My boyfriend comes over to make me his magical pancaked french toast on Sunday night. We meet at the train station and head to the supermarket to buy ingredients, and much to his dismay he realizes that I have nothing, absolutely nothing in my kitchen.
"Do you have bread?" "No." "Do you have eggs?" "I think there's 1 or 2, but it's Jo's." "Do you have milk?" "I am lactose-intolerant." "Okay, do you have butter? Syrup?" "No, and no." "How about sugar?" "Oh, I have the stick sugar I use for my coffee." "And cinnamon? Nutmeg? Vanilla essence?" "Yes, because I'm such a wonder chef... OF COURSE NOT! I only cook noodles." "Do you at least have a frying pan?" "Errr...." "You can't invite someone over to cook without even a pan!" "We can buy one at the 100-yen store." "Do you have a spatula? Wait, do you know what a spatula is?" "Of course I do! Mine is dark blue, flat, and it has holes in it." "All spatulas have holes in them."
And this goes back and forth for the next 30 minutes, and we finally return to my apartment with three shopping bags.
He spends the next hour or so whisking, dipping, frying and cooking while I potter about the house pretending to be busy.
The magical pancaked french toast is as magical as the name suggests, and we are both happily stuffed after the meal, albeit surrounded by a kitchen and dining room full of mess.
In return, I make him my magical Bailey's coffee, which my dear readers, is a very magical recipe of a bag of instant kopi-o with Bailey's cream.
"Do you remember how to make this on your own?" he asks. "Nope." I quickly reply. "So my lesson was useless..." "No, your student was useless."
It's amazing how I can live with myself sometimes.