Starting off this thread with she •^•
Fresh forum game ideaaaaa
Here, your OCs are baking together! Does your character have great cooperating skills, or do they make a complete mess with their bickering? Is someone constantly eating the ingredients? Did someone use salt instead of sugar?
Here's a sample:
Character 1 — "I'm a great baker! Look at how this cake turned out!"
Character 2 — "Oops, I'm sorry...I put in too much sugar. I thought it would be tastier..."
Character 3 — "Just mix the ingredients. I don't wanna mess this up."
The Rules:
1. Wait 3 posts before responding again, unless the previous post is 24 hours old!
2. Put a little effort in your responses! At least three sentences minimum in your responses! We want to know what's going on •^•
3. Keep responses SFW! If there's anything triggering, try to black it out or spoilerize it! If you're on mobile, you can give a warning.
The boy panics and hopes the girl takes the lead. Hes never actually baked before, yet somehow here he was in this situation. He tried not to get in the way of things, constantly checking the instructions and apologizing profusely if he was even a decimal off with measuring. "S..Sorry...Sorry! Sorry.." is all that seems to come from this boy. Eventually he just gets overwhelmed and hides in the corner, sorry miss Zinnia.
(*Throws my baker at this thread at the speed of light*)
“You seem... nervous, I think,” Logan said, giving Kaho a sympathetic smile. “You haven’t baked much, have you?”
He set his measuring cups, bowls, and dry ingredients aside before stooping to pull something out of a nearby drawer—a bowl of risen dough.
“Getting exact measurements is kinda hard at first, but kneading dough isn’t!” He beamed, siding the bowl in front of Kaho. “I like kneading. It feels pretty nice if the dough isn’t too sticky... not to mention that it’s pretty good for letting out any frustrations you might have!”
—
In all honesty, the thought of making meatloaf made Logan queasy. Raw meat is pretty gross, even if he’s alright with it cooked.
He meant to offer some extra flour to Roswell, to stop the dough from sticking, but his words caught in his throat. Was he intimidated? ... Yeah, a little. Before he knew it, though, the leidsman has finished his kneading.
“Rangers... I’m glad they don’t overhunt the deer...”
He’d taken down deer before, in his wolf form. One deer to a werewolf each full moon isn’t too bad, just as the way the rangers that Roswell mentioned hunt isn’t.
Logan spluttered at the question.
“I—I don’t steal live animals!” He grimaced. “I buy my meat. Locally sourced, yeah. The only time I don’t is on full moons and when that’s the case I’m out in the woods, eating whatever I can find out there.”
He sighed.
“I wouldn’t want to hurt anything, anyway... I wouldn’t know what to do if I went and stole, like, a chicken or something...”
He never remembers what happens when he’s a wolf, and he’d really like it to stay that way.
Ill at will Roswell knead the paper-white dough. The fresh dough sticked to his fingers and made long strings while trying to get it off. "Oi don't think Oi could be a baker" the leidsman muttered underneath his breath. Or a cook. He did run a 'soup kitchen' yes, but he had paid a chef. Soup got served in the Old chapel but Roswell had hired someone else that took of the cooking part for him. Not so modern problems required not so modern solutions.
Roswell's eye dipped on the rest of the ingredients. Meat and spices. Dough and bread was only the start...
They wer'e making meatloaf. How fitting. "meat innit cheap. We don't 'ave a lot of cattle. We have more rye-fields then any type of farms or, let's be real, landscape around here, " Roswell said. Finally done kneading.
"Sometimes our local rangers offer and sale meat, dragged straight oyt av de woodlands. Mostly salmon but somtimes deer if dare are too many av dem, " Roswell said while stuffing the dough with minced meat. A precise task which made Roswell's thief hands useful for once.
" 'ow about you Wolf-boy? You said yet only want to buy local products, cause yer then atleast know de animals had a... Noice time on dis world roight?" Roswell questioned. He stopped the filling.
"Do yet pay for it? De meat? Or do ye.. Hop over de fence and pick the ones yer like. Being half-beast (that's not how werewolves work but don't tell him that) and all?" Roswell snorted. "I mean, good life or not they still end up 'ere, untimely, in yer kitchen."
