Evan Versus the Sharlotka

by Chrissy Munder

  “Apple sharlotka,” Evan muttered aloud as he typed into his table’s web browser. “Charlottkah. Shar-lot-ka.”

  Once he got the spelling right, the web gods were kind. An apple sharlotka was a light, easy-to-make apple cake with minimal ingredients. Evan nodded. Simple was better.

  He bookmarked a couple of recipes, reading through the descriptive blogs with interest and exploring some of the culture and meaning surrounding the cake. He pictured Gavriil, a tinier Gavriil, with that baby-fine white hair true blonds had, sitting in a too-big kitchen chair far away from where his career had brought him.

  Family was important to Evan, and he regretted not living closer to his own, even in this age of technology. Skype and all was great, but nothing beat a real hug from his mother when he felt down. Gavriil seemed to feel much the same.

  Evan copied down the ingredients and amounts needed before he set his tablet down and leaned back on the couch, his arms folded across his stomach as if it would help contain his emotions.

  This potluck, as much as Evan didn’t want to participate, might be the way to show Gavriil how much he cared. Evan had always been a closet romantic. His favorite movie moment was the airport scene with the little boy in Love, Actually. The idea of a grand gesture seemed right. Worthy, if he wanted to go there.

  Because Gavriil deserved that kind of worthy. Even if Evan’s previous efforts in the kitchen ended in complete and fiery failure. He was going to make Gavriil an apple cake just like Gavriil’s mom used to make. What happened after that? Well, he’d have to wait and see.

  III

  EVAN’S FORAY to the grocery store went well. Only afterward, the results of his shopping spread out across his counter, did he acknowledge he might be in over his head. There was a reason he lived on takeout and tuna sandwiches.

  Too bad he hadn’t spent more time reading through the recipe. Evan put the eggs and milk in his fridge. He had never heard of a springform pan, but no time like the present to learn. Oh, and he needed an electric hand mixer too. He gave the instructions another quick run-through to see if he’d need anything else, then stuffed his list in his front pocket and picked up his jacket and keys.

  By the time Evan returned, with not only the items he missed his first trip, but also a 9x13 baking dish the clerk assured him he’d find easier to use, it was already after eight. He tied the simple, pale blue apron he had found at the store (the same color as Gavriil’s eyes) around his waist and washed his hands.

  After a final read-through, he arranged the ingredients on the counter in order of the instructions. Evan felt a little better seeing them like that. The sharlotka only had six components. How hard could it be?

  So, springform pans were a real bitch. But he figured it out, no thanks to the picture on the packaging. Evan set the oven to the specified temperature. Step one complete. He marked a tiny check on the printout of the recipe to celebrate his accomplishment before he stalled at the next item. Grease the pan? With what?

  Evan opened his pantry and rummaged through his shelves. He found a bottle of olive oil, and behind that, a vat of coconut oil left by a carb-fearing ex, but neither one of those sounded right. Butter. That’s what he needed.

  He pulled a stick out of the fridge. He had the what, now the question was how. Evan used a spoon to slice off a chunk and tried to smear it over the sides without success. Thankful no one was there to see him, Evan gave up and squished the butter around with his fingers.

  He made a greasier checkmark on his recipe and then moved on.

  Peel, core, and chop the apples. Evan ripped open the bag and picked out the nicest ones. One of them slipped through his still-buttery grasp and bounced into the sink. That was okay. They needed to be washed anyway.

  Except he didn’t need to wash the apples. Because he was supposed to peel them. He’d never peeled apples before, but they couldn’t be harder than a potato. And how the hell did you core an apple?

  Thank goodness for YouTube.

  Six apples and two Band-Aids later, Evan cleaned the sticky fingerprints from his tablet. He’d found a video that showed the preparation of the cake step by step and watched it through. That didn’t seem too difficult. Confident the hardest parts were behind him, he pressed on.

  Okay, so now he knew not to turn the hand mixer on until after the whisk tines were deep in the eggs. Evan wet a paper towel and wiped the splatters from his face and beard. Three more checkmarks on the recipe. Only four more steps to go.

