(IC) Your OC bakes with the OC above

Posted 3 years, 8 months ago by salternate

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.

Dolores (Human) kafkaesque

Unlike pretty much anyone else on these slopes, Dolores was more than happy to let this creature called "Hmmm" inside her house. Sure, it may have been due to the obligations set forth by the rules of hospitality, but the elderly woman really didn't want to see it that way; she wanted to believe that it was from the utmost generosity of her heart, and it was actually genuine! Though its appearance unnerved her to no end, she was more concerned about it freezing to death than horrifying any of the neighbors by hosting such a... Surreal creature in her household.

Loneliness sucked.

She ignored her dog scuffling in her bedroom in favor of humming, "I hope you're in the mood for... Baking, right? I do have some leftover ingredients from when I was trying to bake cake for one of my customers in the lowlands, and... I don't want the ingredients to go to waste." With a nervous chuckle, she rubbed the back of her neck. Goodness, did Hmmm haunt her to some degree. What if it didn't like sweets? Could it even understand what she was saying? It seemed sapient, but she could never be sure - not when she was continually questioning herself all the time - this being no exception (and perhaps one of the most egregious examples out there).

"... I hope chocolate cake isn't something that bothers you," Dolores finally blurted after what seemed like several minutes of silence (except for her dog shuffling around the locked room like there was no tomorrow). At least she hadn't actually started baking yet. That would've actually been a disaster in the making.

"I mean..." the elderly woman added further while walking back to the counter, where the usual ingredients lay, "Even if you like chocolate, I know the particularly intense varieties can be off-putting. The cacao flavor can be so strong and bitter that it repulses more people than it attracts. I was actually a bit surprised that my customer valued the ninety-percent cacao portions so highly. I tasted a portion of it myself, and it was so bitter that I almost... I almost threw the whole thing out." She frowned, then looked down at the portions in question. Would it do her some good to try it out on Hmmm?

Apparently so, because Dolores took a piece out of the plastic bag, then walked over to where it was and offered it. As a treat. Then the elder took a step back, anticipating the latter's reaction. Hopefully it wasn't too averse... She sure as hell wasn't eating it herself if it didn't like it. (And no, she wasn't going to feed Poffin that either. What the fuck?)

With a nervous laugh, Dolores suggested while wringing her hands together, "We can bake something different if you want, actually. Or maybe we don't even have to go for the sweet route. If you want to go savory, that's okay too. As long as you're content. You seem starving anyways... Please don't try to eat any of the furniture while I'm busy making your food."

wholesome food? in MY FEED??? hell yea.... thank you salter for the wholesome content. here is my follow-up.

Humming under her breath, the older woman could only conjure up the tune to a lullaby featuring bees and flowers - a remnant from her days back in the lowlands. The notes were all bittersweet, though Dolores sure hoped that the bitter component wouldn’t infect her demeanor or the dish she was about to create: cream puffs.

When was the last time she even made a cream puff? They were normally reserved for the rich anyway, because of the level of technique involved in making one - let alone an entire batch - and yet… Here she was, engaging in sacrilege by making a pastry meant for the cream of the crop, in her rustic little home up in the mountains, where the only guest in her house was a puppy who had been dropped off there by her parents while they went off shopping. Dolores didn’t exactly buy the reasoning, but…

Hey. She wasn’t one to judge. Or question, for that matter. She wasn’t supposed to, anyway.

The elder ceased humming just to listen to the puppy giggle and play around with the bag of flour. Oh goodness, back in the lowlands… This would’ve caused a bunch of uptight rich folk to shit themselves in absolute horror. One wasn’t supposed to be making a rich dessert for just a commoner! And children weren’t allowed in the kitchen! They weren’t supposed to be playing with the ingredients and causing a mess! Yet Dolores minded none of it… At least for the most part, until she glanced over at the flour-covered toddler.

“It really is,” remarked the elder with a giggle, as she finished preparing the cream that was to serve as the filling. She bit back a grimace, thanks to years of conditioning that made her treasure cleanliness, but… Come on. The guest was a child. The least she could do was- “Aie!”

The puppy started to roar, proclaiming herself as the flour monster, or something along those lines. Dolores wanted to play along, but that apparently ended up getting taken seriously, as the puppy’s spirit deflated not long after. The elder’s smile faded as she glanced around, then started to reassure the other:

“It’s fine, really. You didn’t actually scare me, and…” Dolores glanced over at the trails the white powder had left behind from all that harmless frolicking. “... I can clean it up later.”

She then turned her attention back to the counter as she added more ingredients, most likely towards a fruit compote that was to accompany the puffs. It was a questionable choice in hindsight given how expensive fruit was becoming, but alas… After drizzling some honey into the mixture bowl, Dolores turned over to the puppy with a smile, though this one was a bit more strained than before. Saudade was a bitch.

“Well, it’s not really the fun type of snow that you can roll around in,” she admitted with a sheepish chuckle, “A lot of it comes in the form of snowstorms and the like. It’s not fun. There’s so much wind and snow everywhere…” The old woman shuddered, unsure of how far to go with her description. “... It’s… It’s really not as nice as it sounds. It’s very cold when that happens. Far too cold for someone as young as yourself, and as old as myself, hm?” Sure. Good enough. Hopefully.

Summer salternate

It's revival time, claiming kafkaesque

With a burst of giggling, Summer wriggled her nubby fingers around. She watched intently as the powder that had accidentally poured on top of her hand slide off with every squirm her fingers made.

"Agh, it's everywhere! It's everywhere!" the toddler squeaked.