This meatloaf was going to taste great! Made of badly knead dough and filled to the brim with minced bread, rude questions and identity crisis to top it off.
--
Boomer date boomer date (Rip Brown's family name though)
Roswell held his hands behind his back while his eye scanned the spice cabinet. A small frown between his eyebrows. "We alwus ate lamb raun adventus (fantasy christmas). Back 'ome. Our maids took an entire day of preparing de meat," he said. Ticking one of the spice bottle aside with his finger, looking for anything... Not poisoned. Would be a great start. Caught Roswell looked up.
"Lost? Oi'm an expert in 'erbs. Oi use them in rituals," he said. While confusing oregano with oleander leaves right here, right then.
Roswell peaked over her shoulder and frowned even deeper when she revealed the secret. He started to laugh. "Yer a beautiful individual, Sweetcakes," he mused. One way to react to this all, I suppose. He smiled at her peck and softly rubbed his cheek. Even though he shaved two days, some of the stopples already popped back.
"Notorious? Oi would never," he said. "A lady with many talent's." Murder talents. For a pacifistic thief he hardly seemed to be bothered.
"Maybe we should just order it again next toime instead of.. Tryin' to be somethin' we're not," cooks? Or actual decent people.. Who knows. Roswell grabbed the curry powder and headed over to her. And while Roswell should actually worry about Zeewolven kicking his bahookie or the Jakes finding him here, he did not. Tip-toeing around a woman who was so handy with a butcher knife seemed to give the thief some confidence. Softly he wrapped his arms from behind her around her and kissed the top of her head quickly. Burying his nose in her soft, almond smelling, hair before letting her loose again. "Political talk?" he said, wording the words as if they were made of Oleander leaves and nightshade.
"Oi mean oi suppose you're roi," his mood a bit soured. "Pah only learned me aboyt spoons. Dinner spoons, desert spoons, cake spoons. Spoons." he said. He eyed her chopping down the next rib.
"Leika?" he smiled with a hint of pride. Don't point it out he'd get moody. "She's one of me best shooters yes. Oi tart yer two 'ad a alot av common groun'," you 'tart' wrong. "That's why oi asked 'er. Besides. Practicin' wi' a gun could never 'urt roi," Roswell said.
"Guns are easy to get, bullets and powder," he shrugged. "Jakes normally control de trade. Nathaniel apparently now too." Roswell frowned again. He really didn't feel like talking about Nathaniel and Gespan-Politics now.
He was invited, invited not sneaked in, to help the lady cook and what did they do? Talk about brute fish and betrayal. "Mm oh no, Oi'm pretty sure de journalist are still gnarly for information." Roswell stepped close beside her, while trying to act as if he was inspecting the rack. In reality he had no clue where to look, but its fine. "Oy yes, let's safe the politics for after dinner. A revenge tasting desert if you'd will."
- boomer date go brr....... this is surprisingly sweet in spite of the ongoing political drama.... 🥺❤
(also..... YEA...... the only reason it isn't really brought up is because Walker never really got mentioned in the legend, and even then, she was able to "redeem" her family's name by marrying Smithson [and not killing anyone fdgvhdbvdfvdg]. Brown doesn't really know that though, and also her parents would still be pissed that their daughter fucked up THAT badly- :")))))))))))))
I KEEP MAKING LONG REPLIES OH GOD. here's a spoiler box so I can keep my post easy to scroll past ahhhhhhh- :"))))
"I have to admit," remarked the aristocrat with a wry laugh, "I don't think a baked lamb rack has ever been done before, but fuck it. I guess we can be the first one to try it out." And indeed, on the table in front of Brown, was a whole ass rack of lamb. There was no way in hell that it'd fit in a conventional oven, given the size of that cut. But first of all, she was rich and probably had an equally huge ass oven in that kitchen of hers; second of all, she had a butcher's knife, and she wasn't afraid of using it.
It was that knife she twirled around - huge blade and all - while the woman looked over at Roswell and asked, "You are not having trouble navigating the spice cabinet, are you? I know the labels all suggest poison, like arsenic or thallium, but seriously..." She allowed the knife to still in her fingers before walking over to the cabinet and pulling out a seemingly random assortment of "poisons." "The real name is on the back," she pointed out while picking up a dispenser of oregano, ever so lovingly termed on the front as "oleander leaves." On the back, however, was the real identification: "oregano." "I just like labeling all of these after poisons because people keep asking me if I poison my damn food. Like I fucking would! If I did, the apothecary and I would be so much more familiar with each other."
