THE butter and eggs sat on the counter, warming to room temperature. The parchment paper was lying ready for action when the doorbell chimed.
“Hey, Mao!”
“Hi, Haruka. And uh, sorry for bothering you…”
“Huh? Not at all! I was looking forward to baking with you!”
As Valentine’s Day neared, Sakai’s persistence finally won Mao over. Not only had he secured a promise of chocolate from her, but also—with an emphatic last-minute plea—ensured it would be homemade. She had never made anything sweet in her life, so she’d come to me for help. Since I’d planned to whip up some treats anyway, I invited her to join me, and there we were, about to bake some brownies.
Although she’d visited my house countless times before, a restlessness buzzed about her that day. We usually hung out in the living room or my bedroom, so perhaps the kitchen setting was the cause of her nerves? Mom wasn’t around, having graciously retreated upstairs after a brief warning about fire safety, so what had Mao so jittery?
“It’s not that,” Mao said, shaking her head. “This is all just super out of character for me.”
“Don’t stress. Baking’s easy,” I tried to reassure her.
“I’m not talking about that…” Her voice held a note of resignation. “And by the way, I wish I had your family.” Her eyes darted to the stairs. “My parents and little brother are always such a handful.”
“I guess we get along,” I acknowledged. “No big disagreements.”
“Right? Must be nice…” she mused. “My family always seems to rub me the wrong way and I don’t even know why.”
“Yeah, I get that too sometimes,” I confessed offhandedly.
Mao shot me a puzzled look. What, did I say something wrong?
“Like, recently I’ve started feeling that way too?” I clarified, unsure of what she expected. By “recently” I’d meant ever since I regained my lost memories. Yet until Mao mentioned her respective frustration, I hadn’t found much reason to ponder the occurrence of my own moments of irritation without discernible cause. Though my mother’s amusement at my newfound attitude certainly didn’t help.
I explained my confusion to Mao, and she flashed me a provocative grin. “Only recently? I’ve been like that my whole life! Look who’s finally entering her rebellious phase. Our perfect little Haruka’s human after all!”
“What are you talking about?” I retorted with a snort.
“You’ve always been so squeaky clean; it’s hard to imagine you ever going against the grain. Made the rest of us look like misfits.”
“I am not squeaky clean! If anyone’s setting impossible standards here, it’s you! Still love you though.”
“Aw, thanks, Haruka. Love you too!” She gave me an affectionate pat on the back.
My rebellious phase, huh?
The person I’d been without my memory and the person I became with it restored felt distinct, although both were undeniably “me.” Previously, I had a neutral stance toward my parents—no overt negativity yet not much warmth either. I engaged with them rather superficially, so nothing they said ever really got to me. I was able to sense their concern for my well-being, even though I didn’t fully grasp its depth or source. And, I thought, out of some unconscious desire, I’d always strived to minimize that concern.
Yet lately, when I walked through the door to a typical “Where have you been?” I bristled in response. Maybe Mao was onto something. Either that or memories indeed play a pivotal role in shaping one’s personality.
Regardless, the feeling was too complex to articulate. But Mao always seemed to enjoy venting about her mother, so maybe it wasn’t all that bad. I chose to set aside my introspection for the moment and focus on dessert.
“Okay, you ready to begin?” I asked.
“Yep, let’s do this.”
Slipping into our aprons and after washing our hands, we started by precisely measuring out flour and sugar. We chatted as we worked, and Mao was a quick study. Despite my observation that she was perfectly capable on her own, she was adamant we tackle the recipe jointly. “It doesn’t always tell the whole story,” she said. “Sometimes you need someone to tell you if you’re on the right track.”
“You think? Baking’s pretty straightforward as long as you know how to work a kitchen scale.” Especially for something as basic as brownies, I added in my mind.
“Like this for example,” Mao said, working a hand mixer through the batter. “When am I supposed to stop mixing? When am I supposed to add the eggs?”
“Ah, I see your point.”
“Like, sure, the recipe says, ‘Beat until soft peaks form,” but what even is a ‘soft peak?’” Mao complained. “A video helps visually but not with the feel of it all. And it’s all experts making those videos anyway—they make it look easy. It’s misleading, you know?”
I chuckled, more in thought than mirth. “Yeah, I guess.” A lot of cooking came down to “feel,” which was something you could only figure out through firsthand experience. For an absolute novice, the venture could indeed be daunting.
The brownies we were making that day were a little different than my usual. Instead of standard cocoa powder or baking chocolate to impart that rich, indulgent flavor, we used cocoa liquor—a little secret from Takanori. He swore it was the only way to make brownies, and after a trial bake prior to that afternoon, I could only agree. We carefully melted the cocoa liquor and butter, then integrated the sugar, followed by the eggs. To slowly stir in the whisked eggs without the mixture separating was probably the trickiest part of the process.
“What happened to the chocolate from the Valentine’s Day workshop, by the way? Didn’t you go?” Mao asked.
“Those had liqueur in them, so they went straight to my dad,” I replied.
Takanori’s Valentine’s Day workshop, the vibrant sequel to his hit Christmas session, had transpired just the other day. The highlights of the event? A molten chocolate lava cake and alcohol-infused chocolate ganache truffles. Assisting Takanori had been a chocolatier friend of his who’d recently concluded an apprenticeship overseas before her homecoming to Japan. Oddly enough, she’d reminded me a little of Ayako, which had helped me warm up to her.
“Apparently Takanori’s going to sell her chocolate at his store,” I recounted.
“Really? Well that sounds amazing—but also expensive.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
Chocolates sold at artisanal boutiques tended to trend pricier than their grocery store counterparts, and after attending the workshop, I finally understood why. They were crafted with premium ingredients, of course, but their true value lay in the precision and artistry that went into their production. Every step of the process was so exacting, and the reason a “chocolatier” was a specialized profession within a specialized profession at last made sense to me. “You could just tell that she really loved what she did. It was challenging but also pretty fun.”
Meanwhile, on our own culinary adventure, we sifted the dry ingredients into the wet ones along with a sprinkling of crunchy walnut bits. Then we transferred the batter to the pan before popping it into the oven.
“That’s it?” Mao asked.
“Told you it was easy.”
“Yeah, because you’re here. I’m just glad I could help out.”
A little while later, the oven began to emit a tantalizing aroma, signaling that our brownies were ready, and we proudly extracted our hard work. They were visually stunning, which prompted a celebratory high-five.
Since any garnish should go on right before serving, I handed Mao her portion of chocolate icing to take home and was midway through my instructions when her tone dipped to a whisper. “Hey, Haruka. You…like Towada, don’t you?”
Caught off guard, I sensed my heartbeat surge. “M-Mao? What are you saying?” I liked him as a friend, sure, and he was important to me, no doubt about that, yet I suspected that wasn’t the type of “like” Mao had in mind.
If she meant romantically, then I…didn’t know.
How did I feel about him?
My fluster evident, Mao waved her hand dismissively, excusing me from answering. “Never mind. It’s just that I…don’t really know what’s going on with him.”
“‘Him?’ You mean Sakai?” My brow quirked.
She nodded, her face somewhat uneasy. As she fidgeted with her bag of chocolate decorations, her words slowly unspooled: “Like, why does he want chocolate now all of a sudden? He’d never asked once in the fourteen years I’ve known him!”
“Mao…”
“Why is he doing this? It’s not like either of us have changed or anything?”
I could offer no response to her question. The mood had dampened a tiny bit, but I still managed to see Mao off with a smile, the yet uncut brownies in her possession still radiating warmth.