Piece of Cake | Ashton Irwin [au]

Thirteen

Ashton’s POV

“Ashton,” my mom calls as she places different desserts in a pink cardboard box for one of the customers. “Go to the kitchen and start working on making a couple dozen pistachio macarons. I don’t know why they’re so popular today…”

I cringe at the thought of pistachios because out of everything I make, they’re the one thing that I don’t enjoy using in my baking. I’ve only tasted them once and almost gagged from the amount of saltiness, but everyone else swears that it’s the best flavor we sell; I highly disagree.  

Even though she is pacing back and forth to attend to the rush of customers, my mom’s short blonde hair still looks completely kempt and not a single strand is out of place. I’m surprised that she hasn’t broken a sweat yet from all that she has to do. And even when some of the customers are rude to her, she always manages to keep a smile on her face, but once they’re out of ear shot, she doesn’t fail to call them “bastards” under her breath.

I love my mom.

I push through the swing door and grab the large bag of shell-free pistachios and pour a few cups inside a food processor to grind them until they turn into fine grains. As I let the disgusting nuts pulverize, I go to stand next to Michael who is currently rolling out a lime green piece of fondant.

“I take it that your favorite nut is just too much for your sensitive nose to handle?” Michael snickers and checks to make sure the fondant is at the right thickness, but from the way his eyebrows furrow, it’s not.

“They’re absolutely disgusting,” I say, and move around the kitchen to gather all the ingredients for the macaron filling and crust. “How do you people like it?”

Michael shrugs and begins to cut out leaf shapes in the fondant. “It’s an acquired taste, I guess. I don’t mind them that much.”

“Then you make them.”

He cackles as he shakes his head at me. “No can do. You know that every time I try to make them they either come out all watery or I bake them for too long and they become as hard as bricks. Just pretend that you’re making the dark chocolate ones.”

I turn off the food processor and hold it as far away from me before pouring a little more than half of the contents along with all the dry ingredients inside a large industrial sized mixer. “It’s kind of hard to do that when the scent is so strong,” I say, flipping the switch watching as everything mixes together.

“Then I guess you’re screwed.”

“You’re such a good friend,” I say sarcastically, but Michael doesn’t pick up on it.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he sings.

I turn off the mixer before going over to the oversized refrigerator and taking out a couple dozen eggs and placing them on the chrome work station next to Michael. “Help me separate the egg whites so that I can finish making these and attempt to convince my mom to discontinue the sale of them.” It’s a long shot, but there’s no hurt in trying.

“Good luck with that.” He drops what he’s doing and begins cracking the eggs along with me. “So how are things with Ruth?” he asks, throwing away an egg shell and cracking open another egg.

“Things are good, I guess. She shoved a cupcake in my face the other day if that says anything.” I honestly wasn’t expecting for her to do that. I thought she was only going to thank me for furnishing her apartment, but instead I got a cupcake to the face.

“That doesn’t sound good to me,” Michael says skeptically.

“She said that I wasn’t that bad of a person afterwards.” Score for me.