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Frypan rolled over in his hammock and reached down, steadying himself against the post as the hammock started to sway. He’d been sleeping in hammocks as long as he could remember – although that didn’t really mean much – his memories only started from the moment he arrived in the Glade. Years of his life had been locked away, greedily taken by WCKD to provide them with yet another clean slate to experiment on. He often found himself wondering about his parents – what had they been like? Would they be proud of him? Was it his mother who has taught him to cook in his past life, making him practice the perfect movements of kneading bread, folding in the flour, mixing soup? Maybe they’d had a bakery; on a perfect Sunday morning, his mother would rise early and bake the cakes, his father already up mixing the icing. They were both artists in his mind, his mother creating the most spectacular flavour combinations, his father with an eye for style, icing and piping the most intricate designs on all their cakes. He liked to imagine they were happy. He liked to imagine he was, in some way, continuing their legacy.
But it was foolish to think so.
Nonetheless, he still loved to bake, and now that they’d arrived in the Safe Haven, he’d found himself with more supplies than he’d ever imagined. A few weeks ago, Brenda had turned up in his Kitchen holding a present for him; she’d just arrived back from the Last City, and she’d somehow managed to find a cookbook. It was magnificent – he’d never seen anything like it! Pages and pages of different types of meals, foods he’d never even heard of! He’d been tempted to sleep with it but had only held back out of fear he might crinkle the pages; while the book was slightly damaged, he would hate to ruin it even more, so next to him would have to do. He picked it up from where it lay on the dusty ground beneath his hammock and shuffled into a semi-upright position.
There had been one recipe that had caught his eye last night. One he knew he had all the ingredients to make. One he was going to make. Today.
Chocks Pastry.
He had to admit, it was a weird name for something. But it looked delicious in the picture, and a name as horrific as chocks pastry wouldn't put him off making this delight.
‘Choux Pastry (pronounced ‘shoo’) is a delicate dough used in many French Pastries.’ Shoo pastry. Choux pastry. That made a lot more sense. It sounded beautiful. Although the picture in the book shows a long doughy cylinder-shaped piece of dough with something similar to chocolate on top, he imagined it would be delicious with strawberries. In fact, it would be perfect with the strawberries in Jorge’s Garden, and he knew they had a jar of dried strawberries tucked away in the pantry for special occasions.
Filled with excitement, he practically swung himself out of the hammock and chucked on some clothes before racing over to the Designated Kitchen Area. The Safe Haven was still being built, and the full kitchen hadn’t been completed yet, but Vince had made sure Frypan had a little area decked out with shelves and hangars and a bench to make all of his creations (and meals for the rest of the group). Besides, it was far better than what he’d had in the Glade. So many new pots and pans that had been picked up on supply runs – it made Fry’s mouth water. There was nothing more magnificent than a nice clean pot.
No, that was obviously a joke. He could think of many things far better than a clean pot, however, the excitement he’d felt upon seeing them, well, it had been something. The days following the destruction of the Last City had felt empty, his thoughts haunted by memories of Newt and Teresa, Winston and Alby, and the countless other friends he’d lost on their mission. The world had felt so dark until Jorge had shown up with a giant stack of pans and pots, colanders and spoons, ladles, whisks. It had been amazing, and for the first time in a while, Frypan had once again found himself with something to look forward to.
He laid the book out in front of him and read the ingredients list carefully.
• 1c water
• 1c flour
• 3 eggs
• 100g butter
Rummaging through the drawers, he managed to find a cup – they only had one in the Safe Haven but Frypan looked after it like he was caring for a child. Many of the recipes used cups as a measurement, and without it, he would be in some serious trouble. He’d even felt tempted to name it Chuck – one of his fondest memories from back in the Glade was the early mornings when Chuck, woken by nightmares, had wandered into Fry’s kitchen and helped him out with breakfast. Chuck wasn’t much of a cook and Frypan had often found himself rushing over to prevent something from burning, but it made Chuck happy and seeing a kid that young be able to find happiness in something while being tortured by a pathetic group of scientists had been something.
100g of butter was a bit more challenging. He’d stopped to grab the block of butter (and some cream) from the chilled room on his way over, but the measurement was a little more challenging. Oh, how he would love some scales. Apparently, scales were the ideal measuring method for baking, and whenever messed up a recipe he liked to tell himself that it would’ve been perfect if he’d only had some scales. Like last weekend, when he’d tried to bake a giant loaf of bread from the same recipe book, which had called for 100g milk (it was a very, very big loaf of bread), and it had taken him multiple attempts to get the recipe to actually work (the first batch was more of a pancake, and the second Thomas had compared to a rock. Which was mean but also accurate). Eventually, he’d figured out an amount that worked, and had noted down that 100g was about the same weight of a baby nectarine. Placing a nectarine on one side of the old manual scales that Gally had built for him, he slowly added butter to them until they balanced out. That would have to do. Now onto the next step.
