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“This is a bad idea.”
Veerla eyed the cookbook as though it was the instruction manual for disarming a bomb.
“Like, when Rabkin was convinced we could neutralize the levo/dextro component of amino acids by flash-freezing them and ate a tube of turian nutrient paste bad.”
Layla snickered inwardly as she unloaded the grocery bags; Veerla had probably read manuals for disarming bombs with less trepidation. In fact, given the choice between a live mine and a caprese quiche recipe, Layla was certain her friend would take the explosive every time.
“Only worse because the only person stupid enough to eat a whole tube of dextro paste is Rabkin, whereas we will have the whole building to worry about when I catch it on fire.”
The last of the groceries hit the counter and Layla gave her friend a pointed look over the carton of milk. “Mom’s got leave this year; I can’t miss it and the dining hall will be closed for the holiday. I just want to be sure you’re not going starve.”
“I won’t starve,” Veerla answered, rolling her eyes. “I have cottage cheese and salad stuff and no-cooking-required food. All you need are knives; knives are weapons and I am a weapons expert.”
“Fire is also a weapon.” Layla opened the cookbook and pushed it into her friend’s hands. “In fact, learning to use fire marked a turning point in evolution of most of the Milky Way’s sentient species!”
Veerla shot her what could only be described as a playful glare.
“Fire, not cottage cheese! Now, we start by preheating the oven.”
“Fine,” Veerla conceded, setting the temperature at 190. “But I really feel like we should be doing this in hard suits . . . ”
“I’m not opposed to procuring them.”
“No way Picozzi would let you check them out. He’s such a hardass.”
“I don’t know . . . I think he heard about the gravy incident.”
Veerla groaned, slumping forward until her forehead touched the open pages. “That was almost a year ago.”
“Just think of this as a chance to redeem yourself. Now, I will take care of slicing the tomatoes and basil, Miss Weapons Expert. You get started on the filling.”
Besides tearing the crust in a few places while getting it onto the pan everything went surprisingly well. Even cracking the eggs had gone smoothly, without a single shell finding its way into the bowl. A tiny bit of the filling spilled getting it onto the wrack, sizzled when it hit the bottom of the oven, but Layla had to admit she was pleased. For all of Veerla’s apprehension it had gone better than expected.
“See,” she said, setting the timer for 45 minutes. “Not so bad.”
“Not yet,” Veerla answered. She dragged a chair over from the table, set it in front of the oven door and sat down, eyes glued to the window. “There’s still time.”
“44 minutes and 22 seconds to be exact,” Layla laughed. “And you are not sitting there the whole time. Come on. I finally found that documentary about the Battle of Digeris.”
“But it’ll - ”
“Be fine.”
Veerla gave the oven a last look over her shoulder but let her friend lead her to her living room. They had barely gotten through the opening credits though when she straightened and took a deep breath through her nose.
“Something’s burning.”
“It’s just the spill.” By the time Layla stood up, Veerla was already halfway to the kitchen. She followed, calling after her. “You don’t have to - ”
But the oven door was already open. Veerla couldn’t find a hot pad so she used biotics, pulling the pan off the wrack in a woosh of blue. It came faster than she intended and the hot metal grazed her palm. Her biotics dissipated as she jerked her hand back and the quiche went crashing to the floor. The edges had started to set but the center was still raw and spilled all over the tile.
“Damnit!”
Layla went for a towel but Veerla was flustered and reached to pick it up barehanded. Her fingers barely made contact before she yanked them back again.
“God damn it!”
“Stop that!” It was supposed to be stern but Layla couldn’t help the amusement that colored her words. She shooed her friend away, throwing the towel over the mess. “You get some medi-gel on that. I’ve got this.”
She trudged off to the bathroom while Layla cleaned up the mess. She dumped the crust, and the filling that was hanging on to it, into the trash and set the pan in the sink.
Only Veerla . . .
A combination of cloth and paper towels on the floor and the kitchen was good as new. She looked up just in time to see Veerla return.
“Fire: one, Weapons Expert: zero,” she said, holding up her hand. There were bandages at the base of her thumb and around the tips of her middle and ring fingers.
“Fire: three,” Layla corrected. She took her friend’s hand and kissed each of them for emphasis. “Fortunately, there is cottage cheese.”