Page 20 of Marrying the Guide
“Look.” Onno expertly flipped the contents of his work, where he made nasi—Indonesian fried rice with egg, thin slices of ham, vegetables, and spices to give it its distinct yellow color and subtle flavor. “I’m a natural.”
His blue eyes sparkled with mischief under the kitchen’s warm lights, and I chuckled at his feigned boastfulness. “Sure, you are.” I stirred the rendang, the tender beef simmering in coconut milk and spices. “Because you’veneverdone this, obviously.”
Onno had organized this date, and while we were chopping vegetables, he’d told me Indonesian food was popular in the Netherlands. Indonesia was a former Dutch colony, and many Indonesians had moved to the Netherlands, bringing their favorite recipes. Onno loved their food and had made some dishes before.
He waved his hand. “Details.”
I shook my head, amazed at how easily our banter flowed.
Intan moved between us, her long ponytail swishing as she inspected our dishes. “Really good, Onno! You have good technique,” she said and turned to me with a nod of approval. “And, Howell, your rendang looks perfect, hmm? Right consistency.”
We beamed under her compliments, and a surge of pride rolled through me, not just for mastering the art of Indonesian cuisine but also for the ease with which Onno and I interacted. Everything was so natural, so effortless, so spontaneous.
“Okay, class, time is up!” Intan announced, clapping her hands together. “You can take your food home with you and let me know how it tasted, yes? Remember, rendang must simmer for two more hours.”
The room buzzed with the rustling of the six participants packing up our creations, the delicious results of our labor. I couldn’t wait to taste it, especially those succulent skewers of satay that promised a burst of peanutty flavor. We wrapped the dishes carefully, ensuring none of the precious sauces would spill during transit.
“Thank you, Intan, for such an incredible experience,” I said as we approached her, balancing our containers.
“Terima kasih,” Onno said, one of the few Indonesian phrases he’d learned. He looked so damn pleased with himself that my heart swelled with affection.
“Senang bisa membantu,” Intan replied with a warm smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Don’t be strangers to the kitchen or each other.”
Her knowing look didn’t go unnoticed, and my cheeks heated slightly. Onno gave a short, hearty laugh, clearly unfazed by her insinuation.
“Thanks again,” I said. We waved goodbye to the other participants, who were engrossed in chatter about their newfound culinary skills.
It was only a short walk to my house, so we hadn’t bothered to take my truck. Inside, I flicked on the lights, and a warm glow spilled out from the overhead lamps, casting shadows that danced along the walls. With a few strikes of a match, I lit the candles I’d strategically placed around the living room. Their flickering flames gave a softer, more intimate illumination, the faint ocean scent slowly permeating the air.
“Nice touch with the candles.” Onno set our culinary treasures on the table.
“Thought it created the right atmosphere. Same with this.” I clicked on the sound system, and soft music began to play—a gentle acoustic melody that wrapped around us like a comforting blanket.
“Perfect.” Onno turned to me, giving me his radiant smile. The kind of smile that said everything without uttering a single word, that made my stomach do flips, that made my heartbeat stutter. I was so crazy about this man.
Porcelain clinked and napkins rustled as Onno and I set the table, our movements falling into a rhythm that felt as natural as the rise and fall of the tides. I handed him forks and knives, and he placed them beside each plate, his long fingers careful and precise.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? To create something with your hands.” Onno surveyed the spread of dishes we’d prepared.
“Definitely,” I agreed. “But with the right company, it feels even better.”
He treated me to another one of his sweet smiles.
We settled at the table. The tantalizing aroma of spices, coconut, and lemongrass made my mouth water. I’d heated thesatay for a minute. Onno carefully took a bit, closing his eyes, and savored the tender chicken in its rich, fragrant sauce.
“Oh, this turned out really, really well. So much better than store-bought.”
“You have store-bought satay back home?”
“Well, the peanut sauce. We eat that with a lot of other food. Fries, for example. It’s delicious.”
Fries with peanut sauce? I knew the Dutch ate their fries with mayo, which in itself was already interesting, but peanut sauce? I shouldn’t diss it before trying it, but that didn’t sound like an appealing combination.
“I’d love to visit sometime,” I said. “See your home country with my own eyes.”
Shit. Why had I said that? It only reminded me that time was running out on us. Every day together was a bittersweet reminder of our impending goodbye, which came closer and closer.
“I would love to show you all my favorite places.” Onno’s voice sounded hoarse.