They slid their headphones down, eyebrows slightly raised. “Everything okay?”
“You don’t have a mixer, do you?”
“A...mixer. Um. I don’t think so? What does one look like?”
I suppressed a smile. “Okay, do you have a blender?”
“I had one. Then it broke. Sorry, I guess I didn’t use it enough to replace it.”
“It’s totally fine, I just made an assumption. Do you have a whisk?” I almost hoped they’d say no. I could run home for my hand mixer. It’d only take, like, twenty minutes there, twenty minutes back.
“I do have a whisk!” They seemed so delighted to have what I was looking for I didn’t have the heart to run off for something better.
The whisk, once produced, was surprisingly awesome sauce. “Oh wow, I’ve never seen one of these in real life! It’s a cage whisk.”
They bit their lower lip. “Yeah, I found it sort of...compelling. That the little thingie is, um, trapped inside a small cage, and that in itself is trapped inside a larger cage.”
I looked from them to the whisk then back at them. “Huh. Like it’s imprisoned inside the whisk, being forced to whip things forever.”
“But do you think the ball resents being trapped? Or maybe it feels secure in there, snuggly inside of two cages, safe and protected?” They shook their head. “Er, sorry, that’s...weird of me. To come up with a narrative for the ball inside the cage whisk. Anyway, you’re free to use anything. Or to ask me. Really, do whatever you want.” They ducked their head and slunk back to the studio.
Leaving me contemplating the ball inside the cage whisk and its potential feelings about confinement.
I’m...not against confinement myself. For me. Or for others. Confinement can be kinda...hot. I glanced at Sidney, who was very seriously concentrating on their computer. At least I thought they were until their eyes darted up, met mine, then darted down again.
Add Discuss non-culinary applications of confinement with Sidney to my list of things to do.
Right, I had a job. And that job was hand-whipping cream.
At least I had the right tool.
I giggled again, plastering my hand over my mouth.
“Oh my god, why are you laughing? Are you laughing at my caged ball theory?”
“No! No. Um. My mind went to...other places with it.”
“My mind did too.”
“Like...bondagey places?” Because probably this wasn’t a thing you wanted to assume. Assuming someone was into restraints would be even worse than assuming they had a hand mixer.
“Er, yes?”
I flapped my hands at them. “Goody, we should talk about that later. But you’re editing and I’m making whipped cream.”
“You are? What, all by yourself?”
“I don’t have a whipped cream minion I keep shackled in my—you know, now everything’s going to the bondage place.”
“Whipped cream minion,” they repeated. “Shackled whipped cream minion.”
I waggled my eyebrows. “I’ll be your shackled whipped cream minion anytime, baby.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Thank you, thank you, I’m here all night.” Oh shit, that sounded bad. “I mean not all night! I mean as long as you want me to be! I mean—”
They laughed and slid their headphones back into place.
I melodramatically banged my head against the counter a few times, hoping they were still watching and amused.
Then I got to work.
Was this still part of our first date? Because it was way better than sitting in a loud restaurant trying to have stilted “first date” conversation. I prepped strawberries, raspberries, and peaches while letting the cream chill in the freezer with a medium-sized metal mixing bowl for a few minutes. Then I loaded the fruit into the fridge and busted out the cage whisk.
“It is a pleasure to whisk with you,” I whispered. “I look forward to whisking with you in the future.” And oh, sweet slutty salamanders, that was some incredible freaking whisking. Hot damn.
Never has hand-whisking cream gone so quickly. Don’t get me wrong, I still entered into it with my heart full of doubt (alas, our cultural reliance on mechanisms to do work for us, tsk tsk, insert solemn headshake about the state of the world). I made the cream vanilla-heavy and sugar-light, as my personal preference, but left it soft enough that I could add more sugar if Sidney preferred it sweeter. Which meant I needed them to taste it. I took the bowl (which, okay, I was proud of; even with a cage whisk, hand mixing is not for the faint of heart, though it could be argued I hadn’t needed to whip quite so much cream) and a clean spoon and presented them to Sidney with a flourish.
Grinning, they dipped the spoon and lifted it to their lips.
I saw it. The moment they realized what they were tasting and how delicious it was. They started going back in with the spoon, but I snatched it away. “Nope nope nope, no germs. Is that sweet enough for you or should I add more sugar?”
“It’s incredible. Why don’t people make whipped cream if it tastes that good? That’s way better than the stuff in the store.”
“I have no idea. It’s super easy. I mean, it’s terribly hard and I have labored endlessly to bring you this bite of heaven.”
They laughed. “I appreciate your labors, my little whipped cream minion. Can I have ten more minutes to finish this segment? Then I’m all yours.” Blink. “Er...for dessert. Or, no, that’s even more suggestive.”
There was something so damn charming about Sidney trying to backtrack out of an accidental innuendo. They frowned, like it was a puzzle they couldn’t quite solve. “Anyway, do you mind waiting for ten more minutes?”
“Not at all. The cream will keep. I’ll meet you at the armchairs in ten.”
“Thank you.”
I bowed low over my bowl of whipped cream. “At your service.” When I rose out of my bow, they were looking at me. Intently. “Um?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Working now.” Headphones on, deliberate turn back to the computer.
Mental note: get Sidney to look at me so intently I feel naked again. That was hot. I shook off the lingering twinges of, well, okay, something like arousal, but anyway, I shook it off and went to plate the fruit in preparation for our lunch dessert.
Plated, ready to go, cinnamon shaker standing by. By the time I was done cleaning, ten minutes had passed and a glance toward the studio seemed to indicate Sidney was wrapping up too. The lack of table area was a little stressful, but I made do by putting each bowl in an empty spot at the edge of the desk.