How's that for an edgy party trick?
Placing a hand on the leidsman's shoulder, Brown stood on her toes and leaned in to give him a quick peck on the cheek, before stepping back to the rack and humming, "I know I come off as notorious, but trust me, there is some nuance behind it." Well, it sure didn't seem like it - not when the sound that came right after her little remark was the slam of the blade on the cutting board. She carefully adjusted her cloth gloves before picking up one freshly cut lamb chop, then placing it off to the side. "Besides," she remarked with a gentle laugh, "I have to admit that the curried lamb you ordered me all that time ago was pretty good. I just cannot help but wonder if one can recreate it at home, using the proper ingredients. There should be curry powder in the closet termed as 'crumbled bromine' if the labels still throw you off."
Brown steadily took off her gloves for a moment, just so she could adjust the position of her tied-back hair. Also so she could reflect. Honestly, it was still a bit bizarre inviting someone into her house for such a casual purpose, let alone her kitchen. Her kitchen! What was going to be next, her garden!? Stupid, stupid, stupid, she groveled to herself with a frown while putting the gloves back on, What makes you think this is a good idea!? All you are going to do is cause those damn Zeewolven to turn up at your estate, with you housing the damn Krakers' leidsman so often...
But you do not have much to lose, huh? You disgraced your family name, stationed yourself in a city full of criminals, fell for a thief... Look at you! Scandal should be the least of your worries!
At the end of the day, you should be more concerned about how to navigate the Drakenburg situation in one piece, then... Go from there... Hopefully.
"And..." commented the aristocrat, though it was more to reassure herself than anything else, "food is always a good precursor to political talk, don't you think? That was what I was taught as a young woman. Food is the quickest way to someone's brain." And heart, but Brown would probably drink a gallon of whisky before admitting it did come off as a covert date. "It lightens up the mind, eases the stomach..." She sniffed before slamming down the blade once more, to cut out another chop.
Placing it off to the side, she sighed too casually, "... Especially after a long day of just... Planning, I guess. That pointy-eared girl taught me how to shoot a pistol. It was fun, actually. You can feel much more power between your fingers than a mere blade. I just hope to acquire a gun myself after I get more experience..." She started to gently rub the meat for the sake of tenderizing it, before looking back over at Roswell. "By the way, it's not too late to report the gunpowder incident to the news, right? I am planning to do so... Tomorrow, I believe. But that cannot be the only plan, as you know, so..." Brown paused for a second, then stared back down at the rack of lamb, still yet to be butchered and baked.
"... Actually, fuck it. Let's just worry about dinner. And then maybe we can talk about it afterwards. I think that would be a better idea for now, otterface."
fun OC fact: Brown by far preferred savory foods over sweet ones. in fact, it was a major reason why she disliked fruits and berries so much. she could stomach baked goods, but they'd immediately get ditched if a more savory - preferably umami - option was available.
time for a somewhat long follow-up. Brown won't be very happy if she finds out her "friend" is familiar with a guy she fucking fought in a bar bdfvsdfvsdrfv-
Awkward introduction asides, her stay at the king's castle had been... Relatively uneventful. It was a double-edged sword for Brown, really. On one hand, she didn't have to deal with dying inside over Roswell finding her in such a pitiful state, with her sprained ankle and relative apathy towards kicking his ass. (She sure hoped the king hadn't contacted him about her little injury anyways. If he did, she'd try kicking both of their asses regardless of her ankle.) On the other hand, Brown definitely felt useless laying around in her recliner all day, and she sure as hell didn't appreciate the possibility of her muscles atrophying from inactivity.
Maybe that was why she agreed to this "bake" in the first place. But the middle-aged woman was also quick to regret her decision, because as soon as she saw the strawberries, she froze up and leered at them so intensely that the king commented upon it.
