Tastebud Clarity - 1. Tastebud Clarity

PT Prompt#320: First line: “This tastes like shit!”

Tastebud Clarity

“This tastes like shit!” I said as I waved the abomination in my hand at the man trying to poison me.

My auburn hair fell into my brown eyes as I gestured wildly. The kitchen smelled of burnt flour and something vaguely medicinal. “No, shit might even taste better than this.”

“You’re saying you’d rather eat shit than my healthier alternative to cookies?” Cameron affirmed.

“It’s not healthy if you can’t get past the taste enough to eat it,” I argued. “Unless that’s the point. Was your intention to poison me?”

“Will…” Cameron sighed as he placed a hand at his hip and rubbed at his temples with the other. Flour dust still clung to his dark apron, evidence of his latest baking experiment. A strand of his brown hair had escaped its usual neat style, falling across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush it back.

I meant to break the evil thing into many pieces, but just breaking it in half ended up hurting my thumbs. The cookie crumbled reluctantly, releasing a puff of chalky dust. Just what the hell was in the batter along with the dried chokeberries? Cement?

“All I want is one of your buttery, salted, chocolate chip cookie masterpieces,” I said instead, my mouth already watering at the memory of their warm, melted chocolate and crisp edges.

“The problem is you never stop at one.”

“Cookies were meant to be eaten in threes!”

“Not when they are 25 centimeters big.”

“Can I just have the one, then?”

“William…” Another sigh escaped him, but this time Cameron rubbed the back of his neck as if he were developing a migraine. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders, and I forced myself to focus on the cookies instead of the lean muscle underneath.

An idea struck me then, and I had to hold back a Grinch-like grin of deviousness.

“Have you even tasted them after baking them?” I asked, schooling my face into utmost innocence.

For a moment, Cameron’s dark brown eyes stared at me in incredulity. Then, I witnessed the moment my boyfriend realized he hadn’t. I held on tightly to my neutral expression as I watched him lift one of the broken halves and take a bite. The kitchen light caught the rough, grayish texture of the cookie’s surface, and it took everything in me not to wince at the sight.

Cameron’s chewing slowed, his face contorting as the dry, bitter flavor registered. He forced down a swallow that looked painful, his throat working against the chalky texture. He then held what was left of the piece up to his eyes as if he were inspecting a gemstone. Yet another sigh escaped him.

“I didn’t realize I scooped the wrong flour type,” Cameron admitted.

I motioned to the other cookies with both hands as if to say “See?” But Cameron held up a hand.

“But the taste isn’t all that horrible,” he said, even as he wiped the corner of his mouth as if trying to clear the residue.

My neutral expression fell right off into raw shock. “Not all that terrible?” I gasped. “Am I the only one with tastebud clarity here?”

“Tastebud clarity?” Cameron questioned. “I’ve been baking for 15 years.”

“Exactly, so your tastebuds likely went numb from overuse!”

Cameron’s lips thinned as he frowned at me, his dark brown eyes showing disappointment, and I knew I’d crossed the line. I already regretted allowing the words to slip from my lips, especially since I knew why he was trying to come up with alternatives to what I usually enjoyed. My bloodwork had come back to borderline diabetic levels.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Your taste buds aren’t numb from overuse. It’s just that I’ll miss your amazing cookies.”

“It’s not like you’ll never have the chance to eat them again.”

“I won’t if you choose to break up with me for being such a jerk when you’re only trying to help.”

“Even this has a solution,” Cameron pointed out.

“Artificial sweetener?”

“No,” Cameron responded, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Compromise. You get one regular cookie per week. They’ll be smaller ones, and only eaten after dinner.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a finger to stop me.

“And,” he continued, “you have to actually exercise with me instead of just watching me from the couch while eating popcorn.”

Though I personally thought watching him dance and zumba was far more entertaining than attempting it myself with my two left feet, I could see where he was going with that.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “But if you ever make me eat chokeberries again, I’m filing for the divorce we haven’t even gotten married to justify.”

Cameron chuckled before giving me a kiss, his lips warm and soft against mine, tasting faintly of those darn chokeberries. Still, the brief contact sent a pleasant shiver down my spine.

“Deal. Now help me label my flour jars before I end up making more of these.”

I picked up one of the cement cookies and weighed it in my hand, testing its heft. “They may not be edible, but I’m pretty sure we could weaponize these.”

Cameron pulled out a fresh batch of ingredients from the pantry, setting them on the marble countertop with deliberate care. He brushed the brown hair from his eyes before shooting me a look that was half exasperation, half fondness. The intensity in his gaze made my breath catch.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic!” I protested dramatically. “I seriously thought you were trying to part ways by murdering me with poison.”

“Uh-huh.” Cameron cracked an egg into a glass mixing bowl, the sound punctuating his skepticism. The rich, golden yolk pooled perfectly in the center. “Now, are you going to help me bake the good cookies, or are you going to stand there and keep insulting my baking skills?”

I grabbed an apron faster than I devoured his famous chocolate chip cookies, the soft cotton fabric cool against my hands. I tucked an auburn strand behind my ear, acutely aware of Cameron’s eyes following the movement. “Helping. Definitely helping. What’s first?”

Cameron smiled, the real smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and reminded me why I’d fallen for the patient pastry chef in the first place. My heart downright skipped a beat, He gestured toward the row of unlabeled glass jars lined up on the counter like soldiers awaiting inspection. “First, you’re grabbing the label maker. This one’s all-purpose flour.”

“All-purpose flour,” I repeated as I typed it into the labeler, the mechanical clicking satisfying under my fingers. “Not cement.”

“Right,” Cameron snorted before kissing my forehead. The scent of vanilla extract and cinnamon accompanied the motion, and I caught a glimpse of warmth in his dark brown eyes.

I gave him a grin in response. As we measured and mixed, the familiar rhythm settling over us, I couldn’t help but think that maybe compromise wasn’t so bad after all. Especially when it came with a boyfriend who loved me enough to tolerate my theatrical complaints about his occasional baking disasters.

Though I’d definitely never let him live down those doggone chokeberries.