Back at the cottage, we eagerly made our way to the pristine, professional-grade kitchen, determined to make good on my late-night craving for hot chocolate to go with those fresh cookies. We both enthusiastically started the task, me heating the milk, and Luther confidently fiddling with the chocolate powder.
After the first five, utterly frustrating minutes, we stopped and looked at each other. We realized, with hilarious simultaneity, that we were both absolutely, hopelessly terrible at it. The milk was already threatening to scorch the bottom of the pan, the chocolate powder had clumped into stubborn, dusty little islands floating tragically on the surface, and the whole concoction was thin, watery, and hopelessly sad.
We tried frantic whisking, aggressive stirring, and even timid t