Turning to face him, Brown snarled, "Listen, as long as they fucking taste like fruit, I'm not having that shit." That doesn't excuse you from making them, but sure. She let out a sharp huff as she leaned herself against the counter and cupped a hand against her cheek. "I do not like fruit, just as a fun little fact. I was hoping we would be baking something more decadent, more... Chocolatey..." Way to make it subtle there, miss. Brown's eyes fluttered accordingly before she stood herself back up, leaning her weight onto her good leg, then focusing her glare on the king.
"I mean, the chefs had a point," sniffed the aristocrat with a roll of her eyes, "You're someone with a prestigious rank, huh? Then why not use it? I mean..." She allowed her fingers to gently rub against her cheek before looking off to the side. "... What is the point of having a chef if all you do is barge into their realm, their domain and do their work? It makes no sense, really..." If it didn't make her look almost like a total hypocrite in the process, sure. Brown was fine with that. She yawned and continued staying off to the side.
If he called her out, she'd just point at her ankle, and hopefully that'd be enough.
Brown did, however, raise a brow slightly when her host started to recount his story. Not that she'd normally give a shit anyways. Her teeth were still clenched even as there was no eye contact, and the woman contented herself with staying off to the side. It was for the best, really.
"I'm surprised he didn't fucking poison them," she muttered under her breath after a silence. Yikes.
She ran her fingers through her hair after that, opting to not say any more until the king brought up the rose his daughter had given her. Gee... the aristocrat thought with a sniff, before allowing her fingers to still and lay against her side. To be honest, trying to get that rose acclimated to the dusty soil of her home region was a pain in the ass; she literally had to try buying topsoil from one of the more humid areas of her region, and that agitated her so much that just remembering it made her pissed.
Harshly, she replied, "Well, don't be fucking surprised if she's wrong. She has no idea what she's getting into... And neither do you." Her voice softened for a second while Brown's scowl dissolved into a mere frown. "Seriously. There will be a time where you will regret asking me to make strawberry muffins, where your daughter will wish she never gave me that rose. To say that I have a soft spot is a huge misconception." In other words, Brown liked being edgy. Wonder what poor Roswell (as well as her not-children) had to say about that. "You're not going to try 'redeeming' me, are you? Because it's not happening. It's too late for that. Maybe it could've worked when I was younger-" Brown stopped to cup a hand over her mouth, lasting for a minute before she sighed and shook her head. Numbly, she then picked up the bowl of batter and started pouring it into the pans, just... Going through the motions, really.
"Never mind. What is worth knowing, though, is that I've made too many choices to go back on any of them. You and your daughter aren't going to make me nice just through the power of friendship, you know. It's not what I need, and frankly, it's not what I deserve either."
"You know, you don't have to help me with the baking," En said over his shoulder. "This recipe is simple enough for just one person. Besides," He smiled. "I think the strawberries will start to sour if you keep staring at them like that."
He took the small basket from her and washed the berries, making sure they were nice and clean before chopping them up. "It's not very normal for a noble and a king to be baking. Back when I first came back home, I would have to argue with the chefs endlessly to let me be in the kitchen, and now they've practically given up on keeping me out," he chuckled lightly. "When I was exiled I wanted to cook, because then at least I could be some help to my friends. And at some point I ran into a grouchy, cranky man--" Now that he thought about it, maybe En had a knack for meeting angry people. "--and he taught me how to make strawberry muffins. I could never copy it exactly like him. There was something about his that were amazing, and I think the fact that it came from someone so cold and distant like him added to that admiration." He dropped the slices and chunks into the batter then turned to face her. "I believe the same could be said about you. I know my daughter gave you one of the castle roses. She's never done that for anyone before. It shows me that she sees something in you, just like I did with the man that taught me this recipe. She sees something past your walls, something worth admiration and love. And maybe when she tastes a muffin made by someone so otherwise cold, she'll feel the same amazement I felt long ago," he smiled while handing her the batter to pour into the pans.
Zinnia wasn't sure who invited En in her house, but she was welcoming to him. Despite their awkward previous meeting, the two were able to bond in the kitchen.
"Heh, I don't really...bake...often. It's nice," she whispered, her lips curling into a smile as she poured the flour from the dry measuring cup to the bowl.
"In fact, I love baking a lot; I want to do it more often. Uh, how about you?" Zinnia maintained her focus on the older man's hands. After she finished watching him, Zinnia tilted her head back to the bowl.
