Crumbling Cakes

Part XXXIII (33)

"Tell me Oliver, you magnificent man, where did you learn to make such fantastic bread?" I was leaning forward, arms crossed and bracing me up off the counter, while I nibbled at one of the rolls Ollie gave me.

"My Babushka, of course." He grinned from the corner of his mouth, kneading the lump of dough carefully. His fingers covered in flour he added in small deliberate increments. I watched mesmerized as he mixed back and forth between his hands and a dough scraper. Ollie was making sourdough and come morning when he put these bad boys in, they would smell divine. He nodded toward the lined pans that I'd prepared earlier. "Hand a few of those over, Myshka."

I hid my triumphant grin and passed along the pans for the proofing stage. Once Ollie got his loaves into their final shape, he'll tuck them into these pans, where they will sit and proof for the next 18 hours until dawn. If I'm really lucky, I'll get a little nibble tomorrow morning. But back to my triumph of finally getting Oliver to talk to me. Not often mind you, he's very into non-verbal communication. But on days like these? We had a grand old time like two chatty Cathy's.

"Did Babushka teach you gently or with stern direction?" I teased. I wanted to get a clearer picture of a kid Ollie. Was he always this quiet or did he become more frugal with his words as he got older? I pegged him to be in his early 30's. Which makes me wonder just what kind of life he's led to bring him to Ronaldo's doorstep, fattening me with croissants and Kaiser rolls. Ollie did me one better with my silly question, he chuckled. Victory was mine!

"Gentle, when I behaved." He lifted a section into the first pan. "But I rarely behaved." He half- laughed. "Babush was patient but very, very old school. It was a different time in her home country and she carried that with her everywhere, even when she uprooted her family here. She loved to bake fresh bread every Sunday morning." He dipped his hand quickly in a bowl of water, shaking some of the excess off and continuing his gentle kneading, careful not to overwork the dough. "I loved to watch her make it, hanging off her side as she worked—like you are now." He glanced up at me in amusement.

"I'm not useful anywhere else. Not with this bum leg anyway." I sighed sadly. It was better but not quite there.

"You're plenty useful." He defended. "Look at all of the wonderful bread you've helped create." He nodded at his labored efforts. I snorted.

"Nice try, Ollie." I straightened out my line of pans. "That's all you."

He shook his head. "You helped. Without your assistance and prep, I'd only have half of this ready."

I sighed loudly. "Oliver, Oliver, Oliver. You tease me so." He'd caught on quick that I thrived on being helpful. He'd figured out that keeping me busy made me feel like less of a burden. Bless him in the most genuine of ways. I placed my hand on his arm, squeezing. "You've learned too many of the tricks that work on me."

He shrugged lazily. "Not all of them." I grinned at my bread saving companion.

"Lia," Sebastian called out to me from the swinging door. I turned to look at him, pulling my hand away from Oliver's forearm. He looked stressed. Ronaldo has been in a mood all day. Getting irritated at the slightest inconvenience but holding back in expressing his displeasure. I've been watching it build up inside of him for six hours, slowly turning into a geyser ready to blow. Now he was just downright glowering—at least that was normal. What the hell had happened this time? He waved me over.

"Sorry, Ollie, that's my cue." Reluctantly, I took a step away from my bread haven.

"Don't worry about it, Myshka." He winked and tipped his chin in our Boss' direction. "Go, he needs you."