  Did he mention springform pans were a real bitch? Evan frowned at the mess on his kitchen tile. Apparently he hadn’t fastened the little buckle-clip thing right. With a sigh, Evan grabbed a handful of paper towels and bent over. He’d try the other pan, the one the clerk suggested. He had time.

  And supplies.

  EVAN FLAPPED a dish towel in front of the open window, hoping to urge the grayish smoke toward the frigid December air. YouTube and Pinterest both had failed him.

  He surveyed the kitchen with a despairing sigh. What a mess. A long snake of apple peeling dangled out of his trash, and flour littered the counters and floor, as well as his hair, apron, and the back of his jeans where he’d wiped his hands more than once.

  Forget easy to make. Forget simple and minimal ingredients. Forget the hacks shown in the video. An apple sharlotka was the devil. The proof laughed at Evan from the smoking pan in his sink.

  The blackened, crispy mess didn’t look anything like the images online, and since there was no way he could chisel it out of the baking dish, it was back to the springform bitch for him.

  But he still had three days. Now that he knew his oven ran hot, he could adjust the temperature and try again tomorrow. Evan rubbed one floury hand against his face, inevitably leaving a trail of white across his dark beard.

  Failure was feedback, right? He’d clean up, get a good night’s sleep, and hit the store again after work.

  EVAN MADE three sharlotkas on Tuesday. The first one appeared to be cooked through, all golden brown and cakey on the outside, but the middle was a soggy mush.

  On his second attempt, the cake turned out nice, but the apples stayed raw and crunchy. Number three? The one he pinned his hopes on? Somehow he’d confused the teaspoon measure with the tablespoon, so even if the sharlotka looked better than the others, the taste was unbearable.

  Wednesday night earned him a couple of strange looks from the cashier at the grocery store. He went to the self-checkout lane to avoid her.

  This time he ended up with a huge crack across the top. But when he poked at the insides with a fork, the apples were cooked, and the cake itself had a pleasant taste and texture.

  On the upside, he could now form and unform a springform pan without hesitation, and his ability to whisk the ingredients improved to the point he didn’t have to wipe the spray off his cupboards.

  Each night he’d battle his doubts, resolving to do better the next day. With his enthusiasm to clean up waning, it was only his lunches with Gavriil—sweet, tender, funny Gavriil—that gave him the strength to come home and face his disaster of a kitchen once again.

  Thursday came much too quickly. His last night. Make or break. Evan reviewed his ingredients and rewatched his favorite video two more times to refresh his memory.

  He turned on his Christmas tree lights and put his holiday playlist on Repeat to give him courage, dancing across the sticky tile in a pair of snowmen socks his mother sent him as a joke.

  Evan took a deep breath and donned his apron like a boxer laced on his gloves before the big match. He whisked, he measured, he chopped. Each stroke of his knife was an ode to Gavriil, a silent poem, a pledge to their future. When he slid the pan into the oven rack, he set the timer and then collapsed on the couch.

  Evan’s heart pounded as the minutes ticked off. He hummed along with “The Little Drummer Boy” while he nibbled at his cuticles, unable to look away from the oven’s glass window for fear his lack of attention would doom the cake.

  Like a cond
emned man walking to his execution, Evan returned to the kitchen when the buzzer went off. He held his breath as he pulled the rack out and inserted a toothpick into the middle of the sharlotka to check for doneness.

  When the toothpick came out clean, Evan grabbed his potholders and placed the pan on his cutting board. His fingers trembled as he freed the springform and surveyed his creation.

  It looked… okay. A little lumpy, a trifle lopsided, and maybe the edge closest to the back of the oven was darker than the rest. But the smell was amazing. Sweet with just a hint of spice. Kind of like a holiday potpourri.

  Or Gavriil.

  Evan pulled out the bag of powdered sugar and with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth carefully dusted the white powder across the top. He cleaned up the kitchen while the sharlotka cooled, his attention returning to the cake as if expecting it to disappear.

  He had done it.

  Evan’s shoulders sagged with relief, but then they crept back up to his ears. With his focus no longer on preparation, he now had to think about tomorrow. What would Gavriil think?