"Heh, I know this is off topic, but do you prefer fruit or chocolate?" She inquired, focusing on scooping some sugar out of a bag.
"Fruit is good, but...I love chocolate. It's delicious—at least, I think it's delicious." Her smile grew wider as she leveled off the sugar using the flat edge of a butter knife.
"Oh—by the way, if you see Tortellini in here—the gray kitty—don't let her on the counter! She likes to knock stuff over the edge when she's hungry. She's a good kitty, but just—don't let her on the counter."
"My, my. What a lovely guest made their way to my house."
Reinherz tilt his head when seeing Zinnia. He keep a friendly space in order to not frightened the blonde girl. Then give a slight yet respectful bow to her as he smile.
"I hope you feel healthy and excited enough to take part in my cookery. If you don't, a comfortable place for little precious lady always is well-prepared to rest."
Then the tall man bring the measuring jug with egg yolks inside to his eyes view. To be honest, he enjoy cooking pretty much. After an inaudible short hum, he found that he was too focus on the eggs and it would be impolite to leave his guest in such a silent.
"Egg tart, always bring me back to Lisbon winter. I would be appreciate with my heart if you can be a dear and make some tea for our elevenses?"
Reinherz leaned down as he bring the little lady a small flower as his thanks in advance.
"It should be ready soon; I put it in almost thirty minutes ago." Ren assured her guest. It wasn't often she had new company, let alone someone as... tall, as Reinherz.
Ren had never considered herself a chef, and especially not a baker. She knew the bare basics, but her baking knowledge came from an internet search and the first link she clicked. Bread seemed like a good place to start. She could make toast, and what better way to start breakfast than with fresh baked bread and jam?
"I can make some tea, if you'd like." She offered, "I grow the herbs myself."
She felt a tinge of awkwardness run up her back. Did it the last bit sound like bragging?
She was grateful when the oven timer dinged and she had an excuse to turn away. However, when she pulled the bread pan out, it was quite a bit different than she pictured. It wasn't burnt or underbaked, just dense and dry.
"Measure by weight next time, not by volume..." She noted quietly.
Grace wasn't very talented at the kitchen. She wasn't sure if it was lack of practice - after all, she did practice a lot when she had free time - or if it was just her unlucky star playing yet another prank on her; for this reason, she felt a little nervous about baking with Ren. After all, this girl was younger than her, so the teacher wanted to make a good impression.
She opened a recipe book, and started browsing the pages, looking for something easy enough to bake - and stopped at a particular page. Cookies! Those would be easy to bake, right?
"How about some cookies?" She placed the book upright so she could fetch the ingredients and read it at the same time. "Let me see... Chocolate, eggs, flour and butter! I got everything here!" Grace placed the ingredients in the table and continued reading the recipe book. "So, I'll start mixing the ingredients."
Having troubles opening the packaging containing the flour, she put a bit more of force, and ended up ripping it. The flour flew to her face and to the ground. Grace blinked a few times and coughed, as if trying to figure out what went wrong.
...That was going to be a long day.
Perhaps the middle-aged man was agitated about having to bake with the teacher, let alone baking for... Anyone, really. Sweets were never his forte, both in terms of taste preferences and preparation; after all, he hired pastry chefs to deal with that for him for a reason, and he made sure to use copious amounts of them whenever an event was called for. It was for the best, really, considering that if he were in charge of any baking operation whatsoever, he would've probably caused the oven to explode a long time ago. (But don't tell him that; it'd bruise his ego too much.)
"She doesn't even like kids," griped Johnson while clutching a recipe book in his hands, "i don't even know why she'd consider this type of arrangement with you, especially considering how she treated her own daughter." Shut up, asshole. You could be called out for being accused for doing almost the same thing to your son, Johnson. He sniffed before continuing to grovel, "But I bet she didn't tell you that, and I heard that she was... A bit nice towards yourself last time? Scary as hell, but still nice." I wish the same could be applied to myself. Edgy. Gee.
His eyes seemed fixated on the pages that described the recipe they were currently trying to follow: apple pie. Johnson had never eaten apple pie before, but he heard Smith talking about it when giving something for their son to eat; he frowned in hindsight, concluding that this was some sort of childish dessert... Kitsch and for children. He wanted to flip to another page, then start sabotaging from there, but where would that lead him? To yet another ass-beating by a certain accused murderess? He sure hoped that the teacher didn't like Brown particularly much anyways, considering that the older woman had a habit of taking others under her wing, becoming so protective of them that it was only inevitable that they preferred her over anyone else... Especially those she considered inferior.