"I'm gonna be a—I'll be—I, uh—I'll become a flour monster! Roar! Roar!" Upon hearing the elder party speak, Summer flinched, sending whatever powder was left on her hand flying in a small, white puff.

"Oh, I'm sorry miss...miss Dolly," Summer muttered in a defeated manner. She then returned her hand back onto the top of the counter, watching Dolores intently as she began adding more ingredients.

"You said that this is...this is a snow city, right? I bet it's fun having snow days every day. Uhm, well, is it?"

Ethan Wilhelm PicklePantry

"Okay, cool! It's just cookies from scratch, shouldn't be too hard, huh?" Ethan smiled down at Summer. Granted, he'd never made it from scratch before, and he wasn't even sure who this child is and why they were baking together, but he shrugged it all off as a dream and therefore something he couldn't possibly mess up.
So! Some flour here, some sugar there, a little of this, a little of that and... cool! There's the dough! He got Summer to help him cut the cookies out, with her getting to pick which shaped cookie cutters to use. They made about twenty before putting it in the oven.
DIIING!
"Ooh, they're ready!" Ethan beamed excitedly as he pulled them out... Huh. They looked... off. Maybe because neither of them were professionals at this?
After about ten minutes of waiting, he picked the first one up. "Let's see how it ended up!" he said while splitting it in half for the both of them. He took a bite... and instantly cringed. Oh God... OH GOD! This was horrible! It was WAY too salty! But how could--
Wait.
Salty.
Could it be...? That sugar he poured in...?
His face a mixture of disgusted, embarrassed, and panicked, he looked at Summer and quickly snagged the cookie out of her hand before she could eat it. "I'm sorry!" he stammered. "These, uh, w-we can't eat them yet! We need... milk! Yeah! C-Can't have cookies without milk, right?! L-Let's go pick some up real quick, okay?"
Oh God, how's he going to fix all of this?

Mary fizzelston

"In sorry that you tripped over my sheep," Mary let out a soft chuckle. "It was..kinda funny though, but I can imagine it happening with all this mist around," she paused.
"You're quite..unlucky aren't you?" She wrung her hands together.
"I don't of course mean that with disrespect but, straining your ankle and ending up here is," the tentacles behind her had shifted oh so slightly, "quite unlucky. B..but not in the way you think!"
Mary tried to smile, but just like Jack, her smiles were droopy and small. Like someone stepped on their toe.
"I'm making some stew, that's the unlucky part I talked about, as I'm not a good chef," she said. Apologetic by she pointed at the small fire pit and the settle on top of it. The water inside was already boiling.

"I can always use an extra hand," she said. Having a lot amount of extra 'hands' wasn't enough for good old Mary it seems.
"If you don't mind.."
Ethan didn't. What a relief!
"If you can cut the onions, I'll peel the potatoes," she hummed. She got up out of the grass and dusted most of the leaves and plucked grass (Mary plucked the grass blades when she was nervous) of her dress.
"I hope you don't mind eating only vegetables. I'm not comfortable with eating meat," she said.

The two of them worked hard. Cutting all kinds of vegetables, carrots, garlic, and mushrooms and both boiled it with the herbs and potatoes Mary had prepared. She dug around in her traveling gear to find a second bowl-like plate and handed it to Ethan with another of her careful smiles. "It smells delicious innit?" She asked while scooping some of the thick stew onto his plate. Mary then took some for herself and started to spit through her stuff again. This time for bread and soft sheep-cheese. That she also cut and handed to Ethen. "If you don't like it, don't be shy okay," she said. "You can always feed it to the sheep."

--
Hello yes I'm here

Nervously Mary plucked some lose strains of her hair. "I did, didn't I? Well.. We did," she correct herself without explaining what she meant with 'we'. A bit cryptic but okay.
Mary smiled when Rochester mentioned spot. When the gastropod wiggled his antennae, Mary waved back. Obviously, Mary could listen to Rochester's talk about Spot all day everyday. But the question about baking something reminded Mary why she searched for the misanthropist in the first place... Tart. Fruit tart to be exact.
"Oh yes, I," she wringed her hands.. "It is a specialty of my village, we use to make such tarts in fall.. I dearly misses them," Mary said. She smiled. "So I thought, maybe you could get me some fruits, I got everything we need for dough. Even some eggs."

Mary peeked over her shoulder into her bag. Her eyes widen by the sight of so many types of different fruits. Grapes, apples.. Fruits she didn't even know! Oh.. It had been so long. She blinked a couple times then laughed. A sound that often got described as glass. Breakable, but crystal clear. "I've got this recipe for the tarts," she said. "I can give it too you after we're done here. As I doubt I'll be able to bake one of these tarts without your help," Mary continued. "I don't want it to go to waste. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's recipe you know. He was a pretty good baker." Mary set down her leathery travel-bag next to Rochester's researcher's bag.
She plucked the recipe out of one of the front pockets. Eggs and glass bottles of (sheep)milk, unsalted sheep butter, and an old package containing flower followed soon. One of the wisp-creatures Mary called her friends carried saddlebags where Mary unpacked the cooking materials, bowls and spades. She was so excited as she set the materials down in order from largest to smallest. What a nerd Mary was.
"Oh sure," she said. Giving the wisp-creature a soft pet on its scary snout before picking up one of the milk bottles. Holding it out (with one of her armtentacles) into Rochester's direction. "You should try it though, before we start baking," she chattered. "It's way softer then cowmilk," she said. "a bit more creamlike! You're going to love it!"

