filed away upstairs, all of which I hadn't touched for so very long.