Especially Johnson.
He paced around the kitchen while drawling, "it says that you should be cook the apples in the sugar, to help caramelize their natural sugars a bit," and pointing a finger at the respective excerpt. "You shouldn't wait until after they're cooked-" Johnson stopped before placing the book down onto the counter and grimacing at whatever was going on. Even if the aroma was appetizingly sweet, Johnson didn't seem to care; this was more of a nuisance to him, and he just wanted to get the pie done with so that his friend wouldn't kick his ass into the sun. His eyes, of course, drifted over to the apples - since they were what he was referring to before, and-
"Oh."
For someone with no experience in pastries whatsoever, Johnson sure was convinced that the apples currently in the pan were utter mush, as he asked her, "Are... Are you sure that's edible? I mean... I'm sure kids don't like mush... Even if babies like it... I guess..." Goodness, just talking about this actually made him shudder, and he took several steps back. He wished he had his recipe book back too, just so he could stick his stupid nose in it and pretend that nothing was unfolding. "... You sure you're following this correctly? I can get the damn book for you if you want, you know."
if the "you are what you eat" proverb is true, Johnson's shitty attitude can be explained by the sheer lack of desserts in his diet.
here's a follow-up. cw for some low-key sexist stuff because Johnson is a piece of shit!!
"Cookies, huh?" he grunted to the young woman with a scowl. Like mother, like son apparently. Sure, the woman in question was more confident than the boy he had run into multiple times in the past, but for Johnson... They were still very much weak to him. Pitiful. Worthless.
Ew!
The middle-aged man sniffed while pacing around the kitchen in obvious agitation, "Every name sounds silly if you don't bother to look into it too much. That's how I feel about baking, or the culinary arts anyway. Who comes up with those names? Clearly not someone who's completely rational." He barked out a harsh laughter before stopping his tracks. There, he ran his fingers through his hair before giving the woman a leer. Something about her just... Seemed off, though he couldn't quite place his finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that she was so young yet already had a son... He frowned, remembering how his wife was around a similar age - or something like that - when her son was born.
That's right. Her son. Not his. The boy had disconnected himself from his father a long time ago, and there was nothing Johnson could do about it.
"I hope they're not making him silly, though," growled the aristocrat while stepping up to the book so that he could get a better look at its written contents. Not illustrated... Written. He scratched at his temples before adding, "You are what you eat, anyways. You eat healthy, you'll turn out that way. If not... That's only your problem." And in that regard, Johnson probably ate shit for all three meals of the day. Disgusting little bitch.
"Besides," he added with a wave of his hand, "Men like him should be rational. Women should too, of course, but there's a difference between their tendency to be more hysterical in the face of danger, and men being, well... Less prone to that sort of thing. Yet from what I know of him, he acts like a woman. A damn girl. It's insulting, really, but it's true." Ew again! Why the fuck was he invited here in the first place? Johnson, of course, didn't care because he genuinely believed he was right. He sniffed and ran his fingers through his hair before heaving out a sigh.
And - alas - he didn't seem too interested in the anecdote either, merely huffing, "Well, that's inevitable. That's why you shouldn't baby them. You'll only get hurt more when they inevitably drift away from you." How poetic, in actuality... Johnson's scowl softened for the briefest second before it hardened back up, and he shook his head. "That's just how it works, really. Why bring him up in the first place, though? Didn't you say you were going to cook something for me?" He paused and traced his foot against the floor as he carefully scrutinized the woman, then took the book. Flipping through the pages, Johnson couldn't help but think that pretty much all of these recipes looked... The same to him. He bet they tasted the same too, that eating the results of one recipe meant eating those of all of them... Johnson frowned and shook his head.
"If you say so. And... I can just go for the savory food. Trust me on this. I don't even like sugar. I don't know what your son told you, but it's wrong." Gee.