Rochester (Middle-Aged) kafkaesque

- I am late as per usual with these, but.... please know I'd die for Mary and her ongoing friendship with Rochester.... 🥺❤️

Spot squeaked at Mary while Rochester pulled out a bag of fruits from her traveling pack and remarked wryly, "You know, miss, you were not kidding when you said you would find me again... Or was it vice versa? I don't remember. I doubt it matters, either. At least you and Spot seem to be getting along fine." Ah yes, the one reliable indicator of whether someone was trustworthy or not: whether the individual in question got along with Rochester's beloved pet sea slug. That was exactly why Rochester vibed with Mary, but not Jack. Hmm...

The gastropod, of course, gurgled while his owner pulled out a slice of watermelon, broke off a piece, and offered it to her pet. With another squeak, he took up the piece before looking over at the shepherd with a slight wiggle of his antennae.

"But enough about the sea slug, as much as I can go on and on about him for days at end," sniffed the scientist with a slight laugh before seating herself on a nearby tree stump, "I heard that you want to... Try baking something? It's... Probably a specialty back from your village, yes?" Her words were parsed carefully, almost as if she knew that this was sensitive territory. Would stepping on the wrong side of the fence cause her to get pummeled or strangled by a tentacle? Rochester wasn't averse to marine life by any means, but that did sound like an unpleasant way to go.

After a period of likely tense silence, she set down the bag and opened it, to reveal a medley of fruits she had brought over for either snacking or baking - depending on Rochester's mood and her mood only. Grapes, blueberries, strawberries... Hell, there was even a mango or kiwi thrown in there somewhere, though the middle-aged scientist was likely determined to have those remain as a snack; they were likely too rare and expensive around these parts to make a decent tart.

Fruit tarts... pondered Rochester for a moment, before she grunted, "Not that I was ever that... Up-to-date with my adaptation exercises, unfortunately. Those tend to end in disaster, as far as I am concerned." If you say so, edgy misanthropist. "And I am too enmeshed in my research as well," admitted the scientist while casually swinging her prosthetic foot in the air, "I barely have any interests beyond what is relevant to my field, and I find that the most unfortunate thing of them all: narrow-mindedness. I've always wanted to cook, really, especially since I live by myself much of the time-"

She paused. For a moment, the scientist thought she could feel a dull, throbbing pain pulsating through the side of her head, but she reckoned that it might've been just one of those stress-related aches she had every so often.

"You have the ingredients to make the dough, right?" Rochester asked Mary, in an attempt to change the subject, "Though admittedly, I have never tried anything from sheep's milk before... It is not common where I am from. Cows tend to be more common, I believe. Just... Give me a moment-" She pulled out a blueberry and tossed it in Spot's direction, with the slug biting onto it with glee. "If this headache goes away, maybe I can try taking notes on your sheep after this tart shit is done with... I hate for all the fruit to go to waste, you know."

follow-up time. in this house, rusty uses their Food Network knowledge to bullshit their way through technical cooking details.

Not paying attention to the middle-aged feline standing nearby, Rochester scanned the recipe before nodding to herself. All of this made sense, right? She added flour, sugar, some yeast, eggs, milk… Her eyes narrowed for a moment before she clicked her tongue against her palate and crossed her arms together.

Something about this didn’t seem right, and yet the middle-aged scientist didn’t know what. Great.

“Too much flour?” reiterated Rochester before finally turning to face the cat with a frown, “What do you mean by that? Usually folks put in too little flour, and then all you get is a soupy mess. Flour is prime thickener, you know. Causes shit to seize up without making it, well, taste weird.” She paused before shuffling her foot against the floor. “Though I have to admit that it does make the meal rather powdery and gravely if you put too much of it…” And that, unfortunately, was one of the worst culinary feelings Rochester could get.

Too bad that it happened to her more often than not.

Instinctively perking up when the other mentioned dough, she sniffed, “Oh, come on. Some flour in the bread isn’t that apocalyptic of a choice. It adds extra…” Rochester paused, snapping her fingers while trying to come up with the right words. “An extra umph to it, I guess,” grunted the scientist with a shrug, “I guess that’s how it works. Now would you stop nagging? I have work to do, apparently.” Enjoy your shitty food then, asshole.

But the middle-aged woman supposed that this was probably better than the hardtack she sometimes ate when traveling. Holy fuck, did hardtack make her die inside. But it was cheap, and so she had a lot of them. Spot didn’t like it either. That’s how she knew it was shit-tier food.

She ignored the other party’s venting in favor of working on that dough, grunting while she attempted to roll the monstrosity into shape. Layer this, spread out that. It was going to take a while with no rolling pin and only one set of hands. And god, imagine the hygiene problem that could result from this…

Her eyes narrowing, Rochester sniffed, “Children in general are like that sometimes. Trust me. Personal experience.” Not really, but sure. Rochester supposed that even adults could act like children if they were “stupid” enough, and considering that she often acted as mother figure to much of them… That was pretty unfortunate!

What was also unfortunate was the missing bread - apparently - as Rochester plucked bits of dough from her fingers and gazed at the other party.

“Hm?” she remarked before shrugging, “Yes, I did bring in the recipe. Thank you for asking. I find it practical to be rather… Meticulous with what you have and do not have, to be honest with you.” And as if she wanted to prove her point, the scientist nudged a sheet of paper forward that apparently contained the desired recipe. The writing on it was bland as all hell, but hey. It was a recipe, not a story or essay; Rochester supposed that it could suffice for now, and she was okay with that.

