12 Cylus, 724
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Kotton grazed the bottle of the bowl with his tongue; glorious flavours washing throughout his mouth. And down it went, better than the sting of alcohol at the back of his throat. Much better.
He had just finished attempting to make an ethnic sauce of sorts. He had utilised his cookbook, the one he had borrowed from the local public library and was appreciative of its guidance. Included in the steps were tosses of basil and parsley and lime and coconut milk, and the dish had turned out okay, so was his thinking, but his heart desired something else.
His friend, Clover, was destined to come over anytime today. The exact time was up in the air, not calculated to the minute, which gave Kotton the world to formulate the best plate he could, but also forced him to face an unknown deadline that did nothing to help his stress level. However, he had already been trying to create amazing recipes referenced by his recipe book, so he was on a roll, in the mood, and prepared for more.
He had gone to the market and the various vendors that harboured the sides of the street, for seasons and essential spices essential for the recipes he wished to make. And from his ventures into the realm of cookery, he had come home with full hands, albeit hands full of basic ingredients. Eggs, yeast, blueberries, baking powder and almonds just to name a few.
And in this very moment, his mind was motivated; it was secularly fixated on the creation of omelettes. Clover would most definitely appreciate this dish, as he was a fan of breakfast food, especially from the southern realms of Idalos. Worick, also, would have adored such a cumulation of cookery, but he had yet to announce his presence.
So Kotton, already donned in a robe purposed for culinary action, stood against one of the several counters in his kitchen. He had acquired the appropriate elements needed to succeed in creating these omelettes. There were eggs and oil and salt and pepper. The seasonings he had found were basic yet essential ingredients that delegated themselves to exquisite taste and texture. And beside them was butter, a creamy terror destined to formulate thick and ropy character with the substance of texture. There were other important elements Kotton had recognised but chose to address as things imperial to those that were declared via his baking textbook. Although, it was no matter if he dabbled in experimentation or not, as he was a new learner.
Initially, it was required of him to purloin a sauce pan or some form of dishware of relative flatness and not something you would use to make soup. Fortunately for him, he had just the right tool. He positioned it in the appropriate spot on his oven. He bent down to make sure the embers were frolicking as they should from the fire he had initiated below the surface of his oven. They were. With that out of the way, Kotton paid his attention to the next step toward making an omelette.
He deposited a significant amount of butter onto the surface of the pan and waited a minute or two for it to heat. Then, he cracked two to three eggs, letting them fall gracefully into the warm sauce pan. He had to pick out a few pieces of shell, though, because those were not tasty. He administered a spoon decorated with slats that was meant for easy stirring and draining and began to whisk the eggs that were currently boiling in the pan.
As per the cookbook’s instructions, Kotton added an additional ½ cup of milk to his creation, making sure to continuously disturb (aka mix) the conglomeration that transpired. After a few moments, the egg that had been added began to solidify as it took up the milk and thus created a solid entity.
Acknowledging this turn of events, he tossed in a few pre-chopped tomatoes and onions along with cheese and cabbage. They hit the surface of the egg with a sucking sound, but this was expected and therefore did not scare Kotton. He quickly flipped one half of the egg concoction so it covered the vegetable medley before he patted the top delicately with his slatted spoon.
He didn’t know if his meal was finished. His textbook was vague in that area. But after a few carefully planned moments, he released the omelette from its existence amidst the blazing heat. He bent down and slowly fanned the fire out until it was near to nonexistent which left only him and his makeshift breakfast dish.
Scanning his eyes to and fro against the cookbook's open page that he had been religiously following, it seemed he had prepared this recipe accordingly. He even gave himself a sentimental, although imaginary pat on the back for his endeavour into the unknown. There was still much to come regarding his potential and progress and the opinions of those who tried his meal...
Because Clover had yet to knock on his front door. But this was no issue, because it gave Kotton more time to scrutinise his work. Could he have added more seasoning? Was salt and pepper the only things mandated to make his meal worth while? Couldn't there be other condiments to add? He supposed it depended on the palette or the individual he was trying to impress; there was always the opportunity to spice things up with red pepper or cayenne. He could spend time grating garlic, as his cooking textbook had alternatively suggested, but it would result in a timely waste depending on those who had a distaste for the ingredient. He could have even experimented with parsley or oregano, both very obvious spices that would amount to a popular or not so popular taste. There were just so many variables.
Kotton pondered, but didn’t dare sway from the method he used. Rather, he would add to his original documentation of this recipe with highlights of additional recommendations. Spices were something that came with practice and this was something he had yet to reach. It was like a melody he could remember, but the lyrics he could not.