1. Bring the butter and water to a rolling boil over a stove. (Some flames, in his case). Reaching up and grabbing a large bot, he measured in the butter and water before placing it over the mini fire in the kitchen. (The fire wasn’t that small, it just wasn’t the size of the bonfire out the back).
Once the mixture was boiling (and he noted that it looked kind of disgusting) he looked to Step 2 in the recipe (so far, so good).
2. Remove from heat and quickly add the flour, beating until it leaves the sides of the pot.
A little confusing, but there was nothing like a challenge to wake up that sleepy early morning brain. Following the recipe, he added the flour and couldn’t deny the sliver of disgust he felt looking down at the thick, gloopy, sticky mess in the pot. It didn’t look tasty at all. But, he persevered, continuing to mix until it pulled away from the edges of the pot and formed a nice ball in the middle.
3. Cool for five minutes.
Wonderful, that would give him some time to start on his filling. In theory, it would take a normal person longer than five minutes to sneak into Jorge’s garden and steal some strawberries, but Frypan valued his life getting caught would jeopardise that. A sneaky in and out would have to do.
He was halfway through his 5 minutes, a quarter of a container of strawberries sitting on the ground beside him when he heard footsteps approaching, a wave of fear immediately washing over him.
“Frypan.” Shit.
“Brenda.”
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I’m not the one sneaking into Jorge’s garden and stealing his strawberries.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to piss him off?”
“Well, no. Obviously not. However, I feel like he could really benefit from this.” Frypan had no idea what he was saying, the words tumbling out in a panic.
“Please explain to me how he could benefit from you stealing his strawberries.”
“Because then he gets to try my eclairs, and I’m certain that would expel any murderous feelings he would hold towards me after discovering the decrease in strawberries.”
“And what exactly are eclairs?” Brenda held her scowl, but Frypan noticed a curious glint starting to appear in her eyes. His plan (yes, this counted as a plan even if it was only concocted in the last five seconds) was working.
“Well I’m not 100% sure because I’ve never had one, but it’s a pastry filled with cream and in this case strawberries. It’s going to be really yummy, I can feel it!”
“Okay, well, do you need a hand? I’m already up and there’s not much to do around here yet.”
“I’ll never say no to a friend offering to bake with me!” He replied enthusiastically, grinning at Brenda. “Can you finish up here? I’ll head back and finish off the pastry.”
“Yeah, whatever. Now get going before Jorge catches you in here and I have to explain why I didn’t immediately fight you.”
“Okay, okay!” He started back down the hill. “Oh, and Brenda, can you please grab the jar of friend strawberries from the pantry? Thanks!” He heard her mutter something at him under her breath, but Frypan knew she was enjoying this. Brenda loved trying new things, and when she’d delivered the recipe book to him, he’d noticed that someone had flicked through it first – the pages were freshly unbent, and the dust had been cleaned off. Perhaps Brenda had a baking streak in her too.
He thought back to their first meeting in the Scorch – he’d been a little terrified of her and he definitely hadn’t wanted to trust her. She’s clicked easily with Thomas, and even with Newt, but the pair of them had been hardly more than civil towards each other. Until the bus, when Brenda had placed her life in Frypan’s very large crane hooks and he’d somehow managed to swing her to safety. (They had debated on that however, after the bus had taken its dramatic fall to the ground). But that experience had given them a starting point, and their friendship had grown from there.
Five minutes had well and truly passed by the time Frypan made it back to the kitchen, and he quickly got back to work on the choux pastry.
4. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well in between.
Okay. One at a time. Easy enough. Although the recipe said simply to add them whole, he grabbed a small bowl from the shelf above him and cracked one egg into there first, giving it a little mix with a fork before adding it. The mixture became slimy and mushy again at the start after each addition and then reformed into a ball. He repeated it another two times with the remaining eggs, fascinated by how the texture was constantly changing. If his parents were once bakers, he could understand why – it really was an art form, watching the ingredients change and react with each other to eventually become something delicious and edible.
5. Pipe into long strips.
Pipe. Okay. A little tricky, but he knew he could manage. Running through a list of kitchen supplies, he discovered they had a roll of wax paper he could fold into a piping bag. Or something resembling what he assumed a piping bag was, but it would be good enough to make long strips and that was something. He folded the paper and carefully piped medium length strips onto it, keeping his hands steady and his movements precise. Maybe in another life, he could’ve been a surgeon. No, the idea of looking inside someone’s body was a little too gross for him.
