ENG - My best friend's sister ᵐᶦᵏᵉʸ ˣ ᵒᶜ

36

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"So, are we going to join some grannies?" he interrupts the silence and nodding, I stand up.
"Okay. Won't be so bad," I say, patting the sand off my clothes, and he stands up as well. We reach our shoes, which we left somewhere at the beginning before we got into the water. Once there, I grab my shoes and also the tickets we picked up earlier.
"The stalls marked yellow are probably the ones tailored for the older ones," I explain as I look at the map and continue, "There's something near here, I think," I whisper softly.
"I'll look for myself. If I follow you, we'll just get lost, even though you have a map," he says, taking the map from my hand. I give him a pouty look, but he's right. I take my shoes and stumble after him. Silently I follow him and a short time later we are standing in front of a building, looking at the sign in front of the door. A baking contest. Of course it was obvious that there would be something like that for older people, it's well known that they like to cook or bake.
"Say, can you bake?", I ask him skeptically as I read the sign.
"Nope, but how hard can it be?" he replies with a grin and we look at each other.
"Shall we give it a try?", I ask and he nods in agreement.
"Won't be that hard," he adds and just walks inside.

Inside, we sign in and wait another half hour or so until it starts. In the meantime, we dry our clothes outside in the sun, as they are still wet from the water fight. Finally, the leader appears and leads us into a large room equipped with several small kitchen islands.
He explains us the rules of the competition: we get points for decoration and taste. The kitchens are equipped with everything we need, and a baking book is on the table from which we can choose a cake that we must finish within three hours. I am relieved to hear that there are no specifications for the cake as long as we finish within the allotted time. As I look around, I notice that here are actually the ones with an older attendant.
Mikey interrupts my thoughts as he is already flipping through the baking book and says, "I want this one." Of course, it's no ordinary cake, but a dinosaur cake for kids. I rub my face and have to smile at his choice.
"Okay, once everyone has found their cake, grab an apron and let's go. I'll be in the next room, checking in every now and then," the instructor explains and leaves the room. A little odd that he doesn't stay in the same room to keep an eye out, but I'm not supposed to mind.

I stand nervously in front of the baking book and the ingredients spread out in front of me, almost all of which are in bowls and unlabeled, probably part of the challenge as well. I can feel my hands shaking as I read through the recipe for what feels like the hundredth time, but it still feels like I'm reading a foreign language. Mikey stands next to me, looking just as lost as I am. Neither of us has ever baked before and we don't know where to start.
"It won't be that hard. We'll just follow the directions and nothing can go wrong," I try to encourage us both. The words turn into a confusing jumble in my head as I try to decipher the steps.
"It seems we need a floor, which we then have to shape somehow. I think that's where we start. So get out a bowl," I white Mikey, who obeys me. And so it goes, I read through the recipe what feels like hundreds of times and pass it along exactly as it says here.
But when I say, "Next, you need to cream the butter," I see confusion flash in Mikey's eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he asks me, as if I just spoke a completely different language. I shrug my shoulders helplessly, not knowing exactly what frothy stirring means myself, and reply uncertainly, "Maybe you just need to stir the butter until it foams?"
"Confused, but okay, how much?" he immediately overwhelms me with the next question.
"I don't know, it doesn't say...just do the whole packet?", I rather ask back and he just does. He takes the whole package of butter and puts it in a bowl and he starts stirring with a whisk. He stirs and his arm moves frantically, faster and faster, and I can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. But the foam just won't form.
"God, yo, there's no foam coming and my arm hurts. That makes fighting less painful," he groans, rubbing his aching arm as he sets the whisk aside, panting.

I eye the bowl skeptically, wondering if I'm getting the recipe right.
"Will be fine," I think. Next, add sugar, milk, more, and eggs!", I say as I continue to study the recipe and grab the eggs from the fridge. Mikey stands in front of two bowls of white powder, looking like he's not sure which one is sugar. After finally choosing a bowl, he generously adds the contents - far too generously, as he pours the entire contents. I become suspicious of his hesitant look and briefly dip my finger into the bowl to taste if it really is sugar. The salty burn on my tongue makes me squint.
"Mikey, you added salt!", I complain, trying to get as much of the white powder out with my hands as possible.
"It was 50/50, I wonder if it's right! Sugar and salt just look the same. How am I supposed to know? Why don't they label it either!", Mikey defends himself quietly as he grabs the other bowl and adds the entire contents after I remove as much salt as I can.
"We are so going to fail," I whimper lightly and sigh. I add the eggs, trying to break them Best without shells if possible, while Mikey adds milk and flour by the packful.
"What next?" asks Mikey, distracting me. I look back at the book and instruct him to stir again, pointing to the electric hand mixer. Mikey gets it, plugs it in, and turns it on. Without giving it another thought, he just sticks the stir sticks into the bowl, which of course tips to the side, spraying us both with the gooey mixture.
"You have to hold on to those you idiot!", I continue to whine, trying not to start crying.
"How am I supposed to know that? You didn't say!", Mikey scolds back, to which I look at him indignantly. I notice little splatters of dough spreading across Mikey's cheeks and nose, giving him a cute look.
"You know that kind of thing!", I say anyway, exasperated, and look around. The kitchen around us is a picture of chaos. Bags of flour on the sideboard, while eggshells and empty milk cartons lie scattered on the countertop. The floor is littered with blobs of dough that flew off during our failed attempt at mixing. And yet, this moment feels strangely perfect, making us both laugh.

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