Taking a step forward, Johnson growled while pointing a finger at her, "Besides, I didn't even want to be here in the first place. If I had any choice in this, I would've joked about the ice pick a long time ago." Oh! Yikes! Yet Johnson meant it, as an ominous, contemptuous glint appeared in his eyes. A shitty look for a shitty man - how unsurprising.
Gonna test out a new character yayayayay
"My son loves...these kinds. The cookies...the ones with the silly names," Kiko muttered, her lips curling into a smile as she tapped a finger against a bookmarked page. Her expression seemed to soften more as her finger slightly traced one of the images.
"He would always get so excited when I told him I made them when he was just this tiny, little boy. Now, he just...sits in his room. That's okay; he needs his space, but I can't help but miss that excitement sometimes." she continued, her smile briefly faltering before tilting her head back over to Johnson.
"Ooh, but we aren't cooking for him; we're cooking for you! Here, you can choose if you like!" Kiko's grin abruptly returned as soon as she handed her book over to him.
"Though, I just have one tiny request. Can you...help me read the book? I can barely read any English. Usually, I have Aiden read the words to me but, as you can see...he is not here. Speaking of Aiden, I'm glad he had me reach out to you. Hopefully we get along well, sir. Anyways, what do we need?"
"So your son likes cookies too? Guess it's not a surprise, lots of kids love cookies. Mine do too, but just a grain of sugar can get them jumping off the walls, ho ho h-- er-hmm, uh, heh." Gil cleared his throat to keep himself from chuckling. His kids drove him crazy, but thinking about them always warmed his heart.
"Don't worry about having to read the directions, I have a spin on this one that I know by heart by now. It was actually my grandpa's recipe, he was a wizard at these kinds of things," he smirked before it turned sad. Part of him felt guilty for being here baking when he could be dedicating more time to finding the killer.
He shook his head to clear his mind. "Anyways, these are pretty thick peanut butter cookies. We'll make some for the PTA meeting coming up, then make extras for our kids. Thanks for helping me with this, by the way. It's nice having someone try to bake instead of fighting me to eat the dough. Plus, nobody at the PTA ever believes me when I say I baked everything. Hopefully they'll believe it better after you tell them."
Graak planted her butcher knife in the carrot. Shredding it to tiny snippets. "I bet you didn't expected me cooking, when you so ruthlessly bargained into my estate. Mister detective?" She said without looking up. The corners of her mouth tugged when Gill asked her, how she knew he was a detective. "Simple," she said. As she finally looked up, Graak pointed her knife at the small old dachshund in the corner of the room. "Benvolio has a strange fondness for deputies, he barks at everything and everyone except the fuzz. Especially the ones going rogue."
Benvioli wiggled its small tail. With his head on his paws he stared wide-eyed at Gill, oh boy he did he like the anti-hero police!
With the knife in hand, Graak paused. Her eyes studied the younger detective and a small frown knotted her brow. "Mister, Walker.. I guess. If that's true, I knew you're grandfather. I was quite fond of the man, you look a lot like him. Bet you hear that a lot. Now deary, please be so kind and give me the salt." She smiled when he, quite awkwardly, did so. "Thank you sweetheart." Graak shoved the shaker among the other herbs and spices she laid out. 4 eggs, milk, puff pastry but also thyme and basil. "But no, mister detective. I don't know which crook you're looking for but I can assure you I'm not sheltering them here. Nor do I have any information about them. I've been cooking, for the past 2 weeks." She smiled as she started to cut the carrot again. "I've been focused on this quiche competition, that takes place next week. I want to win," she told him. Graak hacked the butcher's knife in the carrot. "If I don't win," she paused. Letting her words linger without a conclusion. But oh boi, heads will roll.
"I want to win with talent, not wit influence. That's why I've been baking these quiches for weeks now," Graak said. "Practice, mister detective, makes perfect."
Graak twirled the knife before continuing : "I give them away, an old lady like me can stomach so many quiches before she gets tired of them. I give them to the poor and sick." (most notaboly: The Kraker's gespan). "But, if you want to stay and help me bake who knows," a smile lingered around Graak's lips. "Who knows. Maybe I let you have a slice."
--
agsggegegeg I'm dying
Graak pointed at the recipe paper: "this recipe is mine, " she said before pointing outside at a small triangle sign. "And this triagonal sign, " she pointed again. "That blue balloon. The month of fantasy june
They're mine mine mine mine mine."
