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The old blender, the one Dad used to mix up sauces and dressings, has not been touched in years. It sits somewhere in the bottom cabinets, buried behind countless other appliances that have rarely been touched. Kris has to dig past waffle irons — yes, multiple — a food processor, and two slow cookers of differing sizes to find the blender.
Susie stands in front of the open refrigerator, pulling food from it to set on the counter. A gallon of milk is on the kitchen table, dripping condensation onto the surface. A few pint-sized containers of ice cream thaw beside it. Kris brings them to the blender, plugged in beside the oven, then runs to gather what moss they can from the trees outside.
The heat of the day makes them wish they had money for a proper milkshake. There was just enough change, between them and Susie, for one, but QC refused to make the flavor they requested: strawberry and chocolate mixed together with a handful of moss and dusted with chalk pieces, and maybe garnished with a crayon instead of a cherry. Short of hopping in the lake naked, that left one option to beat the heat: make it at home.
Granted, they could each make their own milkshake now. There was plenty of stuff to use; they could probably get four or five out of what they had. But that just means that they can make a backup if their flavor flops.
Which it shouldn't. Kris is very confident in their ability to concoct a masterpiece.
The blender is half full of milk when they return with a chunk of mossy bark. Susie dumps three scoops of chocolate ice cream into it.
They frown, taking the empty container from her and looking into it.
“That’s all there is,” she says, “unless you want to throw that in too.”
Considering it as rip the carton apart, they shake their head. They’s rather just lick the remnants of chocolate lining the inside.
“Your call,” Susie shrugs. She throws another two scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender, then tosses in five strawberries, leaves and all.
“I think this is too much,” Kris signs before they start to pluck moss off the bark. She grabs the pile they’ve been making and sprinkles it in.
“It’s got a lid, don’t it?” They nod. “It'll be fine. Just got to make sure it doesn’t explode.”
Never has Kris seen the blender explode, but Dad has always told them not to overfill it. It leaves them curious, now, as to what will happen. So they decide to hand her the lid and step away, busying themself with crushing the chalk. It leaves them only half aware of what the blender does when Susie turns it on.
What it does is disappointing. The milk rises, mixing with the ice cream into a dull, almost dusty brown. The pitcher shakes, but she keeps a hand on it to hold it in place. Green begins to dot the sides; either the moss or the strawberry leaves sticking to the plastic. A hint of red begins to seep up from the bottom, fighting the brown for color.
The end result is a watery, dull pink, speckled with flecks of green.
Susie pours what she can into a glass. Kris sprays some whipped cream on top, then sprinkles it with the chalk — which is nearly invisible, since it's the exact same color as the whipped cream.
"Got any straws?” she asks.
They rifle through a drawer until a one catches their eye. It’s metal, and long, and the last inch or so is bent to mimic a plastic straw. Susie takes it from them and sticks it in the glass.
“Tada!” she says with a flourish.
It's not in a proper milkshake glass, and the whipped cream slumps on the top, and they forgot the crayon, but it is beautiful. Kris snaps a picture before Susie takes a sip from the straw.
Her face passes through several expressions: eyes gleaming with expectation; nose wrinkling in confusion; shake-covered tongue hanging out in thought. “Kinda ass,” she says.
They steps closer, and she holds the straw out to them. They pass right by it and stand on their toes, one hand on her shoulder. Pressing their lips against hers, they swipe their tongue inside her mouth, licking up shake residue.
Susie stands stock still. Kris blushes as they pull away.
“Needs more chocolate,” they mumble, heading to the fridge for chocolate syrup.