6. Bake at 200 degrees for 30-40 minutes.
Right about now, he wished Gally would hurry up with that oven he was working on – Gally and Minho had found an old oven in one of the apartments in the Last City and he was currently trying to rewire it so it would run using solar panels collected from the Last City. The Last City was a terrible place, there was no denying that, however, it was proving very handy when it came to their supplies. But alas, the oven was not ready, and Frypan would have to resort to the pit oven they had set up near the bonfire. The pit oven was fine, if not a little unpredictable with heat and it could take a while, but at the end of the day, the food was cooked, albeit a little dry at times. He grabbed the tray and took it over, carefully removing the heated stones with the large mitts that had been designated specifically to the pit oven. He would rather not think about Thomas’ unfortunate incident involving hot stones and an abundance of confidence. Now they had mitts (and Thomas was fine, now, the only lasting injury being his bruised ego).
He’d spent enough time with the pit oven to know the choux pastry would take about 90 minutes, but he’d give it a quick check after 45 minutes to make sure there weren’t any nasty surprises. Wandering back to the kitchen, he felt a welcome happiness bubbling up inside him – baking was so freeing, and something WCKD had never allowed him to do in the Maze. He loved every part of it, from the measuring out of ingredients, to the baking, to creating different flavour combinations and ways to cook something. It was almost like a puzzle, a non-lethal one. (Hopefully, it stayed that way; it would be a very sad day if his cooking ever killed anybody!).
Brenda was already in the kitchen when he arrived back, the strawberries sitting freshly washed on the bench and a jar of dried strawberry slices in her hands. He placed the cream down on the bench and grinned at her.
“So. Are you ready to experience the joys of baking?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? You don’t need to try and sell it to me, Fry.” She said with a laugh.
“Great, because I really don’t think advertising is my thing.”
“No, it’s definitely not and you should never do that again.” Frypan laughed at her comment; while their friendship consisted mostly of snarky comments and eye-rolling, it was nice to have something he could joke around with. It was nice to be able to laugh again, too, if he was being honest with himself. He remembered a time, back in Lawrence’s camp just after Newt had snapped at Thomas, that he’d wondered if there’d ever be a time where he would genuinely laugh again, or if he’d die before he got the chance. He hadn’t been at his most optimistic at that moment, to be fair.
“Okay, let’s get started. Do you want to take the cream whisking and fresh strawberries, or the dried strawberries and icing?”
“Yeah, gee, that’s a big decision,” Brenda smirked at him. “I’ll take the cream. I’m pretty sure I can whisk that up.”
“Sure, but don’t turn it into butter.”
“I wouldn’t dare…” Frypan turned to look at her, raising his eyebrows. “It was one time! It’ll be perfect this time, you wait and see.” Frypan knew it would be perfect – Brenda was a fast learner, and she was not one to repeat her mistakes (as rare as they were).
He grabbed the jar of dried strawberries and tipped a handful onto a board, before grabbing the rolling pin and crushing them into a fine powder. This would be perfect. He scraped them into a small bowl and reached under the bench to grab the container of powdered sugar. He’d only discovered this after arriving in the Safe Haven and had learnt that it was, in fact, rather different from normal sugar after he’d attempted to replace it in a recipe (it did not go well). He placed a couple of heaped scoops into the bowl with the strawberry powder and poured in a tiny bit of warm water. Immediately the powders began to dissolve, and he was left with a bright pink, viscous mixture that would be perfect for icing.
He glanced at Brenda to find her bowl of cream sitting perfectly whipped on the bench beside him, but instead of a bright white, the mixture was pale pink, with the finely diced strawberries mixed in.
“Taste it,” she said, noticing his curiosity. He grabbed a clean spoon from the drawer and scooped a bit up and popped it into his mouth. Damn. That was good. It was practically perfect, if he was being honest, the perfect balance of flavours. It was amazing to him how something with only two ingredients could taste so good!
“It’s not bad,” he said neutrally, determined not to let her know how good it truly was – he’d never hear the end of it.
“Liar,” Brenda replied. “It’s perfect, and you know it.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever, It’s pretty damn good.” Defeat.
Frypan glanced up at the clock above his head. 8:45 am. The choux pastry was probably nearly done by now – he’d completely forgotten to check on it after 45 minutes. But it didn’t matter, because even as he removed the stones, he could tell they were perfect.
“Shit, Fry. You may have outdone yourself on this one too. Those look fantastic.”
“Well, they’ll taste even better once they’re filled. Let’s finish this,” he said in a tone that would make one think he was about to take down WCKD, not fill some eclairs with cream.
Together, they carefully removed the extra dough from the insides of the eclairs, before carefully filling them with cream and dipping them in the icing.
“You know, I think you might’ve been right,” Brenda said quietly beside him.
“About what?”
“That the murderous rage Jorge will feel about the strawberries will be expelled when he sees these.” In front of them, laid out on a large wooden board, lay 24 eclairs, the rich pink icing glistening in the morning light, inviting them to try one.
“I hope so. I did not survive the Maze, the Scorch, and the Last City to die making strawberry eclairs. But just in case that does happen, let’s try one.” He reached forwards to grab one from the tray, and Brenda did the same.
“Cheers.” He took one bite of the éclair and knew that no; he would not be dying today. There was no doubt about it.