In the week following, I spend almost every hour of my day in Kai’s house. Either in the kitchen or with Max, and when Kai gets home from work after the games I don’t take his son to, I find ways to linger a little longer even though inspiration has yet to strike.
Clearly, it’s a me thing if not even a stunning, state-of-the-art kitchen with brand-new tools can make me create.
But today is the day. I can feel it buzzing through my fingertips. Last night, while I was lying in bed, I saw it in my mind, visualized every step— my take on a deconstructed banana flambe.
In the high-end world, you’ve just got to list something as “deconstructed” and it’s automatically double the price, which really makes no fucking sense if you ask me, but I don’t make the rules.
One time I created a dessert simply called “flavors of a banana split.” I served a deconstructed banana split spread across the entire table. Hazelnut chocolate on one end, strawberry mousse on the other. You had to put in work to get yourself a single bite, but the presentation was stunning, and I earned an award for what was essentially a giant, messy banana split.
Today though, I’m taking on the banana flambe.
At least that was my plan before Max decided his plan was to be clingy. He crawls as quickly as I walk over to the stove. I meant to work during his nap earlier, but there were so many things Kai needed help with around the house, I didn’t want to ignore them. Even though he’s for sure going to be annoyed I did the laundry and may or may not have given one of his used T- shirts a deep inhale.
The guy smells good. Sue me.
I look down at the floor, next to my bare feet. “Max, baby, what’s up?”
He sits on the kitchen runner, both hands reaching up towards me. “Nana,” he says.
I’ve come to learn that whatever that noise is that starts with an “N” sound and ends with a bit of mumbling is his version of asking for a banana. I’ve got a whole bunch sitting next to the stove that I bought a few days ago. They’re on the brink of going brown, which is why today is the day I need to use them.
Peeling one, I get down on my haunches and break him off a piece. “Here you go, Bug.”
His blue eyes are shining, his hair is still a little sweaty from his afternoon nap, but gosh dang it is he fucking cute.
The stovetop is heating up, but there’s no way I’m working on this type of dessert with him so close. Seeing as a flambe requires me to set a fire, we’re officially done with that idea for today.
Max chews on his banana while he contently sits on the ground, his brown hair all over the place.
“Maxie, do you want to go play with your blocks?” He shakes his head.
“Should we maybe go outside and blow some bubbles?” Another no.
“Okay, do you just want to hang out with me in the kitchen?” Looking up, he smiles, mashed banana all over his baby teeth.
I chuckle, picking him up. “All right, my guy. Let’s put you to work then.”
I flip off the burner before standing him in the small contraption that keeps him upright and at counter height.
Leaning down on my forearms, I make myself eye level with him. “What should we make?”
“Nana!” he yells.
“You’ve still got your banana.” “Nana!”
“I can’t make that banana dessert with you in the kitchen. The flames are big and hot and oooh—” I tickle his belly just to hear his laugh. “Kind of scary. So, we’ve got to think of something else with bananas.”
“Nana!”
Dear God. Big banana fan today.
“How about—” I look around the kitchen for ideas. Bananas, flour, sugar.
A Bundt pan too. I face him again. “Should we make banana bread?”
This sure as hell isn’t going to count towards any of the work I need to get done, but I haven’t made something as simple as banana bread in years.
Max claps his hands.
I guess we’re making some motherfucking banana bread.
There’s an old recipe floating around in my mind, one that I used to make my dad when I was a little girl. This bread is almost like a cake with the moist center and sweet add-ins.
Washing my hands then Max’s, I load the counter up next to him, letting him see and touch as much as he wants. Unhinging the base to the mixer, I set it up right in front of him.
“All right. First up. We’ve got to mash these bananas.”
I peel and toss them in the bottom of the bowl, but Max reaches in at one point to take a handful before smashing it into his mouth.
I nod. “I’ve never baked like this before, but I’m here for it.”
Taking a fork in my hand, I set him up with a much smaller one that won’t do shit, but at least he can feel like he’s participating.
We mash the bananas. Well, I mash the bananas. Max just kind of rings his fork against the metal bowl.
“Excellent job,” I reiterate. “Four eggs.” I do that part. I don’t think his little hands could quite grasp an egg yet. “And a bit of canola oil.” Filling up one of the measuring cups, I hold it out for him to take, making sure to cover his hand with mine.
I want him to feel like he’s doing this. Who knows, maybe he’s learning. I would’ve loved to learn about the kitchen from my mom, but she wasn’t around to teach me in the same way Max’s mom isn’t here to teach him.
We pour the oil into the mixture, losing a bit on the counter along the way, so I add a splash more for good measure.
We do the same with the sugar and salt. Adding in baking soda and a packet of instant vanilla pudding. No way in hell would I get away with adding instant pudding into a recipe for work, but we’re baking for fun, something I haven’t done in years. And it’s especially fun when Max throws the flour into the bowl and a big flour cloud flies up because of it, coating him in a layer of white.
He laughs hysterically and I can’t help but join him. His messy brown hair is dusted, his shirt is covered, but there’s a giant smile on his face as he tries to suck in enough air to breathe through his laughter.
“Bug, I think we need to get you an apron like mine.”
He giggles some more, and I adore the sound. Sure, his family unit looks a little different than what his friends might have when he gets to school. He’ll probably notice that a lot of kids on TV have two parents, but Max has got it good. He’s happy and I couldn’t want anything more for him.