Saffron salternate

With a chuff sounding from the feline, Saffron pointed her chin upwards as she sniffed the air.

"Mmh, too much flour," the feline stated, the corners of her mouth briefly twitching as she glanced at the surface of the counter. She tilted her head so that she could glance at the younger party. With another twitch of her nose, Saffron allowed her ear to flick rapidly.

"Heck, I rarely even bake, and this...are you sure you want some dough with that flour?" the feline joked, her squashed muzzle twitching as she resisted the urge to let out a chortle. After listening to Rochester speak, Saffron craned her head to glance out the window.

"Urgh, I should have just went out to get groceries myself. Knowing Cinnamon, she's gonna get so sidetracked. Last week, I had to pick her up from the supermarket because she picked a fight with a—her words, not mine—'stupid ass ratfink'. Never got to see the dude so that I could apologise. That child is uncontrollable, I swear." After glancing back down at the counter, the feline abruptly raised her hands.

"Oh, the bread! I almost forgot about the bread! Oh, my goodness, forgive me for that silly rant. Anyways, you brought the recipes, correct? Which one are we doing?"

Roswell van Breek fizzelston

What's more scandalous then marrying a dog-person? You guessed it. Baking with a well known thief. Scones with butter and jam. That's what they were trying to make.
While the stove was heating up, Roswell focused on the self-raising flower. He tipped it in a large bowl, adding some baking powder and salt to the mix.
"Bein' a parent is 'ard hu," Roswell said. While mixing the ingredients in his bowl. "Can yer pass me de butter? Aye thanks." Roswell dumped some of it in the bowl while mixing. "Oi know all about it." Sure you do.
"Oi've got two," Roswell said while stirring. "A boy 'nd a girl," he continued. Halting his stirring oh so slightly, as if the vulnerability of the conversation only now became known to him. "They are foine kids. Bit troubled," Roswell said. Rolling his shoulders in a half shrug. While adding the sugar Saffron heated the milk.
"Oi want ter protect dem. But oi nu oi 'ill in me won't be able too." Roswell said. "Besides, they are adults so oi shouldn't worry ter much aboyt dem," he peaked over his bowl at his cooking partner. A small frown on his face.
"From what oi've 'eard yer kids don't have it easy either," Roswell said. "Whaat do yer do... To 'elp them?" Wow, Roswell? Asking advice. This is spicy.

When Saffron spoke, Roswell grimaced. Looks like his family wasn't the only broken family in this neighborhood. "Sorry," he simply said. "Oi did not know." His gaze felt back to the bowl he was mixing. With his fingers he made a small well in the dried mixed and instructed Saffron to poor the milk mixed with: vanilla extract and lemon, in there. Before mixing it all together again. They dredge the dough with flower, folding it into small packages. Over and over again until the packages got the shape of scones.
"Yer know I never wanted dis," he finally said. "Not the Scones, I mean, a family," he said. Roswell wrinkled his nose. For a split second it seemed like he wanted to spit on the ground but he didn't. "But oi'm glad Oi got it anyway. Roi," Roswell picked up the plate with the unbaked Scones and shrugged. "These are ready for bakin' don't yer think." Roswell said before shoving the plate into the oven. "Oi 'ope yer kids loike them."

--
OH NO wraith I'm so sorry, Ros is NOT a good cook

"A spoon," he repeated patiently. "It doesn't 'ave de pointy edges and innit a knoiveh," Roswell said. He softly rubbed his chin and smiled slightly as Wraith gave him the spoon.
"Well first, we're not gonna eat rats," Roswell couldn't suppress a shiver. The thief had lived with little money too, knew hunger, but never did eating rats cross his mind.... Ok maybe once but he was young and stupid back then. A frown formed between Roswell's brows, a bit like Wraith now.. Maybe, Roswell liked the kids so much because he saw fragments of himself in him. Including the rat eating.
"But yer should try froid rat once, it's quite okay." Roswell said. What a great father figure he was!? "But today were makin' sandcookies. Easy as pie, I mean cookie," Roswell said with a quick smile. "Even we can make it... Or at least Oi hope."
Roswell grabbed his bowl and broke the eggs. He gave Wraith a stern gaze as the youth suggesting raw egg. Nope. Not while Roswell was here. Butter and sugar followed quick. He let Wraith do the stringing, while watching closely over the shifter's shoulders.
"Aye," he said. "loike dat. Until it all looks mixed," Roswell nodded approvingly. They then rolled the dough in two logs and lay them to cool in Roswell's small icebox. It was a cabinet cramped in the already small kitchen. In it lay real ice. Big chunks of channel ice that were sawed of in the winter and put in the isolated 'cabinet' to keep products cool. (Tfw no fridges.) Sawing ice was a illegal though. It was expected that people bought their ice-blocks on the market, but have you seen Roswell...? Of course he would steal ice.

When the dough got it's hardened shape the two of them rolled them out. Roswell grabbed his cookie cutters, in the form of hearts and stars. He gave the stars too Wraith, while he self pressed out the heart shaped cookies. What a dork.
The left over dough got mashed together, rolled out and pressed some more cookies out of. No crumb get wasted in Roswell's house it seems.
"Roi now it needs to stand in the stove for, roughly a 12 minutes," Roswell said. As he shoved the plate with the unbaked cookies in his coal-stove. "What can go wrong." Famous last words for disaster.

