Puffs

[gwenchan]

 

 

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: HWS Inghilterra/Arthur Kirkland, HWS Francia/Francis Bonnefoy

Rating: Genera

Additional Tag: Nations using human names, slice of life

Promtp: Recipe

 

Note: Ho preso la ricetta da qui: https://www.cuisineaz.com/recettes/choux-a-la-creme-59845.aspx

 

 

Francis Bonnefoy, also known as the French Republic, is, in the words of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the most dramatic bitch on this planet. Possibly the universe, until proven wrong.

 

"Is this really necessary?" he pants, as he puts a fire extinguisher in a corner of the kitchen, ready in reach in case of fire. A possibility that is very, very plausible.

 

"Absolutely. With you it's the minimum," Francis says. "Now, first of all, you need to check to have all the ingredients."

"Wow, you re-invented the wheel"

 

They wouldn't be here if Arthur didn't have all the ingredients. Francis knows. He knows because they went grocery shopping together since Francis didn't trust him to be able to buy some milk and some egg alone. He even had a minor meltdown when Arthur made the mistake to choose low-fat milk instead of whole and dared to propose switching butter with margarine

 

"Yes," he hisses, "I know. I'm not stupid." He tries to keep calm, already regretting having invited Francis to help him with a recipe.

 

"I am sorry, but I don't do miracles." Francis has said. But then he has shown up on Arthur's doorsteps without even the decency to preview him.

 

"It's always better to check. So, water," he lists. Arthur points to the tap. "Eggs, remember they need to be at room temperature."

 

"Yes, you made that very clear."

 

They would've finished already if Francis hadn't decided the eggs were too cold and they needed to wait. 

 

"Then flour, butter, obviously, and salt."

 

 

"Checked, checked and triple checked," Arthur deadpans, making a theatrical gesture to underline all the ingredients lined up neatly on the kitchen countertop. "Can we start now?"

 

"That is for the choux," Francis completely ignores him. "While for the cream, we need milk, sugar and cornstarch. Take the chocolate too."

 

"Here, here and here."

 

"It's also good practice to have already measured and weighted the ingredients before beginning."

 

"We can measure as we go."

 

"And that will make you lose your time and mess up. Should I list all your past attempt? I have one, it's alphabetized."

 

 

"Fine," Arthur resigns, thinking he's going to poison his coffee one day like good old times.

 

"Super. Read the recipe then."

 

"What? I thought you didn't need a recipe."

 

 

Francis laughs, fake and terribly irritating. "I could do this blindfolded and by memory. The recipe is for you and I even spent time converting my measurements to something you could understand. And translating it. No, no," he shakes his head as Arthur takes the measurement cups from the pantry, "take the scale. We are using the scale."

 

 

 

Arthur represses the impulse to smack the scale on Francis' head. It's been so long since the scale had been used that it requires a change of battery to bring it back on. 

Only then Arthur can take a bowl and the flour.

"Wait!" Francis exclaims like Arthur's about to make something explode. Flour package tilted over the bowl, Arthur sighs through gritted teeth.

"What now?"

"You need to set the tare or it will weight the bowl too."

"Yes, I knew that," Arthur lies. Blame it on Francis and him wanting to use the scale when he knows too well Arthur never does. 

 

He sets the tare - Francis insists in checking - and finally weights the flour. He weights the butter and the sugar too and fills a glass with water and a slightly bigger one with milk.

 

"Done. So, here it says to bring the water to boil and add the butter, cut in pieces." He reads. He is about to turn on the stove when Francis grabs him by the wrist to stop him. "What did I miss now?"

 

"You need to sift the flour," Francis says as if stating a universal truth.

 

"Seriously? It's fresh out of the package. It's already sifted."

 

"Trust me. Give me a strainer and cut the butter meanwhile."

 

 

Again Arthur rolls his eyes and protests but does. Being at room temperature the butter gives easily to the knife. He pours the pieces into a saucepan along with the water and, finally, turns on the stove.

 

 

"The small one," Francis reminds him. "Keep an eye on it. It boils rather quickly. Meanwhile, you can prepare a spoon."

