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Bigb picked up the recipe card, plain chocolate chip, as he'd done a thousand times, but this time it was going to be special. A heart shaped cookie for his secret soulmate. It had to be perfect.
He wasn’t even sure when he’d decided on this plan. Maybe last night, when he’d caught himself smiling at the thought of him. Maybe this morning, when he woke up full of the kind of nervous energy that made his hands shake. Either way he was committed now.
He cracked open the fridge. One egg stared back at him.
He needed two. Of course he did.
He grabbed a basket and headed outside, boots sinking into the muddy grass. He approached a group of chickens and quickly snatched up an egg. Success on that part at least.
He set the egg on the table, ready to start back up. But as always, the world is never that easy.
“Where are the chocolate chips?”
He checked the chests. The barrels. In with the pots for the furnace. Somehow, impossibly, he found them in the sugar jar.
“Now why would I put them there?”
He didn’t have an answer. He just dumped them out and kept going.
Wheat, butter, eggs, milk, everything was finally coming together. He reached for the sugar, poured a generous scoop into the bowl, and froze.
The sugar was over with the rest of the chocolate chips still.
That wasn’t sugar.
That was salt.
Bigb hurriedly started scooping the salt out of the bowl, most of it falling onto the table and the floor. It took him longer than he'd care to admit to get the salt levels of the dough to something reasonable. But at least the hard part was done, all there was left to do was shape the heart and leave it to bake.
Bigb pressed the dough. It stuck to his fingers. He reshaped it. It sagged. He tried again. It looked like a lopsided potato. He tried again. Now it looked like a boot. again. Now it looked like something that might get him demonetised.
After what felt like an hour, the dough finally resembled a heart. Not perfect, but recognisably a heart. He was getting tired, it was good enough.
He slid it into the furnace and waited, once the timer dinged, he grabbed his mitts, opened the furnace, and carefully pulled the tray out.
Too carefully.
The tray wobbled.
His grip slipped.
The cookie tilted, sliding towards the edge like it was trying to escape.
“No- no- NO-"
He caught it. Barely. But the damage was done. The heart shaped cookie had squished into something a whole lot less recognisable. It resembled something closer to a liver than a heart. Or perhaps a piece of-
Bigb stared at it.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn't even passable as good.
But it was his.
And it smelled damn good.