He made those eggs so that that they shaped themselves into geometrical designs. He anticipated the onions and tomatoes, the cabbage and cheese, the oddly excessive amounts of pepper and everything that came to follow. He was no impetulant peasant, at least not when it came to mixing foreign elements together, which were apparently vegetables in this context. He performed every action, every duty with purpose. And the purpose of this culinary exercise was not only to advance his understanding of how to cook, but to please a former friend who had a sweet tooth for all things egg.
Clover would accept his omelette whether it had dirt in it or not. Whilst he knew Clover was a pleasant soul to be around, the young man still struggled to raise his confidence what with the concoction he had create over a burning stove. But he had followed the recipe to the T, so he was assured the response that came from eating the omellete would be truthful and not faked in honour of being polite.
With the fire now going out after his attempt to extinguish it, Kotton turned to the omelette and immediately drove his spatula underneath it. He pulled it to the nearest empty plate, a plate he had set out earlier in preparation for this exact moment. It didn’t seem burnt in the slightest, but in the back of his mind, Kotton’s perfectionism criticised the dish without hesitation.
So many words passed and neglected to be filtered through the young man's mind as negativity and pessimism threaded through without resolve. However, his original purpose maintaind. He was here to please his friend who had decided to continue to play with Kotton's need for routine and punctuality. No matter the presentation, according to the textbook he had borrowed from the library, his attempt at making an omelette was beautiful.
He had begun recognising his self worth regardless of its application to a breakfast repast. Onions, tomatoes, cheese and all, he had outdone himself in crafting a dish worthy of a friend he hadn't seen in seasons. He couldn't recall even having a word with him over the course of the Ymiden cycle.
Just as Kotton had finished decorating his dining table with all the delicacies that came with proper embellishment, there was a ridiculously loud knock at the door. It was a knock that could have been heard from miles and thereby heard from a man that was mostly deaf. He was thankful of this. Clover had remembered.
Kotton stopped what he was doing and sauntered to the front of his house. He practised making multiple smiles before he opened the door and greeted his longtime friend. Clover stood on his doorstep with a bottle of champagne held firmly in his grasp. The glass bottle sparkled amidst the moonlight and gave Kotton the vision of having uncovered a hidden treasure.
“I hope you aren’t expecting a party, because I don’t have much camaraderie.”
Kotton smirked, expecting every syllable that left his friend’s lips and laughing at its meaning. “Nonsense,” he chuckled, waving to the rather empty space of his living room. “I’ve been hewe all day.”
He had just finished attempting to make an ethnic sauce of sorts. He had utilised his cookbook, the one he had borrowed from the local public library and was appreciative of its guidance. Included in the steps were tosses of basil and parsley and lime and coconut milk, and the dish had turned out okay, so was his thinking, but his heart desired something else.
His friend, Clover, was destined to come over anytime today. The exact time was up in the air, not calculated to the minute, which gave Kotton the world to formulate the best plate he could, but also forced him to face an unknown deadline that did nothing to help his stress level. However, he had already been trying to create amazing recipes referenced by his recipe book, so he was on a roll, in the mood, and prepared for more.
He had gone to the market and the various vendors that harboured the sides of the street, for seasons and essential spices essential for the recipes he wished to make. And from his ventures into the realm of cookery, he had come home with full hands, albeit hands full of basic ingredients. Eggs, yeast, blueberries, baking powder and almonds just to name a few.
And in this very moment, his mind was motivated; it was secularly fixated on the creation of omelettes. Clover would most definitely appreciate this dish, as he was a fan of breakfast food, especially from the southern realms of Idalos. Worick, also, would have adored such a cumulation of cookery, but he had yet to announce his presence.
So Kotton, already donned in a robe purposed for culinary action, stood against one of the several counters in his kitchen. He had acquired the appropriate elements needed to succeed in creating these omelettes. There were eggs and oil and salt and pepper. The seasonings he had found were basic yet essential ingredients that delegated themselves to exquisite taste and texture. And beside them was butter, a creamy terror destined to formulate thick and ropy character with the substance of texture. There were other important elements Kotton had recognised but chose to address as things imperial to those that were declared via his baking textbook. Although, it was no matter if he dabbled in experimentation or not, as he was a new learner.
Initially, it was required of him to purloin a sauce pan or some form of dishware of relative flatness and not something you would use to make soup. Fortunately for him, he had just the right tool. He positioned it in the appropriate spot on his oven. He bent down to make sure the embers were frolicking as they should from the fire he had initiated below the surface of his oven. They were. With that out of the way, Kotton paid his attention to the next step toward making an omelette.