 

Arthur takes one from the drawer and Francis, very theatrically, grimaces. 

"A wooden spoon! I thought this little you knew at least. It's been centuries and you still haven't learnt."

 

Arthur's going to throw the spoon in his face. He's going to smack that stupid French nose of his.

 

"Fine, fine. I'll take a wooden spoon. Really, I don't see why it is such a big deal."

 

"Wooden spoons won't ruin your pans," Francis lists, "and you are welcome to try cooking with a hot metal spoon. Turn the flame off, it's boiling."

 

Arthur obeys, taking the sifted flour Francis gives him. "All in one go?" he asks confirmation, in case there is another obscure bakery rule he should know about.

"All in one go, but it's always better to pour it as you stir."

 

"Do I look like I have four hands?"

 

He's using one hand to keep the saucepan steady and one to stir. For pouring the bowl he'd need a third. 

"I thought you had your little friends to help you," Francis mocks Arthur's claim to see magical creatures. The worst thing, he's not wrong. A couple pixies to help now would be great.

 

"They are not here," Arthur cut it short. "I'm not calling them."

 

"In that case, stop stirring, pour the flour quickly and then begin stir again. I'll preheat the oven. Keep stirring or it'll stick to the pan."

"Yes, I noticed."

 

The recipe calls for stirring till all the melt butter had been absorbed by the flour and dough has formed, enough compact to not stick to the pan anymore. "Done," Arthur announces, about to tap one egg on the counter edge to break it into the dough as the recipe says.

 

"No," Francis refuses again. He makes Arthur transfer the dough from the saucepan into another bowl, despite Arthur's protests it's useless and it's only going to give them more pans to wash once they are finished.

 

"Add one egg at a time," he reads. "Was it absolutely necessary to write "one at a time" in red, capital letters, and underline it three times?"

 

"Absolutely."

 

He has a point, though Arthur will never admit it. Still, he can't see why he need mix in one egg at a time and not all in once when the result will be exactly the same.

 

"It helps combine the eggs better with the dough," Francis explains, patiently, as if has read his mind. He peers from above Arthur's shoulder. "It looks surprisingly nice."

"What do you mean surprisingly?"

"But then it's the minimum under my supervision."

"You weren't even looking."

 

They fill a piping bag with the dough. Francis shows him how to squeeze a dollop in the parchment paper, flaunting his ability to make perfect choux puff with a smudge on top

 

Arthur's attempts are pathetic imitations, but they still kinda look like puffs. "Stop making that face, they look good."

 

"Well, I guess with you they do," Francis admits, half-compliment, half-insult. For once Arthur decides to let it slide, too busy opening the oven to slip the trail inside.

 

"Set the timer," Francis orders, "or with you, they'll burn."

 

"I was doing it."

 

One cannot even burn a couple - a couple hundred - dishes that people begin thinking he'll burn everything.

 

Anyway, Arthur has a feeling that was the easy part. While the puffs are cooking, they still have to prepare the cream.

 

"Bring the milk to a boil. Milk takes a while to reach the boiling point but when it does, it boils quickly. Do not get distracted," Francis informs Arthur with the same tone as when they are discussing a military operation. Correction. He's not that serious when they are at war.

 

"Fine. It's milk. We are not defusing a bomb, which I should know. I've done it, more than once."

 

"Yes, and I trust you more near a bomb than in proximity of a stove or oven. Grate the vanilla and beat the eggs and sugar. Don't forget to check the milk."

 

There are four parties, international, agreements spanning years of negotiations that are less complex. Once Ludwig   told him bakery can be the simplest of the culinary branches if taken the right way, that is a precise and exact science. 

It didn't work.

 

"And how I'm supposed to do that? I don't have four eyes if you haven't noticed."

 

"You can beat without looking. No, wait, for once you are right. Never boil milk when you are alone. Zoom call me if you have to. In case, first, you beat the ingredients, then you boil the milk. What are you doing?"

 

"Taking the mixer," Arthur says, his whole arm already inside the pantry to retrieve the tool  he's sure must be there, somewhere. He's been eating take-away or pre-cooked meals for so long he forgot where most of his kitchen appliances are.

