Sarge Potteiger
Emotional Damage
Opening the oven door was, of course, the best part. It wasn't the blast of heat that hit you in the face; that was quite bothersome. Instead, all the smells that came with baking that had filtered into the kitchen were finally released, exploding into being like a sprouting flower in fast forward. "Delicious," he muttered, slipping the second mitt onto his hand as he reached in. The tray within was gingerly grasped and pulled out to be set on the counter atop a small Atrisian inspired wood trivet so it could cool.
It wouldn't do to have someone burning their mouth on them after all.
Piano, piped in through the kitchen speaker, provided a lovely backdrop. Much better than the beep and screech of passing speeders outside, despite the dense soundproofing that went into Coruscanti spires. These Jedi did love their Coruscant homes high up, with a lovely view of the diamond bright speeder-light mosiac flowing like rivers of stars around Galactic City. Last he'd seen Coruscant it had been on fire, and the only woman he cared to love had been, to his knowledge, dead. These brownies were her favorite recipe.
Dark chocolate, a hint of sea salt, with a helping of espresso powder for some extra chocolate kick. Delicious, really.
No one was home but him, of course. Him, the piano, and a bit of light baking to pass the time. Romi would be here eventually, and, truth be told, it was the surprise that was always the fun part. It wasn't as though they'd ever met. Certainly, he could imagine she knew of him but they certainly didn't move in the same circles. Yet here he was, cooking brownies in her family's kitchen like he lived there himself.
Humming along to the music, he set the mitts on the countertop with one gently laid atop the other with the thumbs atop each other for a cleaner look.
One of these days he'd get shot for letting himself into someone's home but he had to imagine that day wasn't today. Romi wasn't one of those Jedi that carried around a blaster for fun, so he'd have a moment or two to explain himself while adrenaline and surprise stopped her in her tracks. A scoff, to himself. "That's what you hope," he muttered, beginning to wash his hands. It was an old habit; the cooking was done, and so he washed his hands, whether they were clean already or not.
Old habits died hard, he supposed. He knew he would.
It wouldn't do to have someone burning their mouth on them after all.
Piano, piped in through the kitchen speaker, provided a lovely backdrop. Much better than the beep and screech of passing speeders outside, despite the dense soundproofing that went into Coruscanti spires. These Jedi did love their Coruscant homes high up, with a lovely view of the diamond bright speeder-light mosiac flowing like rivers of stars around Galactic City. Last he'd seen Coruscant it had been on fire, and the only woman he cared to love had been, to his knowledge, dead. These brownies were her favorite recipe.
Dark chocolate, a hint of sea salt, with a helping of espresso powder for some extra chocolate kick. Delicious, really.
No one was home but him, of course. Him, the piano, and a bit of light baking to pass the time. Romi would be here eventually, and, truth be told, it was the surprise that was always the fun part. It wasn't as though they'd ever met. Certainly, he could imagine she knew of him but they certainly didn't move in the same circles. Yet here he was, cooking brownies in her family's kitchen like he lived there himself.
Humming along to the music, he set the mitts on the countertop with one gently laid atop the other with the thumbs atop each other for a cleaner look.
One of these days he'd get shot for letting himself into someone's home but he had to imagine that day wasn't today. Romi wasn't one of those Jedi that carried around a blaster for fun, so he'd have a moment or two to explain himself while adrenaline and surprise stopped her in her tracks. A scoff, to himself. "That's what you hope," he muttered, beginning to wash his hands. It was an old habit; the cooking was done, and so he washed his hands, whether they were clean already or not.
Old habits died hard, he supposed. He knew he would.