"Sweetheart, no—"

You both were dogshit at cooking, there was no doubt about it, it was horrific. So—you would assume having a cookbook with recipes and a step-to-step guide on how to prepare the different things would help craft a perfect christmas dinner for the precinct.

Were both of you wrong.

"Hey, doll?" his voice pipes from where he is across from you in the kitchen. "It says two teaspoons of salt," Beau rubs his temple, the 'kiss the chef' apron he had on being dusted in flour by now from making a dish that in no way needed flour. "But—"

His green eyes flickered over to the bowl decorated with flower patterns and narrowed at it, seeing the abudance of salt sitting in there. Mixed with cinnamon and milk, and egg, and—"Where in God's name did you put your readin' glasses, honey?" There were in fact two tablespoons of salt.

Maybe, just maybe, it was the eggnog you both had drank in bucketloads with the thought of 'no one in the history of eggnog has ever gotten drunk off their asses on it'.

You two were probably the first. "I do like my batter salty," his tone dripped with sarcasm as he bit his tongue, taking in the literal mess you'd both made of the kitchen. "Don't you, darlin'?"

It's not like he was any better.