 

"Wooden spoon."

 

"It'll take forever with that."

 

"Nobody said it would be quick. Wasn't you the one who wanted to become stronger? This is the perfect exercise."

 

As Arthur previewed, it takes forever. No matter how fast he mixes, he'll always be slower than a mixer and the mixture insisting on being a soft orange colour instead of the yellow claimed in the recipe.

 

"Keep going," Francis says, in a way Arthur supposes must be encouraging. It doesn't make it any less hard. 

 

He's sure to haven't blinked for more than a second, but the next instant the milk is overflowing the saucepan.

 

"How is it possible. There wasn't even that much!"

 

"I told you. Don't look at me. Turn out the gas. 

 

Francis could do that himself, being closer, but with milk threatening to flow his kitchen, it's no time to discuss. Luckily, the milk subsides as soon as he lowers the gas. 

 

 

"And now pour that into the mixture. It should be lighter in colour but it'll do this time."

 

"It would have been lighter if I used a mixer."

 

"The mixer is too harsh. Here, keep folding," Francis insists, passing him a small bowl with the weighted cornstarch. 

 

By the time Francis deems the cream passable, the timer has gone off and the puffs are finishing cooking in the switched-off oven.  

They divide the cream batter into two batches. While Arthur fills a bakery syringe with one, Francis pours minced chocolate into the second, still on the fire. 

 

"Need help with that?" he asks. Syringe in hand, Arthur vehemently shakes his head. God knows what treacherous, pervert imaginary Francis could produce with a cream-filled syringe in hand.

 

Fresh out the oven, the puffs have raised nicely. Breaking one to check, Arthur finds it empty and fluffy as it should be. In Francis' face. The other shrugs, then, being there, pops the puff in his mouth too. He can't hide his appreciation

 

"And they'll taste better with the cream," Francis chuckles. "Unless you plan to use it in other ways." He smirks, winking with intention, the way he knows makes Arthur blushes even after centuries 

"Shut up, or I'll strangle you."

 

Turning his back to Francis to not see his stupid smile, he gets to work. He fills half the puffs with the cream, before giving Francis the syringe and let him take care of the other half.

 

In the meantime, he washes the dishes and it's only to save time, no other reason at all.

 

"I can feed myself," he scoffs when Francis holds a cream puff at mouth level. He leaves him there and takes one from the trail, chocolate just to spite him.

 

Francis looks dumbfounded for a moment, cream puff still mid-air, before shrugging and popping it in his mouth.

 

"Uhm, tomorrow it's going to snow," he says, half-compliment, half-insult. "But again I was here, I wouldn't expect anything less, even for you."

 

And see, now Arthur has to take the still wet sponge from the sink and throw it in Francis's face. 

 

"My shirt!" Francis protests, though he's wearing an apron. 

"Serve you right. Now, do you plan to stay there or to help me?"

 

As the puffs cool down, they finish washing and drying the dishes, quietly aside from the usual bicker that is the norm. Francis has to playfully squeeze Arthur's ass and Arthur stomps on his foot, very deliberately. Normal routine.

 

"And last one," Francis announces placing the last bowl in the pantry, the kitchen clean and neat. If it weren't for the cream puffs, it would be almost like nobody cooked there. Which is a novelty. Something on which Francis can't help commenting, on his way out of the kitchen.

 

"Wait. Where are going?" Arthur calls him. 

"To take my coat. If I hurry, I should be home by dinnertime."

 

"Nonsense, since you're here, you can stay for dinner," Arthur says. Though he appreciates the idea of having Francis out of the way, he's not that down to dine alone. Which he'll never admit, but he doesn't have too. After centuries, it's implicit. Besides he's not going to eat all those cream puffs alone.

 

By how quick Francis returns to the kitchen, it's clear he expected an invitation. He opens the fridge without asking permission, humming gravely.

 

Seconds later, he's standing on the kitchen threshold, a coat thrown over his arm. He launches another at Arthur.

 

"Dress, we need to go grocery shopping."