What in the fuck was Hmmm doing here?
Well, for one thing, if there was anything Hmmm knew how to do it was baking a pretty cake. It was a piece of cake, baking a pretty cake! Likely, Graak already knew how, too, but when Hmmm had pulled over in its massive generic blue mom van, it had initially assumed the way was hazy. Yeah. From its hellish cupboard Hmmm retrieved a recipe, so that the two could succeed in cooking by the book. It was important to follow the instructions, for one knows that one musn't be lazy. What? Likewise, upon inspection, the instructions seemed quite tidy and well-measured. A messy recipe must never be used, thought Hmmm, the cake will end up crazy. What!? Hmmm slammed a huge empty bowl on the kitchen table, mixing spoon in its mouth, 100% prepared to do the cooking by the book with its new dubiously kidnaped friend, when suddenly...
Hmmm broke it down, bitch. Let me see you back it up. Hmmm threw the egg carton open and dropped that ass down low, picking that motherfucker back up with its buttcheeks. It cracked the eggs with its hyper-strength butt skills into the bowl. It was so good. Hmmm glanced over its shoulders at Graak, wiggling its eyebrows as it backed a cat towards her, teasing a motherfucker. That pussy was backed! Where did this cat come from?
This was so easy. It really was a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake. Oh yeah! Not a haze fell over its ways. Yeah! Never once observed to be lazy, it took hold of the book by which it cooked. Hmmm rubbed the recipe all up in Graak's grill, howling like a mutt on a chain as if to brag to her how unmessy this recipe really was. The perfection of this cake-in-gestation was a standard higher than previously thought to be attainable. There was no possible outcome in this mortal coil that could result in the cake ending up crazy. Yeah! Yet, something had seemed off. If only Hmmm had done the cooking completely by the book, them maybe, they'd have a...
Hmmm sunk its hands into the frosting, rubbing that shit, its yours, bitch. It grabbed this dick, and told Graak, "It's yours, bitch!" But, before she could take it, Hmmm slapped its ass down on top of it and ground it into a paste on the floor. Miraculously, the squashed pastry began to multiply, flooding the kitchen with a typhoon of crushed traditional British pudding. There was custard flowing freely from the sink.
Careening down a river of custard and mashed dessert, Hmmm held Graak tight like it was the last time it would ever see the light of day. Maybe, Hmmm thought, it wasn't a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake. It was difficult to do the cooking by the book, like this. It was weird, because Hmmm was actively making an effort not to be lazy. What? The issue might've been the recipe, but Hmmm recalled as it was ejected from its house with Graak that it hadn't used a messy one, so it perplexed Hmmm that the cake had already ended up crazy. But, woefully, Hmmm had to admit it had yet to do the cooking entirely by the book. It hadn't even gotten the chance the pile on the candy...
This custard was mean; It was clean. It was squirting from Hmmm's house windows like cream. The whole place used to smell like baby wipes, but now it smells like sardines. As Hmmm cried out, holding Graak by the wrist and gripping a nearby lamp post as a river of British delights flowed like a vile river of death. This would never fucking end. A vortex formed in the custard, ballerinaing the spotted dick pudding as it spun. It fucked this neighborhood up so good, it didn't swallow just one block, rather, Hmmm speculated it had swallowed ten!
But thankfully, Hmmm had remembered a crucial detail: Food was just like science. From a pocket in its pants Hmmm produced tools that blended and baste (let's go!), for everyone knew that every fun appliance (what?!) gave the food a different taste!
Using an eggbeater as a set of propeller blades, Hmmm deftly rescued Graak and itself from the custard hole, proving that truly it was a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake. Clear as day, Hmmm and Graak would return to the desolated home. They gotta have it made! You know that Hmmm loved cake, and maybe Graak did too. Finally, no more nonsense, it was time to bake a cake. Triumphantly, Hmmm found the mixing bowl past the treacherous flow of Teletubby custard. It pointed a toe at the woman as it wrestled itself free from the knee-deep pudding tirade, begging for her to find the recipe paper. After all...
... You've gotta do the cooking by the book!
(enhance your reading experience by playing LazyTown - Cooking By The Book Ft. Lil Jon And Cupcakke while viewing)