Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Teuvo
Ridley sleeps in the next morning. While she's passed out, hogging all the covers and pillow space, I saunter around in the kitchen wearing socks and grey sweatpants. There's a dishtowel hanging from my neck. Breakfast is my favourite meal to cook for Ridley. Whenever she wakes, she complains about how difficult it is to choose something to start your day off with. She never wants it to be something heavy, which is part of the reason she never eats in the morning.
This morning, despite the upcoming complaints I'm prepping myself for, I'm making the works: pancakes with macerated berries and vanilla whipped cream, sausages, eggs, sourdough toast, and hash browns. During my morning run, I grabbed anything we were missing, including the ghost pepper hot sauce Ridley loves. Her tolerance for spicy foods never ceases to amaze me.
Right now, I'm whisking the batter for the pancakes—and trying not to eat it all. Pancakes are delicious. But I'm more of a batter boy. And a cookie dough boy. Do I run the risk of salmonella? Yes. Do I care? Nope.
Stuffing another spoonful into my mouth, I take the ladle and pour a fair-sized dollop of batter into the pan. The oil spits and sizzles, the edges already turning a delicate brown. While the underside is cooking, I check on the eggs. Ridley doesn't like egg yolks, so I've removed the yolks and am now poaching the whites in this fancy little contraption. There are four little cups with handles, resting in a holder that sits above the boiling water below. The lid on top is made of glass and collects the steam. Once we arrive home, I'll be buying one of these. It's much better than trying to poach eggs free hand. Somehow, I always manage to fuck them up.
After flipping the pancake, I turn to the island. The bowls are mismatched, ranging from enamel to ceramic to expensive glassware. None are the same shape, size, or colour. I think my favourite is the glass blow. It's turquoise with a small crack near the lip and is decorated with pastel blue waves that remind me of Lake Garibaldi. I dip my finger in the vanilla-flavoured whipped cream I whisked earlier, lick it away, and then turn back to the pancake. It's ready, so I grab the flipper and remove it from the pan, sticking it into the oven. It's heated to two hundred degrees Fahrenheit to keep the already-ready food warm.
Another spoonful ends up in my mouth before I dump the remaining batter into the newly oiled pan. With the final pancake cooking, I'm ready to assemble my display. Ridley should be up soon, and I want to wow her with my cooking skills. I lay out two plates and start constructing the eggs benny. On each plate, I lay two English muffins with our eggs and shavings of smoked salmon on top. They're followed by a decent helping up hollandaise sauce topped with paprika and freshly cracked black pepper. Next to it, I add a good helping of arugula salad. The dressing is olive oil, flaky salt, lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, and a pinch of garlic. Two pancakes each are next, drenched in butter, macerated berries, whipped cream, and maple syrup. A couple of sausages are the last addition. Ridley's are covered in her favourite hot sauce. Mine are paired with ketchup. I also pour fresh new cups of steaming coffee.