I peel his shirt off and let him live his best naked toddler life before adding a bit more flour to the mixture. Carrying both him and the bowl, I latch it to the base of the mixer, then let him help me turn it on.
His blue eyes go wide and his little mouth parts when he sees and hears the mixer start up. I don’t watch the ingredients. I only watch him because I can’t get over seeing him experience these things for the first time. There’s so much joy on his sweet face and I find myself feeling the same way.
Happy and excited while baking. About time I felt that again.
I’m typically a walnut girl when it comes to banana bread, but I opt for chocolate chips on this round. I let him drop them in from above, noting the two he puts into the batter is balanced by the two he shoves into his mouth each time.
I get the Bundt pan into the preheated oven, an odd sense of pride and . . . relief flowing through me because I actually completed a dessert that I have a good feeling I won’t fuck up over the next hour while it bakes.
But then I turn around and see the absolute disaster we made in the kitchen. Max is back by the counter, continuing to eat the chocolate chips I pulled for him, and I can’t help but smile at the view.
My culinary professors would have died if my station were ever this messy in school. I would have been screamed at, berated. I’ve grown a thick skin from my time in the restaurant industry. Cleanliness and organization are rules one and two in the kitchens I contract for. Other than my one single towel I keep over my shoulder, I don’t touch anything. My hair is pulled back tight, my uniform is crisp, and my skin is covered.
But I’ve got a naked baby over here, my hair is messily on top of my head, and I couldn’t feel more like myself.
A little over an hour later, I’ve got a piece sliced for us with butter melting on top when the front door opens. Kai comes strutting in, post- practice, sneaking up on his son from behind.
“Are you nakey?” he asks, tickling Max’s belly and covering his cheeks with kisses.
Max wiggles in his grasp, laughing.
“Naked Maxie, what are you doing?” His dad picks him up, holding him to his chest. Max’s little arms instantly go around his neck and I have to look away so I don’t drool from watching Kai hold his son while wearing that damn backwards hat.
“Hi, Mills,” he says.
I swing my attention back to him. “Hi.”
He’s got Max situated on one incredibly veiny forearm when he uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe the summer sweat from his brow.
He’s got to be freaking kidding with that. How has he not been with anyone since Max came along? All he needs to do is stand at his front door, hold his son, and maybe take his shirt off. All the women in the neighborhood would come running. It’s like watching single dad porn.
“What did you guys make?” “What?”
An annoyingly smug, but well-deserved smirk slides across his lips. “What did you guys make, Miller?”
“Banana bread.”
His brows lift along with an excited smile. “You finished a new dessert?” It’s cute how much he wants this for me. He might not understand the ins and out of it all, especially since he’s asking if I’m going to feature banana bread made with instant pudding in my Food & Wine spread, but it’s sweet,
nonetheless.
“It’s not new, but I did finish it without burning it so that’s a plus. Max helped too.”
“You did?” Kai asks his son.
Max decides to be shy, but I see the proud little smile he’s wearing. “Do you want to try it?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Have you had some?” “Not yet.”
“Well, you have some first then I’ll go in.”
“Why?” I laugh. “Afraid I’m trying to poison you or something?”
“No, but you worked hard on something and didn’t fuuu . . . dge it up in the process. You should try it.”
“I like to bake for other people.”
And I haven’t baked for someone other than critics in far too long. It’s almost as if I forgot that my favorite part of baking is feeding the people I
love. I’m not always great at expressing my feelings, so I tend to tell them through their stomachs.
It’s no wonder nothing has worked out lately.
“Max first though,” I say, blowing on a tiny bite to get it ready for him. He opens his mouth wide for my fork and hums when it hits his tongue. “Okay with those rave reviews, I think I need some,” Kai cuts in.
I get him another forkful.
“You’re not going to blow on it for me?” He wears a devilish smile, but mine is a whole lot naughtier.
“Oh, I’ll blow something for you. All you have to do is ask.” “Jesus,” he laughs. “Give me the freaking banana bread.”
I’m not sure why, but I don’t hand him the fork. Instead, I guide it to his mouth, feeding him.
His eyes stay locked on mine, his lips wrapping around the utensil and there’s something so oddly erotic about it all.
“Miller.” He chews, his eyes going wide. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.” “Really?”
This is what I missed. Seeing the pure joy when the sugar hits someone’s tongue.
“Yes. That’s the best banana bread I’ve ever had. I don’t even know if you should call it bread. It’s more like cake and I want to eat the entire thing.”
“Wow.”
“No, I’m serious. Give me another bite.” Chuckling, I do just that, feeding him again.
He moans and holy hell if I don’t have to squeeze my legs together at the sound.
“You’ve got to try it,” he insists.
Using the same fork that was in his mouth, I take a bite. I can feel him tracking me as if he’s having the same thought I am about my lips being exactly where his just were.
And wow, he’s right. It is good. It’s really good. I think it might be better than the version I used to make when I was younger.
“You’re right.” I take another bite before reaching up to pinch Max’s exposed belly. “Nice work, Bug.”
Kai’s big hand curves around the back of my neck, pulling my attention to him where I find his gaze all soft. His thumb softly strokes the pulse
point on the side of my throat before he gives me a tender squeeze. “Good job, Mills.”
Whoa. An odd rush of emotion sneaks up on me, overwhelming my senses.
What the hell is that about?
I can’t remember the last time I was told I was doing a good job in the kitchen, and Kai said it so matter-of-factly. So confidently. It makes me want to bake more so I can hear it again.
And without a fight, I agree with him. I did do a good job.
