| Subject: Bolt From the Blue 5 |
Author:
Taking the Cake
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Date Posted: 22:57:28 03/28/01 Wed
In reply to:
BonnieBo
's message, "Bolt From the Blue" on 22:53:55 03/23/01 Fri
Nikita walked over to the kitchen table and looked down at the enormous piece of paper that no one - not even a blind man - could miss seeing. It was almost as big as a table cloth. But despite its large size, Bubbe's list was thankfully short. The first item had read, "Change your clothes for dinner. Wear the dress on your bed."
Well, that hadn't been such a hardship. Nikita had to admit that taking off the carbonized skirt had made her skin feel less itchy, and it had been a relief to peel off the last bits of those tattered stockings. Stockings! She suddenly became aware of the rough pine planks rubbing against her bare feet. Joules.She'd forgotten to put on a new pair. Oh well. Bubbe was gone on a house-call, and now she could wear whatever she wanted. Or not wear, as the case might be. Besides, her skirts were long enough. All you could see were her toes. Toes were no big deal, she decided.
Picking up a fountain pen, Nikita crossed out the "getting dressed" item. She glanced down at her cream wool dress, spreading out the tucked skirts. She couldn't imagine what had possessed her grandmother to pick this one with the fussy little blue cornflowers embroidered here and there. Cream! What an unfortunate color. She didn't care if it was supposed to make her skin look like a rose or some other folderol nonsense that Marcus was always saying. As far as she was concerned, it was one of those colors that petrified her because every little stain always showed up and she was just going to have to dye it black eventually. Nikita thought it would save them all a lot of time and expense if they just bought dark material to begin with, but Bubbe wouldn't have it - something about how she couldn't go around looking like a widow or an undertaker when she was still a maiden.
Maiden. Ha! That was her grandmother's quaint Victorian reason for why she couldn't wear skirts above her ankles or bob her hair short so that it would be practical for a change. Bubbe sure had funny notions sometimes about what was okay and what wasn't. And because of them, Nikita was stuck wearing this dress now. This was her best Sunday best, but she didn't think it was Sunday. She couldn't remember exactly.
But she didn't try very hard to figure it out. Really, it wasn't very important. Shrugging to herself, Nikita tied the apron strings behind her back as she walked over to the two thin tube cakes. They were cooling on a tier of slowly rotating racks. Beneath it, the fan she'd designed was gently blowing upwards. She lightly touched the top cake. It was just the right temperature. Time for the next step. She checked the list again.
"Make frosting. Shave chocolate and melt. Don't forget sugar," she read aloud. The word "sugar" had been underlined three times. "Just because I forgot once for the darn Fourth of July picnic. Well, it was worth it just to see Marcus spit out that brownie right in front of the mayor." Laughing softly to herself, Nikita found the little package of Ghiradelli chocolate. She unwrapped the silver foil and shaved little pieces into a saucepan on the stove. One crumb clung to her finger. She licked it off, and somehow its dark mysterious taste reminded her of their new tenant.
What a strange man. He'd never really said what he did or what he was doing here. And that reticence seemed unusual, because most men couldn't wait to tell you about themselves whether you were interested or not. Not that she was much interested in Mister Samuelle. No, sir. He could be a G-man or the King of Siam for all she cared. He could be whoever he pleased as long as he paid on the first of the month. That's all she cared about.
"That's right." Nikita added a half cup of sugar. Her hand reached for the knob on the front of the electric stove when she remembered.
Maybe she should use her black box. She glanced at the little oven she'd made last week. It sat there on the counter next to the shiny steel tins of flour and sugar and salt, and as far she knew Bubbe hadn't used it for anything other than heating water.
Humming loudly, Nikita almost put the whole saucepan into the oven, but then she remembered just in time. The last time she'd used a metal container, she'd incinerated everything. Aluminum, steel, copper - it didn't seem to matter what kind of metal. They all burned terrifically, and Nikita still had a small scar on her hand to prove it. She walked over to the cupboards and took out a small glass bowl that she set on the counter. Then she poured the contents of the saucepan into the bowl. Nikita put it inside the box and shut the door. She adjusted the knobs.
"Thirty seconds, I think." She hit the button. The box started humming and a soft blue light shone through the small window on the door. Gradually the chocolate turned shiny, then started to bubble. A few seconds later, steam rose from the bowl inside the oven. Nikita watched moisture collect on the ceiling of the box and begin to drip down. "It needs a fan ... and vent," she murmured, "Or else that condensation will turn everything soggy."
Top or side? No, definitely the top. Steam rises. Follow nature,as Bubbe always said. The casing would have to be adjusted to accommodate the new fan. Two more inches that way. And maybe another bolt there. Nikita was busy mentally redesigning the black box when it went click.The knob tick-ticked as it slowly reset to the ought mark. Then it was finished. Hmm, that was quiet. A little too quiet. If she'd been in the other room, she wouldn't have even noticed that sound. Maybe a little bell would nice. An alarm bell. Good idea. Eagerly Nikita opened the door and touched the bowl.
Yeow! That was hot. She shook her finger and stuck it into her mouth. But even though her fingertip stung like the dickens, Nikita smiled anyway because she smell melted chocolate. Melted, not burnt. It had worked. She knew it would. She picked a towel from the counter and used it to ease out the bowl. She gingerly set it on the counter, found a wooden spoon and began stirring. There were a few unbroken bits near the rim of the bowl, but the middle was all glossy and hot. Nikita stirred some more, watching the rest of the chocolate melt via its residual radiant heat. She watched and thought. The sauce had heated unevenly. Maybe a rotating tray. Equal parts exposure to the beam per second. Now thatmight work better.
She could see a tray. Glass. On a mount. Nikita imagined it all, designing the mount as she watched the cooling racks rotate. The two wheels - one real, one pretend - revolved at different speeds in her mind, gradually becoming one. She imagined it spinning faster, the food flying off. No. That was too fast. Some rpm between the two extremes would be better. Cooking speed had to make some concession to centrifugal force. Maybe it was a fictitious force, but it was a force to be considered nevertheless. She thought she could reach a mechanical compromise. Yes, she definitely could.
Dreamily Nikita perfected the design in her mind as she whipped the chocolate into a smooth fragrant sauce. She turned off the fan, stopped the racks, and picked up a knife from the counter. Without really looking, she dipped her knife into the frosting. She lifted it, holding it over the top cake. Or maybe ... her thoughts drifted as she heard the footsteps on the threshold. "Well, there you are. About time. Dinner's ready. Could you dish up the stew?"
The light tread crossed the room to the cupboards. The door opened quietly, and then a bowl slid briefly across the shelf before it was lifted out.
"You're being awfully silent," Nikita said, frosting the bottom cake now. "Are you giving me the silent treatment? Zero decibels. Whoa. You must be really mad at me. I amsorry about the potatoes. I'll make it up to you next time. I promise."
"Good," said a voice she didn't expect; a certain soft voice that sounded as if he always delivered what he promised; a voice as powerful as those penetrating green eyes.
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