Wraith Stormheart SpiritdragonRyuu

Wraith had to admit he felt rather out of place in a kitchen, he didn't know the first thing about cooking or baking, he had never done it in his life. The shifter shifted his weight from one foot to the other and scratched the back of his neck a few times. "I....err.....I don't know how.....to cook...or bake...." He said quietly feeling quite awkward about the whole situation, he didn't understand what half of the ingredients were, sugar, butter, baking soda, flour, all things Wraith had never heard of let alone seen in person. Upon seeing the thief look at him with.....shock?.......Wraith explained. "I....don't own a kitchen, I live in the only structurally safe room in a abandoned building, I never cooked in my life......I don't think I've ever had a cooked meal in my life actually...or.....freshly baked foods......I just live off you know, raw rats, pigeons, food in bins, though the food in the bins are a bit slimy so I tend to stick to animals I can catch and eat raw, you know...." Wraith looked at Roswell who was still staring at him. ".....is that weird?" He asked.

After a few minutes of taking Roswell asked for Wratih to pass a spoon to him, the shifter looked down at the various equipment on the counter. Right....a spoon.....a spoon......what the fuck is a spoon? Wraith thought as he studied each piece of cooking equipment. "Err....here..." He said grabbing a fork and handing it to Roswell. Was that right? By the look on Roswell's face, it wasn't right. Dammit! Wraith thought, before passing over a baking tray. Surely he was right this time.........nope. He had given Roswell four different incorrect equipment before Wraith sighed, his shoulder slumping in defeat. "What.......what's a spoon?" He asked wanting to blend into the shadows of the kitchen and never come out. Was he really that out of touch with living a typical domestic life? He certainly had a a lot to learn and he knew his pride was going to take one hell of a blow in the process.

------------------------------------

Where Wraith's artist side shows itself xD

Follow Up:

Wraith scratched the back of neck, he wasn't so sure about this, the weird dough was suppose to make something edible, was he serious? His honey brown eyes scanned the counter top before looking at M. Pourife. "I......I don't know what these.....cookies.....are....but...I can try to help.....I guess." He muttered quietly before looking around the kitchen. When he looked back up at M. Pourife, he saw the older man was going over to the knife block and visable flinched when the other man approached him with one. Wraith's muscles tensed up and he took a few steps back, he pose dropping into a defensive stance. He blinked when the man held the knife for him to take. "Erm.....yeah I know how to use one......oh....as in to help cook with.....err.....I imagine it's the same?" He hesitantly replied.

The shifter had to admit, he felt uncomfortable holding the very thing which had hurt him so many times in the past; he faintly felt the scar over his eyes begin to itch and burn. Shaking his head slightly he tried to push down the sickening churning in his stomach. With his spare hand he quickly wiped some sweat from his brow before starting to make shapes in the dough trying his best to forget he was holding a knife. However he was getting so lost in his art work that he only did one shape, a very detailed skull to be fair, but only one shape regardless. M. Pourife had managed to make a pile of shapes by the time Wraith finished his single one.

"Oh.....are they not suppose to be detailed?" He asked confused as he looked down at the one he made, despite being made from dough, the skull looked scarily realistic and nothing at all like a cookie in the making.

M. Pourife (Human) kafkaesque

M. Pourife, with much effort, managed to slap down a whole ass package of cookie dough onto the counter before... Staring at it. Because he was a miserable motherfucker who neither knew what Halloween or baking were. He stared at the premade dough for about a minute, before starting to scrape off a piece with his finger. Ew? What the fuck?

And then he nibbled at it, then chapped his lips. Disgusting.

"You know," he mused once he nudged the dough off to the side and brushed his hands, "I am not a baker." Well... Duh. "But I know a decent amount of my interns like sweets, and I believe they would appreciate the treat from their employer." He cocked his head at the other party, before starting to chuckle. "Would you find that agreeable? Besides, this is a pretty easy way to get the task completed. The ingredients have already been assembled, so now I have to just... Cut the cookies out, then put them in the oven, then-" M. Pourife paused for dramatic effect, then flashed his hand out. "Voila! Cookies!"

Too bad he was convinced that it was easier said than done, as the scientist stared at the other party with a sheepish grin, then silently walked over to the block where the knives were kept, before taking out the one he always used: one with a stupidly dull blade and probably the only one he had even used ever since buying the damn thing in the first place. From there, M. Pourife awkwardly held out the knife to the other party while trying not to die inside over the possibility of the knife slipping and slicing his hand.

"I... I assume you know how to use this, right?" he asked while trying to ignore how awkward he sounded, "I mean... Not as a weapon, of course. As... As a way to cut out the cookies." His eyes drifted over to the mottled brown dough before sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. "- Normally, you would use these molds to cut out the cookies in the shapes you want, and I would try doing so for the sake of harvest season, but..." The middle-aged man shook his head. "... I do not have the molds. They look unprofessional, and I believe a hand-cut cookie would give a better impression."

There's a reason why the cookiecutters exist, sir.

His grin growing by the second, M. Pourife sniffed, "So... How about it? We should get this out of the way as soon as possible. You know, before the situation gets worse." Like slicing your hand with the knife? He sniffed. "This is probably the hardest part anyway," he attempted to reassure the other with a grin, "I mean... Watching cookies bake is pretty easy, mm? I can get some other additives for these cookies while you ut them out, in fact..." And they'd probably be shitty ones, because M. Pourife wasn't really a cook. Hope his interns weren't culinary experts.

M. Pourife can make a cake sometimes.... as a treat. follow-up time, my dudes.

Great. More food for M. Pourife to absolutely fucking decimate.

