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It was like you blinked and 3 months had passed.
You’re not too sure if you’re used to the humidity and heat of Louisiana quite yet, but you inch closer by the day, chugging water and thanking the heavens for air conditioning.
Regardless, you have Remy to help you adjust. He lived here his whole life – save for the stint in college that brought him to the midwest, and allowed you two to become acquainted. Once you both graduated, he was quick to suggest coming home with him, and after some discussions and a deep-down want to spread your wings and experience something so unlike what you’ve known before, you accepted.
The heat almost made you regret that, but you’re glad you stuck it out. It’s beautiful here, and it is so nice making a life with someone you love in a place that belongs solely to you two.
It’s a rare day off for both of you, and despite the rarity of this, you’re not doing anything to take advantage of the opportunity. That kind of honeymoon phase has faded ages ago, and it is a lot easier to casually be in each other’s broad company, doing separate things and enjoying the peace and quiet.
At the moment, you’re in the living room, working on a book that you have neglected over the past week, taking in a refreshing breeze through an open window and enjoying the peace and quiet.
In the distance, you hear footsteps. They start quietly, progressing into heavier steps as Remy breaks into a run across the apartment. You catch yourself smiling, book pushing itself out of your mind as you wait for him to crash back into your life.
At the same time the door slams open, you hear him exclaim something about “candy weather,” and you have to ask what he means.
“It’s PERFECT candy-making weather! We need to make pralines, come on,” and he’s turning to go to the kitchen before you can answer. Of course, you get up and follow him. You might not know what a praline is, but you do know he said candy, and any adventure like this with him is delightful.
When you enter the kitchen, he’s pulling out ingredients. Sugar, both brown and white, corn syrup, milk, butter, pecans - which you did not know were in the cupboard, else they would’ve been completely eaten by now. The pot is on the old stove, and a thermometer that looked older than either of you is leaning against the wall inside of it.
“Okay, so what do you need me to do?” you ask, rolling up your sleeves.
He held up one of the old books that you knew was a LeBeau family cookbook. “Can you measure out a cup of each sugar? I’ll get the milk and set up everything else.” You nod and get to measuring while he gets out a tray and some parchment paper.
Once the sugars are all measured, he gestures for you to join him at the stove.
“Okay, so the sugar, milk, and a bit of the syrup goes in – the syrup is just so it’s more forgiving. Add a pinch of salt, and mix. You can keep mixing, I’ll measure the pecans. Let me know when the thermometer says 210?” You nod, taking the wooden spoon from him and stirring the dissolving sugar.
As you focus on that, you hear him opening a cupboard, pulling out something, and setting that near where the pecans were. A few seconds later, and the sound of him cutting the larger nuts in half on the chopping board joins the slow steam of the pot as it heats.
You two end up like that for a while, each focusing on a different task, separately, but each with the same end. Collaborative, but also independent. Meanwhile, you don’t usually think this hard about that; sharing a space with Remy is like sharing space with a piece of furniture that you’ve had for two moves. It’s like questioning why your favourite recliner would be in the living room.
The sugar starts to cook, the toasty caramel smell adding to the sensory symphony of cooking sounds and familiarity.
The thermometer hits 205. 206. 207. 208... it stays at 208 for a lot longer than you expect. Then suddenly -
“It’s at 210!”
“Perfect timing! Thank you, mon chere.” Joining you with the measuring jug of pecans, he poured them into the boiling sugar, followed by some butter. He took the spoon, mixing more aggressively.
“I’ve got this from here, can you bring over the tray with the parchment, please? Oh, and a few spoons.”
You do as you’re told, bringing the tools closer to where he’s hovering over the stove.
“Thank you. From here I’m just letting the heat go up a bit more, and then the magic happens.”
He said the last bit with a slight mystique, like he was telling a ghost story instead of making candy.
“When I was a kid, I’d watch the pralines get made, and there’s something so... magical about getting sugar to do whatever you want it to. It’s nice. That magic sticks around even when you’ve seen it a million times, know exactly how it works, why it happens, what you need to do next to keep that magic going. But you don’t know, and I get to show you that.”
The wistful look in his eyes is a rare sight, and the hint of a story just makes the whole thing all the sweeter. Remy is one of the first people that’s made you realize just how much everyone around you is a human being, living entire internal lives that nobody else will know. You think you’re lucky, to learn whatever you can get of his.
“We’re just about there, now,” he interrupted your train of thought, drawing your eye back to the bubbling sugar. “stand back once I take the thermometer out, this sugar is very hot and I don’t want you to get splashed.”
A moment later, he is taking the thermometer out, and aggressively whipping the sugar with the spoon, filling it with air. Before long, that’s gone too, replaced by the two smaller spoons. Scooping the sugar into individual candies, he places each on the tray, focus creasing his face as he does the work as quickly as possible.
Once the candies are all on the tray, he sighs dramatically, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“We have to let those set now. Wanna watch a movie?”
You nod, taking his hand as you return to the living room, already debating which movie to watch.
**
Halfway through the romantic comedy you won out on (he teases you for being cheesy and predictable, but you know he loves them too), the candies are ready, and he pauses the movie to put them on a plate and bring them in as a movie snack.
You can’t hide your reaction to them on the first bite. They’re sweet, chewy, plus your love of pecans and a creamy texture that confirms what Remy said about magic; they’re perfect, and you say so.
“I’m so glad you like them” he responds with a mouth full of candy. Neither of you have a ton – while good, they are very sweet. The plate is abandoned for the movie, for the casual company of watching a movie while leaning against someone you love.
“Next time, can you teach me how to do the ending bit? I wanna do the magic myself.”
He smiles, hugging you a little tighter as the movie nears its dramatic, cliche airport climax.
“Of course, mon cherie.”