The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(33)

“This place is so cute,” Hazel says quietly.

I whisper, “See? No slaughterhouse.”

She playfully elbows me, and we wash our hands. When we’re done, we’re greeted by Petra holding up two frilly white aprons. She smiles and says, “Hope you don’t mind, Crew.”

“Nah, I’m manly enough to wear this and rock it.” I take the apron from her and drape it over my neck, only to find out that I’m far too tall and large for the apron, so instead of it somewhat fitting, it actually looks like I’m wearing an apron made for a child.

Hazel catches sight of me and is barely stifling a laugh. “Oh, we’re going to need a picture together.”

“Do I look pretty?” I ask with a curtsy.

“The prettiest in all the land.” Hazel digs her phone out of her purse and asks Petra, “Could you please take a picture of us? This is a moment I want to capture forever.”

“And use as . . . eh, blackmail?” Petra asks.

“Oh, yes. Very much so.” Petra and Hazel laugh together. I really don’t mind, because seeing that smile on Hazel’s face, genuine and happy, makes me okay with being the butt of the joke.

Petra holds the phone up and takes a few pictures. When Petra hands the phone back, Hazel doesn’t check the pictures, but instead puts her phone away and steps up to the worn wooden table in the center of the room.

Rubbing her hands together, Hazel says, “I’m excited. Let’s make some Lebkuchen.”

“Ah, you said it rather perfectly.”

“Thank you. I was practicing on the drive.”

“She was,” I say, my eyes widening. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be saying Lebkuchen in my head for the next few days.”

“It’s a good word to know, especially in Nuremberg, where we are known for our Lebkuchen.” Petra reaches out and hands us a bowl. “You two can work together while I will work with my mama on an orange cardamom batch. Don’t worry, you’ll be making a traditional batch.”

“Wonderful,” Hazel says.

Monika starts moving around, picking up different types of jars, while Petra does all the talking. “Now, something you need to know before we get started is you’re about to bake a miracle cookie.”

“Miracle cookie? Really?” Hazel asks.

Monika starts placing jars and spices in front of us, as well as measuring spoons and cups.

“Yes. You see, back in 1720, it’s believed, one of the master bakers of Nuremberg had a daughter who fell incredibly ill. No doctor around could cure her. Desperate to save her, he baked a secret Lebkuchen recipe that contained not one sprinkle of flour, but instead he loaded it with ground hazelnut and spices.”

“Did it cure her?” Hazel asks, hands clasped together.

Petra smiles. “It did. The baker named the recipe after his daughter Elisabeth and called it Elisenlebkuchen. To this day, you can only call your Lebkuchen Elisenlebkuchen if there is less than ten percent flour in the recipe, and that is the law.”

“Really?” I ask.

Petra nods. “Ja. It’s the mixture of nuts and spices that pulls the cookie together, and the modern Lebkuchen has taken on more flour for a stable hold. But here, in our bakery, we stick to less than ten percent flour, sometimes none at all, by using ground hazelnuts and almonds in its place, offering a very rich and nutty flavor to our Lebkuchen.”

“Is that what we’ll be making?” Hazel asks.

Petra nods. “We don’t make anything else in here. We use our base ingredients and then add what’s necessary to change the flavors.”

“What’s your most popular flavor?” I ask.

“The Elisenlebkuchen,” Petra answers. “And that’s because no one else can make it like us.” She smiles, and I love how much pride she takes in their quaint bakery. She claps her hands together and says, “Let’s get started. In front of you, you have a combination of walnuts, hazelnuts, and almonds all ground together. We’ll keep the exact ratios to ourselves. We have to keep some things secret.” She winks.

“Smart businesswoman,” I say.

“And then we have a combination of spices—we’ll keep the ratio for that to ourselves as well—but in the jar, if you give it a sniff, you’ll hopefully detect some cloves, cardamom, ginger, coriander, allspice, and fennel.”

Hazel opens the small jar and we both give it a sniff. “Oh, wow. That smells like Christmas in a jar,” Hazel says, bringing it up to her nose again.

Petra laughs and repeats what Hazel said in German. Monika smiles and says, “Ja. Christmas.”

“And then the rest of the ingredients, which are quite important, are candied orange, citrus peel, and honey. And then of course a few other things. Are you ready to bake?”

“We are,” Hazel says, smiling up at me. I smile back, and I swear, I can feel Pops here with us, leaning over my shoulder, watching intently. He’d be saying, “Don’t Harry Truman stuff up.”

As Petra guides us through the steps of adding ingredients and mixing, I say, “My pops tried to make the American version of gingerbread cookies and failed miserably every time. This, though—I think he could have handled this.”

“Easily,” Hazel says as she stirs the mixture together.