It was too bad that he used some of that grant money to buy some cake dough, having learned nothing from last time, huh… The bar, however, remained low. As long as he didn’t scrape it with his nail and eat it raw, everything would be okay, because he wouldn’t get food poisoning, and he wouldn’t be an additional burden on his interns-

Yada, yada, yada…

“Yes, he… He would be correct,” replied the scientist with the slightest stammer in his voice, if only because he remembered looking up at the muscular fellow and immediately dying inside. If anything, M. Pourife’s safety was at stake! He wasn’t strong in the arms or upper body, and he had a weakened leg… “I usually leave the cooking to my interns, and I do have enough money to purchase some food, but…” He waved a hand while offering a sheepish grin, his lips drawn back like those of a stressed dog.

“... It does not leave that much room for anything beyond the necessities,” M. Pourife confessed while wringing his hands, “Sweets like this would be, well, considered luxuries. It is a shame, considering how cheap they are, but-” He waved his hand. “Priorities, priorities.” Then explain why you bought a whole ass package of dough. Twice.

Almost instinctively, he perked up when the other party mentioned rum cake. Rum cake! Or… Maybe M. Pourife was just interested in the rum - who knows. Either way, he cocked his head and rubbed his chin. He… Didn’t normally try rum now, did he? He was always more of the beer or ale type of person, but then again, cake wasn’t normally his specialty either. Might as well vanquish two birds with one stone if that was the case.

With a glance around the surprisingly organized kitchen, M. Pourife nodded and affirmed, “Indeed. The same philosophy applies to many skills in my opinion, sir. Science, cakes, chess… Anything, if you put your mind to it.” A hum started to settle into his tone while he went over to the cabinets and pulled out a certain arrangement of bowls and ingredients. Literally all of his trust was being placed in the other party’s hands right now, and it wasn’t because of the cake that he owed…

“I see, I see…” sniffed the middle-aged man while setting a pan down on the table and holding a canister of cooking oil in his hand. Immediately, his hand felt tense, but he imagined it could work. Maybe. He furrowed his brow, then started to press down on it, the canister letting out a hiss as the oil came out. “Oh!” he exclaimed with a spark in his eyes when the oil settled itself on the edges of the pan, “I see!” And from there, the scientist started spraying more with a hum, seemingly having too much fun with this apparently new culinary innovation.

Hopefully everything will be sublime - in the form of a rum cake...

This user's account has been closed.

Rochester (Human) kafkaesque

Contrary to the confrontational, confident man she had struck a deal with sometime ago, the one currently with Rochester seemed… Timid. Worried, even. That was fine with the older woman. She could manage with the sudden spike in nervousness and tension as long as everything - and everyone - in the house came out intact by the end of this.

“I have to admit that my partiality for fruits seeps into my taste for desserts,” teased the elder, “Feel free to find it bizarre, and I won’t blame you if you do, but… My favorite type of dessert is actually something that is not too sweet. Nothing too sugary, or anything that feels like it would make your teeth rot, but also something that is indulgent enough to make you want to come back for more. Like… Something that almost leans on the savory side at times. Kind of like French toast-” In slight disgust, she crinkled her nose slightly and shook her head, whispering under her breath, “Shit. Bad analogy.”

And true enough, the ingredients left on the countertop somewhat haphazardly were… Well… Anything that didn’t exactly scream “sweet,” “saccharine,” or something along those lines. Oranges, strawberries, blueberries… Hell, there were even some ingredients that looked like they didn’t exactly belong in a baked good: bacon, maple syrup, soda… She heaved out a sigh before approaching the table and picking up a can of root beer, weighing it in her hand then… Starting to laugh.

However, it was full of merriment, as she continued remarking, “That asides, I have to admit… This display almost seems insulting to you, doesn’t it? I’m sorry; I just…” She pointed a hand at herself, then the can she held in her hand. “I’m not a baker or a chef. Never have been, really. My wife is the cook around here, thank goodness for that. Otherwise, the house would’ve gone up in flames a long time ago-” And that was why Beatrice didn't get the fire horse either. Shame. That asides... There was a different reason why Rochester had broken off like that.

"- Not that I should, you know, be taking that so lightly. Fire is always a force to be reckoned with, after all..."

After a long pause from Rochester's side, she just briskly grunted, "Never mind," before finally setting the damn can back down. "I heard from an associate that you know something about baking anyways," commented the older woman in an attempt to lighten up the conversation, "I can't comment much about the exact level, but hey. With me, the bar is low. You should be fine, just as long as this is just... A way to make some nice food..." She trailed off, her eyes now locked on the carton of blueberries from earlier.

Rochester carefully walked over to it before picking it up and offering the berries inside to the other, asking, "Now, I don't know what you want, but... If we are going to make this inventory of any use, you might as well try sampling some fruits. These are admittedly my favorite, but I have plenty of others. I did say I like fruit. I'm not joking either." With a laugh, she looked over her shoulder at the other fruits, then shrugged. "Just try some, then tell me which one you like best. Then we can use them for the dessert, if it works. How about that?"

follow-up time. Rochester shouldn't be trusted with cooking, and I have no idea why I keep posting as her on this thread (/j).

While her guest was lounging on the couch and not at all helping Rochester bake her signature “fruit medley” (whatever the fuck that actually meant), the kitchen was probably one wrong move away from bursting up into total flames- Wait, no… Her house, more likely.

There was a reason why she didn’t get her wife that one fire-horse previously.