He deposited a significant amount of butter onto the surface of the pan and waited a minute or two for it to heat. Then, he cracked two to three eggs, letting them fall gracefully into the warm sauce pan. He had to pick out a few pieces of shell, though, because those were not tasty. He administered a spoon decorated with slats that was meant for easy stirring and draining and began to whisk the eggs that were currently boiling in the pan.
As per the cookbook’s instructions, Kotton added an additional ½ cup of milk to his creation, making sure to continuously disturb (aka mix) the conglomeration that transpired. After a few moments, the egg that had been added began to solidify as it took up the milk and thus created a solid entity.
Acknowledging this turn of events, he tossed in a few pre-chopped tomatoes and onions along with cheese and cabbage. They hit the surface of the egg with a sucking sound, but this was expected and therefore did not scare Kotton. He quickly flipped one half of the egg concoction so it covered the vegetable medley before he patted the top delicately with his slatted spoon.
He didn’t know if his meal was finished. His textbook was vague in that area. But after a few carefully planned moments, he released the omelette from its existence amidst the blazing heat. He bent down and slowly fanned the fire out until it was near to nonexistent which left only him and his makeshift breakfast dish.
Scanning his eyes to and fro against the cookbook's open page that he had been religiously following, it seemed he had prepared this recipe accordingly. He even gave himself a sentimental, although imaginary pat on the back for his endeavour into the unknown. There was still much to come regarding his potential and progress and the opinions of those who tried his meal...
Because Clover had yet to knock on his front door. But this was no issue, because it gave Kotton more time to scrutinise his work. Could he have added more seasoning? Was salt and pepper the only things mandated to make his meal worth while? Couldn't there be other condiments to add? He supposed it depended on the palette or the individual he was trying to impress; there was always the opportunity to spice things up with red pepper or cayenne. He could spend time grating garlic, as his cooking textbook had alternatively suggested, but it would result in a timely waste depending on those who had a distaste for the ingredient. He could have even experimented with parsley or oregano, both very obvious spices that would amount to a popular or not so popular taste. There were just so many variables.
Kotton pondered, but didn’t dare sway from the method he used. Rather, he would add to his original documentation of this recipe with highlights of additional recommendations. Spices were something that came with practice and this was something he had yet to reach. It was like a melody he could remember, but the lyrics he could not.
He made those eggs so that that they shaped themselves into geometrical designs. He anticipated the onions and tomatoes, the cabbage and cheese, the oddly excessive amounts of pepper and everything that came to follow. He was no impetulant peasant, at least not when it came to mixing foreign elements together, which were apparently vegetables in this context. He performed every action, every duty with purpose. And the purpose of this culinary exercise was not only to advance his understanding of how to cook, but to please a former friend who had a sweet tooth for all things egg.
Clover would accept his omelette whether it had dirt in it or not. Whilst he knew Clover was a pleasant soul to be around, the young man still struggled to raise his confidence what with the concoction he had create over a burning stove. But he had followed the recipe to the T, so he was assured the response that came from eating the omellete would be truthful and not faked in honour of being polite.
With the fire now going out after his attempt to extinguish it, Kotton turned to the omelette and immediately drove his spatula underneath it. He pulled it to the nearest empty plate, a plate he had set out earlier in preparation for this exact moment. It didn’t seem burnt in the slightest, but in the back of his mind, Kotton’s perfectionism criticised the dish without hesitation.
So many words passed and neglected to be filtered through the young man's mind as negativity and pessimism threaded through without resolve. However, his original purpose maintaind. He was here to please his friend who had decided to continue to play with Kotton's need for routine and punctuality. No matter the presentation, according to the textbook he had borrowed from the library, his attempt at making an omelette was beautiful.
He had begun recognising his self worth regardless of its application to a breakfast repast. Onions, tomatoes, cheese and all, he had outdone himself in crafting a dish worthy of a friend he hadn't seen in seasons. He couldn't recall even having a word with him over the course of the Ymiden cycle.
Just as Kotton had finished decorating his dining table with all the delicacies that came with proper embellishment, there was a ridiculously loud knock at the door. It was a knock that could have been heard from miles and thereby heard from a man that was mostly deaf. He was thankful of this. Clover had remembered.
Kotton stopped what he was doing and sauntered to the front of his house. He practised making multiple smiles before he opened the door and greeted his longtime friend. Clover stood on his doorstep with a bottle of champagne held firmly in his grasp. The glass bottle sparkled amidst the moonlight and gave Kotton the vision of having uncovered a hidden treasure.
“I hope you aren’t expecting a party, because I don’t have much camaraderie.”
Kotton smirked, expecting every syllable that left his friend’s lips and laughing at its meaning. “Nonsense,” he chuckled, waving to the rather empty space of his living room. “I’ve been hewe all day.”
