Work Text:
They suck at cooking. It's a fact. If there were a dictionary about stuff people were bad at, their picture would be in the cooking section.
Percy, supposedly, had taken cooking classes as a child. Those things were supposed to be muscle memory. You learnt them once, and you already had them, but for some reason, his brain had decided to function differently, and he, who had such an amazing memory for literally everything else, couldn't remember for his life how to make a scrambled egg. Well, he could, but it just tasted awful.
Keyleth was just…terrible with food. She learnt the hard way that she couldn't cook, back when her mother tried to teach her how to cook, and they had to end up calling the firefighters. It was touching the stove and setting it on fire.
When they first moved together, it was awkward discovering neither of them could cook for their lives. Warming stuff up in the microwave was already a challenge, given the state of the appliance. It was an usual subject of their discussions, where he begged her to let him take a look at it, and her refusal to do so after he had tried to do the same thing with the coffee maker and…
The firefighters knew their names. They called them by their first names. It was embarrassing. Though they had gone on dates with one of them a couple of times, so not everything was bad.
However, there was one plate they both knew how to make.
"Alright, you got everything?" She asks, mentally listing everything they need. He gets the page of the book they're using, rereading the recipe.
"Yes, I think we're ready to go. First, get the, uh—" he squints, trying to figure out what it's written. It's a family recipe, with multiple notes of generations after him, each adding their contributions to making the plate delicious. "We'll start with el farciment," he forgets the word in English, before snapping his fingers. "The filling. Yep, we'll start with that. We saute the onion and green pepper over low heat. That's the first step."
She readies the stove and puts everything in the pan, careful not to drop anything out of the plate. "Then, you add the minced meat and saute. Then, the homemade tomato sauce is highlighted, so it's very important it's homemade," he hums, "and we leave it there for five minutes, and then, we leave it be."
"Thank god we did this in advance, I wasn't going to start making tomato sauce now," she chuckles, putting the sauce on top of the meat. "Do you think these will taste like your mom's? I remember hers were great," she asks, not looking up from her job.
He freezes for a second. It's been long enough since his mother's passing that he can bear to talk about her without breaking down, but he still takes a deep breath. "I don't know. Maybe? Maybe they'll miss the 'motherly love' that made them taste so good," he jokes, trying to pull away the sense of grief clawing at his throat.
She notices this, taking her question back. "As long as we don't burn down the kitchen, we'll be fine," she says, putting on an emphatic smile. She places a hand on his shoulder, and he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, looking up.
"Come on, we still have a lot of stuff to do. Meanwhile, cook the pasta sheets according to the manufacturer's instructions…" he says, opening the bag and getting the ingredients for the second part. She continues reading as she puts the mix for the filling away.
"'Cuinar amb oli per què no s'enganxin…', d'acord. Percy, agafa l'oli—Get the oil!"
"No creus que no s'adherirà bé?" Percy says, taking out the bottle.
"Normally, pasta is not cooked with oil because the sauce doesn't adhere well to the pasta, but in this case, to prevent them from sticking together, we will add oil to the water," she reads, translating it as she goes. "Just add a trickle, and we'll be fine. Its what's in the book," she says.
"Well, if my entire lineage decided it was a good idea, I'm not going to disobey," he comments, setting everything on the counter and beginning to cook the sheets, adding oil, as it says in the book. If his grandma wrote that letter, he's not going to disobey.
A few minutes later, he goes back to the recipe book. "Once it's cooked, we place it on a cotton cloth and proceed to fill it. We put a small amount of meat on the pasta sheet and close it very carefully."
Keyleth nods, placing the cloth on the table and starting to carefully remove the sheets from the recipient, being careful not to break them. "Hey, we're actually doing great, for once! Maybe they'll even taste good!" She smiles, going to get the filling. "While I do this, is there something else you can do?"
"Yes, actually, I'll start with the bechamel sauce," he goes back to the book as Keyleth starts to drop filling into each sheet, looking for the page of the sauce. He finds it, searching alphabetically, and takes it quickly.
He reaches for the butter and the saucepan, preparing the low heat. Meanwhile, while Keyleth continues the repetitive task, she notices there's still some cheese prepared there for the latest steps. "What if we add some more now? I think it could taste good," she says, reaching for the pot.
"I—Does the book say anything?" He asks, melting the butter.
"Not everything's gotta be in the book, y'know? Maybe we could add something new," she says, smirking.
He hesitates for a second, looking up while he sifts the flour. It's true that that book has only pertained to the De Rolo's and that almost no one has been allowed to touch it…but it is true that maybe, it's time to add something new. "…I have a pen somewhere around there. Put the sauce, and if it tastes good, write it down. Just don't do it in all of them, maybe five and mark them, so we don't risk all the batch." He puts the saucepan on medium heat, as the recipe says, so that it loses the floury taste.
She nods enthusiastically, adding the cheese in five sheets, apart from the rest, and begins to close them gently. "Can you start preheating the oven? I need it ready in a minute."