“It’s not a ‘we’ if you’re just laying there like a slob,” sighed Rochester with a roll of her eyes while scanning the opened cupboards for anything that resembled the usual ingredients put into a baked good. Flour, eggs, milk… Or maybe she could just use those graham crackers as an impromptu crust for a tart? Rochester rubbed her chin before pulling out, yes, a box of graham crackers from the cabinet and shaking up the contents inside a bit as a makeshift blender. “So at least get your ass off the couch and help me, before I fucking destroy this place and Beatrice finds out.”

Beatrice would also be pissed if she found out her wife had been letting people inside her home via that chronically unlocked door of hers. But sure. Whatever. A decade or so of marriage had left them mostly resolved on that issue.

“Besides,” mused the older woman further while setting the box on the table, then opening the fridge for the eggs to use as a binder, “you nearly crashed that car one time. It’s a shame. I’m not a driver. I’m more of a walker, to be honest with you.” She chuckled wryly before raising her brow when he spoke up again.

Frowning slightly, Rochester shrugged and replied, “Beatrice never liked fruit that much. All the fruit here is for me.” Gee, way to sound like a selfish bitch. She shook her head again before picking up a few eggs, though probably more than what was appropriate, before carefully setting them on the countertop. Apparently, it was one thing to set the damn place on fire - and another entirely to break some eggs and leave a mess in the kitchen. “And trust me, at this point, I’m going to have to do everything myself no matter what, so you can stop asking in that regard.”

Way to sound grateful for that chauffeuring service there, ma’am.

She narrowed her eyes at the other party nonchalantly flipping through a magazine before rolling them, then focusing on the ingredients now shown: eggs, strawberries, graham crackers, and milk. Rochester felt like she was missing something, as she stood there quizzically with a raised brow, but… What exactly?

It sounded pitiful (and it was), but maybe there was a silver lining to having a guest like him over. At least she didn’t have to deal with constant blabbing… Just the potential screech of the smoke alarm if she fucked something up in the process.

Nikolai Byko PicklePantry

"Must we really bake, dearie? I'm not exactly kitchen savvy, surprising as it may seem," Nikolai yawned. Despite his protests and complaining, he wasn't even in the kitchen! He was in the nearby room, sprawled out on the couch while reading a magazine. In fact, he probably didn't even need to be here! Knowing Nikolai, even if the duration of knowing him was five minutes, he let himself in and plopped down on the coziest looking spot and probably claimed it was payment for his chauffeuring business.
"You're making this for your wife? The interns? My, how kind of you," drawled the Sin, still very much focused on his magazine. Now, was that really what that actor was saying about that pop star? Scandalous. "You don't need help, do you, dearie?" He hissed at the reply and looked upwards in the direction of the kitchen. He halfheartedly reached a hand out in its direction before looking back at his magazine. "Gracious me, I would try, darling, honest, I would, but I can't seem to reach any of the ingredients. Such a shame~"
When asked again later that day for help, Nikolai had the magazine over his face to help with his slumber. "I'm almost there, dearie," he mumbled, clearly not moving. He could smell the baked fruit, though. Very nice. He'd help himself to one later~

"Dear me, did I say that?" Nikolai said distractedly from his cozy spot on the recliner chair. The smell of charred baked goods didn't bother him, though it was equally possible he was too lazy to care.
"I've ingredients... somewhere..." When suggested to get store-bought cupcakes, he curled up under his blanket in the chair. "Mmm, would you mind getting them then, dearie? I just now found the coziest spot~"

Aiden salternate

The teenager blinked slowly, cringing at the scent of burned food. He tilted his head before pulling out the tin, squinting at the white-haired man standing near by.

"Awh, Mr. B-byko, I-I thought you said you were g-gonna t-t-take them out," the teenager stated, pulling off the over mitts off his hands. He let out a disgusted grunt as soon as the elder party responded. The teenager brushed his bangs out of his face. It looked charred; it was practically useless.

"I-I-I'm not your p-p-personal chef, sir. Ugh, do-do-do you have any more in-ingredients? You mmmight have to-to-to live with buying store-bought c-cupcakes."

Noel Alkaev Vapor

Noel found it impossible not to be an asshole. Thankfully, this being his own damn house [that actually belonged to a dead person], he could do whatever he wanted in regards to the young man, and his plan was... to force him to bake. Not only to get something sweet to eat, but also because the stone oven would warm the ramshackle cabin enough to make it comfortable to sleep in that night.

It was just a shame his sort-of-daughter wasn't doing shit to help.

"Fucking hell," he hissed out to Aiden, "If I knew how goddamn expensive bananas were up here, I wouldn't have even bothered, but..." But he promised his aforementioned sort-of-daughter banana bread. "If they were blood-related, I'd say she got it from her aunt." he continued on, pouring the batter in with the mashed banana mixture, and then beginning to mix them together, "Because that woman loved banana bread, too. She had her servants make it for her, and then she had me make it for her..."

Now probably wasn't a good time to bitch about his late fiancée, especially considering that she, you know, was dead. He stopped, noticing the glow within the oven slowly start to die. He cursed under his breath and abandoned the bowl with Aiden to throw another log over the fire and praying that it would work. He glanced back at the teenager, maintaining his vicious scowl as he tended to the flame.

"You look like you need the food, anyway." he scoffed, "You're small." The hell. He's like three inches shorter than you. "And skinny. And you talk like you're cold, and shit. People stammer when they're cold. A young man, though..."

He barked out a laugh. "It's pathetic for a young man to stutter so often, you know."

Okay. Asshole.