  IV

  THE FRIDAY of the potluck found Evan slouched in his work chair, gaze fixated on the plastic cake carrier seated in the middle of his desk. He chewed the already raw cuticle of his right thumb while he debated.

  Should he risk putting the cake out there? Should he not? His stomach twisted into a series of knots. Why hadn’t he gone along with Melinda’s expectations and stopped at the nearest bakery?

  Because this had become something larger than simply an office potluck. He’d wanted to give Gavriil an indication of his feelings. His yearnings. He wanted his declaration to be… special.

  But was this sad, rather lumpy cake the answer? Surely Gavriil deserved something better? A small voice deep inside whispered: something, or perhaps even someone more deserving of his favor.

  Evan jumped to his feet, the chair shooting out behind him and hitting the back of his cubicle partition. He checked for his wallet and keys, grabbed his coat, and hurried out of the office, rushing past Melinda in the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

  The fresh snowfall left the traffic a snarled mess. Evan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his stomach whirling with each passing mile. The bakery he headed to was older, a little run-down, but a favored stop for morning commuters.

  He loomed at the back of the line, his cuticle becoming a shredded mess as his foot kept track of the minutes. Finally, he was back at his cube, a white bakery box clutched in his sweating hands.

  He glanced at his phone. Still enough time to put this in the break room with the rest of the food. It was only after he hung his jacket on the coat hook that he noticed his empty desk.

  Evan froze. “No, oh no,” he muttered. He set the box on his chair and riffled through the stacked folders as if the plastic container holding the sharlotka could hide underneath them. “Where is it?”

  A search of the trash can and under the desk failed to produce any results. Frantic, Evan popped his head above his cube like a startled meerkat. “Jason,” he hissed. “Where’s my cake?”

  “Melinda took it.” Jason’s muffled answer hit Evan with the force of an anvil. “I wouldn’t go bug her; she was really mad you left.”

  Evan dropped his head onto the top edge of the partition. Fate, never kind to him to begin with, had spoken. Ready or not, Evan had no choice but to go along.

  THE LUNCHEON itself didn’t hold any surprises. Evan sat at the back of the room with Jason and a couple of other guys from their tech support team, poking at his half-filled plate.

  Despite Melinda’s efforts to force the employees to bring a variety of food, there were still nine different bowls of pasta salad on the buffet table. Jason cheerfully pointed out the one he’d brought, claiming the onions and carrots in the dish earned it vegetable status.

  The only thing Evan could taste was the assorted cheeses he was sure came from Gavriil.

  Who wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  Evan watched the door, jerking upright every time it swung open. Each time his emotions roller-coastered between disappointment when Gavriil didn’t enter and relief.

  Not even the CEO’s holiday presentation and end-of-year projections could regain his attention. His brain kept looping a nightmarish image of a Gavriil, who pointed and laughed at the sharlotka and, by extension, Evan.

  The company news must have been good, based on the pleased expressions of his coworkers, but all Evan could do was stare at his apple sharlotka, untouched and forlorn between a platter of peanut butter brownies and a box of cake bites.

  He shouldn’t have worried so much. The chocolate cake he’d bought at the bakery had disappeared, but his apple sharlotka?

  No one came near.

  Evan pushed his plate to the side. Maybe that was for the best. Once the lunch ended, he’d toss the sharlotka in the trash along with his dreams of a grand, romantic gesture. And his hopes for the future. He ran his hand through his hair, wincing at the pull of the wayward curls. Gavriil hadn’t shown.

  Time crawled by. Evan waited until most everyone returned to work, then walked over to the dessert table. He put the lid back on the cake carrier, all too aware of the sympathetic smiles from the women packing up their own dishes.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. Evan answered the tech calls: lost passwords and the unexplained computer issues best solved with a shutdown and reboot.

  But his usual good humor was missing, and his voice stayed flat. He waved goodbye to his coworkers when they left, until at last he sat alone in the office, his cube the only one with a light on overhead.

  All the while he stared at the sharlotka. Evan meant to throw it away, but after a while he’d felt a sort of kinship with the lumpy little cake. They had a lot in common, staying on the table and being passed over in life. Maybe they didn’t look the best, or fit someone’s ideal, but they had something to offer.