He nods as he turns on the oven. She goes back to the book, checking what they have left. "How's the béchamel coming along? It's the next step."
"Help me with it while the oven heats, will you?" He says, grabbing the milk and the nutmeg.
"Sure, what's the next step?"
"Add this milk, please," he reads the book, carefully checking the notes to see if there are any helpful tips. "In fact, heat it a bit, here it says that warm milk prevents lumps. Then add a liter of milk and cook over low heat for fifteen minutes, stirring constantly," he recites. "I'll start adding the cheese to the canelones, then."
Once she gets the texture she wants, she seasons it with salt and pepper. "Also, add the nutmeg. It's not in there, but my mum always added it," he says, memories of his childhood and helping his mum in the kitchen coming back at him. "I'll write it down later."
Once the sauce is ready, they pour it on top of the canalones, adding the grated cheese in good measure. "Then, we put it in the oven at 200º for about 10 minutes and finish the last 3 minutes with the broiler," she reads off the book. "Okay, so we're done! And nothing awful happened!" She claps her hands together, sitting on a chair with a relieved smile.
"Nothing bad happened yet," he chuckles, also relieved that nothing has caught fire. "I'm going to write down the nutmeg thing," he says, standing up and reaching for the pen. He stops before the ink touches the page. It's weird for him, someone so in love with books, to actually write on one with so little care, but he still scribbles over the other notes an arrow pointing to his text: "afegir nou moscada."
" So, ten minutes until we have to put it out?" she says, leaning back on her chair. He does the opposite thing, leaning in and dropping his head on the table. "Do you think we did well?"
"What do you mean?"
"If it'll taste good. It's my first time following…your family recipe. My mum made it very differently. Next year, we take my family recipe,"
"Deal. By the way, do you know where this festivity actually originates from?" He begins with that spark in his eyes he has when he knows exactly what he's talking about.
"No, Percy, I don't, please enlighten me about this topic," she laughs, but turns to pay attention to him.
"In fact, it's pretty simple, and it makes sense. Also, it's why in Spain it's only celebrated here and in the Balearic Islands. Basically, back in the 9th century, Catalonia belonged to the Carolingian Empire founded by Charlemagne. On Christmas Day, the father or godfather (grandfather) would gather the whole family around a table full of food, and since in those days there were not many means of transport and it took a long time to get home, the next day there was no work. It wasn't really a holiday; it was simply a day when they took a break and only did essential work like feeding the animals in the corral or going out for a walk," he explains, proud of himself.
"Damn, you're a nerd," she says, standing up when the alarm rings. Time for the truth, time to see if their attempt was worthwhile. "Where did you even learn that?"
"There were a lot of books in my family's library, and I stumbled on many information like that. I'll go get a plate!" He says as Keyleth opens the oven.
"Well, at the very least, they look good. That's already an improvement," she says. She pulls them out of the oven with a cloth wrapped around her hands to prevent burning, setting them on the counter. Vox Machina still has to get there; they're not going to eat a family meal by themselves.
"We should, at least, taste if the ones with extra cheese taste good," he suggests, trying to keep his composure.
"Why, are you hungry already?" She teases.
"No, I'm not, I was simply—" his speech is interrupted by his stomach growling, making him turn red. "Yes, maybe I am hungry. Can we take a bite?" He pleads.
"Sure, sure, no need to ask for my permission. Go for it," she allows, handing him one of the secluded canelones. Before he brings it to his mouth, she raises his own canelon as a sign of a playful toast. "To us, not burning anything, and to brand new recipes!"
He chuckles, meeting her toast. "To rewriting the past and building a future, and to finally managing to cook something that looks good."
They both cackle before taking a bite out of the piece of food in their hand. Percy reacts half a second faster than she does, her eyes widening.
"Remember how I told you that if it tasted good, you could write it down?"
"Yes?"
"Write it down in this exact second. In fact, highlight it as much as you can. None of my descendants shall go without tasting this," he mutters, his mouth full.
She giggles. It does taste hella good. She goes back to the book, picking up the pen, and going back to the book. 'The de Rolo Recipe Book', she reads on the cover. This looks like something from his family that has been with them for decades, something so uniquely theirs.
But the De Rolo's have fallen, now. And so, when she finds the page, she writes: "afegir formatge ratllat amb la carn, deliciós", and so, she signs with her name.
He doesn't seem to notice, too lost in the bliss. "These taste nothing like my mother's, though," he mutters, swallowing. Keyleth frowns, already preparing something to comfort him, but he just smiles up at her. "That's okay, don't worry. They taste…like they're ours. Maybe it is time to make my own recipes." He murmurs, looking down at the floor.
She notices he's probably not thinking about recipes, and gives him a reassuring smile. "If you ever need something, you know I'll always be there, don't you?" She asks, tilting her head.
"And I couldn't ask for anyone better. I love you, Keyleth."
"I love you too."