Noel returned to the bowl, watching the teenager continue to mix it on his behalf, before reaching out and just snatching it from him. As he turned to pour it into the loaf pan, the old man uttered, "You don't want it to get chewy." Did that mean Aiden was going to get to try this banana bread?

Uh...

Noel picked up the pan, scurrying over to slide it into the oven slit. He stared at the bread for three whole seconds, dead silent, before turning to Aiden. "Great work." he hissed, "Now get the fuck out of my house."

i WILL write a follow-up post.

Fitzgerald (Human) kafkaesque

my response is.... the tiniest bit long?? I think?? time to throw this into a spoiler box just in case!!

“Guess who’s going to work again?” teased Fitzgerald in a singsong voice while setting down a full ass bag of groceries that… Probably contained nothing related to baking, at least at first glance. Candy bars, honey, spinach… The works. But did the bags contain shit like flour or eggs or milk? Probably not! Hopefully the homeowner had those items, because this youth sure as hell wasn’t going to get them himself… He looked over at the elder.

Unless…

“Don’t worry,” the youth hummed with a taunting bat of his eyes, “I’ll at least try to pitch in this time, mm? I bet you must be soooo tired from carrying all of that baggage and heavy shit from a while back. I won’t blame you - it’s okay. Old people tend to heal slower than younger people anyway.” What the actual fuck? With a giggle, he took out a random item from the bag while seemingly paying no attention to what it was or how the hell this was going to help them with the intended baking project… Especially when he planned to keep everything for himself.

Yes, he was going to be that selfish. Regardless of whether the pastries turned out half-decent or just turned out to be the most miserable burnt crisps on the planet, Fitzgerald was going to keep everything for himself- Okay, maybe he’d give one of the latter to the other party. But hey! As long as he got the bulk of the share, he could flex his “generosity” by giving one pastry to the elder. As a treat. Why not?

Fitzgerald motioned towards the ingredients with a huff before instructing, “Now, I have to admit that I’ve mostly learned to cook from servants, and… Well… It’s not the most flattering image in the world for me to present. Maybe you can help, because you’re, like… A soldier, I think? Soldiers get some respect around here, even if you’ve probably eaten weird shit too.” Hey there. What was that “too” part for? Shaking his head, he then started to take more ingredients out of his bag:

A bag of jellybeans, a bottle of soda, a jar of what was likely candied apples coated in what was supposed to be caramel… The works. Again. He really impulse-bought half of this shit, huh?

With a proud “hmph,” the youth declared, “So! You’re going to teach me how to do half of this shit! Mostly because…” And then his bravado left. Oops! He gave the older man a sheepish grin while wringing his hands together. “... I don’t want to work the stoves, because the damn recipe involves caramel, and…” he explained more awkwardly, “... Making that involves heat. I’m not good with that.” Fitzgerald glanced off to the side with a frown, before proclaiming in a lame attempt to regain some momentum, “So! Again! I’m sure the final recipe will turn out decent with your help, hm, sir? It’ll work out fine this time, and no, I won’t make your arms ache more than they already do!” Considering their prior history - as well as the motley medley of ingredients they had… Good luck with that.

this is... surprisingly sweet.... but alas, Fitzgerald is a prick. follow-up time.

Little did this dumbass know, Fitzgerald was going to appreciate this wholesome interaction much, much more when looking back at the pink-haired fellow who had ordered his guards to shoot him the first time he met.

Hindsight was a bitch.

Nonetheless, in the moment, the young man was also a bitch, as he looked over at the boy bringing eggs over to him with a scowl. The house he was in at the moment was rather dusty… If it could even be called a house. With a harsh cough, he waved away a cloud of dust before sighing and shaking his head. To be fair, the intern didn’t know what was going to be worse: having all that grime on the floors and walls of his lodging, or the aforementioned grime on his clothes… Either sucked.

“Bolo de rolo?” mouthed Fitzgerald with a scrunched nose, before shaking his head, “Roll cake…” His voice softened for a moment. Well, maybe this visit could be tolerable, just as long as he did absolutely nothing… Crossing his arms, he sniffed, “I see. It’ll just depend on whether it’s up to my standards or not.” What the fuck did that mean? Don’t say this shit to a literal fucking eight-year-old?

He kicked at the ground while the boy retrieved a hand mixer and started to churn the butter, commenting about how a boy of his age should use a whisk because he wasn’t old enough to use said mixer. For a second, it seemed that Fitzgerald actually gave a shit, as he raised a brow and shifted his position slightly. Huh…

It was going to be unfortunate regardless of whether that shriveled heart of his was actually showing empathy or not.

“It’s fine,” the older man replied curtly… Not that it mattered since the boy plugged in the mixer and started to recite the instructions on how to make the cake. First churn the butter into small chunks, then- Fuck! Did he actually have to help!? Oh, never mind. The boy held down the bowl for Fitzgerald - thank the skies (or not, because Fitzgerald was a lazy bitch who needed a wakeup call as soon as possible). So, from there, the youth preened himself while the boy churned the butter, though he was rather oblivious to the latter stared at him; in fact, his attention was more focused on how fucking hot this weather was. It reminded him of home, and not exactly in the best way!

Fitzgerald did, however, look at the clock when it was mentioned. Two minutes, just as the child had said. And… Only the butter was dealt with. Great.

His brows knitting slightly, he then asked the boy, “So, how long is it going to take for this damn thing to bake- I mean… How many ingredients are in there? You seem to be mostly focusing on one ingredient at a time, mm?” A taunting edge sharpened his otherwise innocent question, and… Well… Yikes.