  Evan took off his headset and shut off his computer. He gathered up the day’s paperwork and filed it in the drawer, his mind already on the lonely night ahead. He’d make some coffee when he got home and eat the sharlotka himself. Every last piece.

  He could skype his mother and tell her of his baking adventures. She’d get a laugh out of the story. Going forward, he’d be friends with Gavriil. He would even manage to smile when Gavriil met someone else.

  The ping of the elevator echoed through the quiet floor. The doors slid open, and hurried footsteps raced across the tile.

  “Evan! I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  Evan twirled around. Gavriil looked as sleek and well-dressed as ever in his black wool coat, open despite the temperature, and a thick gray scarf. His cheeks were flushed with cold, and his blond hair tousled by the wind.

  He was beautiful.

  Evan clutched the cake carrier to his stomach, hoping to hide his own rumpled appearance. The chair creaked beneath him, and he felt unexpectedly tongue-tied. “You missed the lunch,” he said, finally managing to coordinate his brain and mouth.

  “I was at a client’s.” Despite his small stature, Gavriil filled the entrance to Evan’s cube, his pale blue eyes searching Evan’s for…. Evan didn’t know. “Programming issues.”

  “You didn’t miss much.” Evan dropped his gaze to the sharlotka. He wasn’t prepared to put on a good front for Gavriil. Not right now.

  Silence fell between them, only broken when Gavriil gently pulled the container out of Evan’s stiff hands.

  “What do you have there?” Gavriil stepped closer to Evan so he could place it on Evan’s desk. He popped the lid with a hum. “Did you save me some of your dessert?”

  The rich smell of apples and vanilla rose into the air, and Gavriil drew in a sharp breath. “Is this…?” He glanced from the container to Evan, his eyes wide and surprised. “Where did you get this?”

  Evan swallowed down the last of his nerves. “I made it,” he muttered. There was hardly space for the two of them in his cubicle. H
e felt trapped, hot, uncertain, and totally unsure of what to do next. He could only watch, holding his breath, as Gavriil used Evan’s letter opener to cut out a piece of the sharlotka.

  The moment was everything Evan dreamed of: Gavriil’s lush mouth closing around the moist cake, his eyelids fluttering shut as he savored the first bite. The soft hum of pleasure.

  “Evan,” Gavriil finally whispered, “I can’t believe…. You made this for me?”

  Evan drew in a shaky breath. “It didn’t turn out like I wanted.” He kept his voice low, afraid to disturb the quiet intimacy between them.

  “It’s perfect.” Gavriil cut another tiny piece, but this one he raised to Evan’s mouth, silently asking permission. “Try some.”

  Evan parted his lips. The edges of the cake were a little burned, the apples a little soggy. He swallowed, conscious of Gavriil’s intense gaze the entire time. “I don’t think it turned out like your mother’s.”

  “Evan.” Gavriil gave a half laugh, his smile the brightest Evan had ever seen. “My mother is a terrible cook. Terrible. This sharlotka is better than any she’s ever made.”

  “What?” Evan blinked up at Gavriil. “But you said a sharlotka was your favorite dessert.”

  “It is.” Gavriil brushed his hand, fingers cold from the December air, against Evan’s cheek. “Not because she made it well, but because she made it with everything in her heart. Just like you did.”

  “Oh.” Evan unconsciously leaned into Gavriil’s touch. “Does this mean you like it?”

  “Evan.” Gavriil let out another one of those half laughs, this one with a rougher edge that sent shivers up Evan’s spine. “I love it.” He dropped his hand to Evan’s shoulder and stepped forward, sliding his legs over Evan’s until he straddled him, the added weight causing Evan’s chair to give another pained groan. Gavriil looped his arms around Evan’s neck.

  The chill from Gavriil’s coat seeped through Evan’s shirt, and he shivered again. “I wanted… I hoped….” His brain fizzled and only instinct had him burrowing under Gavriil’s coat, grasping his hips to keep him close. The grand gesture he thought he’d make… was it matched by Gavriil’s bold, physical declaration of intent?