Lin Bei decided to make butterfly palmiers herself. The two boxes of butterfly palmiers Su Chen brought back were simply too delicious. Lin Bei ate one piece and couldn’t stop. The first box was half gone by the evening Su Chen returned, while the second box she’d promised to give to Aunt Li—no touching that one.

Lin Bei stared at the empty box, lost in thought. At the Shanghai International Hotel, a single box of butterfly palmiers cost over five hundred yuan—way beyond her means. But she could cook! She’d made cakes before; what’s so hard about butterfly palmiers? Just dough, butter, and sugar—could it really be any harder than cake?

“Su Chen, I’m making butterfly palmiers tonight,” she announced.

Su Chen was sitting on the sofa reading, not even looking up. “What are you planning to do to the kitchen this time?”

“What do you mean ‘do to the kitchen’? I’m making you something delicious!”

“You said the same thing last time, and then the electric rice cooker got sacrificed.”

“That was cake! This time it’s butterfly palmiers—different!”

“How is it different?”

“Butterfly palmiers don’t need an electric rice cooker.”

Finally, Su Chen looked up, his expression saying, “I’ve already seen disaster coming.”

“Lin Bei.”

“Mm?”

“The oven in the kitchen—that thing’s been sitting there for three years and we’ve never used it.”

“Today’s the day it gets used!”

Su Chen took a deep breath and closed his book. “I’ll help you.”

“No need! Just sit there and wait to eat!”

“I don’t want to wait to eat—I want to wait until the kitchen is still standing!”

Lin Bei glared at him but didn’t object. After the disastrous cake-making fiasco last time, she knew that as long as Su Chen was around, at least the house wouldn’t catch fire.

She started kneading the dough. The butter needed to be softened, so she popped it in the microwave for thirty seconds. By the time she took it out, the butter had melted into a puddle.

“The butter’s melted,” Su Chen said from the side.

“So what? It’s still just oil.”

“The recipe says you’re not supposed to melt it.”

“Recipes are recipes—this is me.”

Su Chen’s lips twitched, but he didn’t stop her.

She poured the melted butter into the flour, added water, and began kneading. After five minutes, the dough was as soft as sludge—completely unworkable.

“You added too much water,” Su Chen said.

“Then I’ll add more flour.”

She added another cup of flour and kneaded for three more minutes, but the dough turned as hard as stone.

“You added too much flour,” Su Chen said.

“Then I’ll add more water.”

“You’ve already added water three times and flour four times. Now this dough weighs twice as much as it did before.”

Lin Bei looked down at the enormous lump of dough and fell silent.

“What should we do?”

“Start over.”

“No way! These ingredients are expensive—just the butter alone is over thirty yuan!”

Su Chen looked at her and sighed. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and took the dough from her hands.

“I’ll do it.”

Lin Bei was taken aback. Su Chen was actually going to cook? Make butterfly palmiers?

Su Chen tossed the failed dough into the trash and weighed out fresh flour, butter, and water.

Lin Bei stood by, watching his focused profile, and suddenly thought this man looked good at everything. Whether he was cooking, reading, or even scolding her—it all looked good.

“What are you staring at?” Su Chen didn’t even look up.

“Watching you make butterfly palmiers.”

“Stop staring. Every time you look, I want to add more sugar.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too sweet.”

Lin Bei’s heart skipped a beat. Su Chen’s hand paused for a moment, as if realizing what he’d just said.

“…I meant the dough,” he added.

“But you clearly meant me.”

“The dough’s too sweet to be tasty.”

“Su Chen, your ears are red.”

“It’s too hot in the kitchen.”

“The oven isn’t even on yet.”

Su Chen stopped talking and concentrated on kneading the dough.

Lin Bei stood there, smiling like a cat who’d just stolen a fish.

Once the dough was ready, Su Chen rolled it out into thin sheets, folded it, rolled it again, folded it once more—repeating the process countless times with the kind of practiced ease you’d expect after doing it a thousand times.

“How do you even know how to make butterfly palmiers?” Lin Bei asked.

“I took a baking elective in college.”

“How many electives have you actually taken?”

“Enough to get by.”

“So your whole life is just about getting by?”

Su Chen shot her a glance. “My whole life is about keeping you from blowing up the kitchen a few more times.”

Lin Bei wanted to argue, but found she had nothing to say.

Finally, the dough was done. Su Chen cut it into small pieces, shaped them into butterflies, and put them in the oven.

End of Chapter 28: The Butterfly Palmiers Tragedy