2022-05-02 - The Little Ovens That Could

Petit Fours. 'Small Ovens', if one translates directly from the French-- and of course, if one is being properly French about it, they actually cover a lot more than the little cakes that Americans think of, up to and including bite-sized savouries, macarons, meringues, tartlets and eclairs. The little cakes, though? Those are the order of the day today.

A pâtissier Una Irving is not, but cake is cake, and all the more fun when prepared with a friend, and so it is that on the day agreed between them, the shorter of the two redheads can be found in her kitchen ("Just come 'round the back, the door will be open"), with a baking sheet-shaped pan of pound cake cooling contentedly (good cake is always content when cooling; bad cake falls flat, but we pretend that doesn't exist) on the counter beside her.

She's wearing her new t-shirt ('Kitchen Cleric', white writing on forest green) and a pair of old jeans, worn so soft and thin they may as well be those tencel jeans that were so very popular for a while in the 90s, long before Una herself was even wearing jeans. Her feet are bare, and wiggle against the cool kitchen tile: it's another beautiful day on Oak Avenue.

The old, battered kitchen table is set out ready: butter and powdered sugar, raspberry jam, food colouring, cream, little shiny silver balls; all the good stuff.

Come 'around the back and the door will be open. As such:

"Halloo the home." A pleasant, moderately-melodious greeting from the redheaded local barista. Given it's one of those days where t-shirts are indeed acceptable, she sports the counter to the one worn by Una in turn. No, it doesn't say anything about Barding (not yet, anyhow); it's the one with "Speak of the Devil" in shimmering red print on a black backdrop of fabric. A pair of lazy tan cargo pants (nobody tell Dita!) and Ked-style sneakers in leopard-pattern complete the look. She's got a lunch tote which clinks -- must be drinks. "Ooh, it smells good already."

The lunch tote is set on the table, out of the way of the baking zone, and Ariadne walks over to the sink to wash her hands thoroughly. "Alright, I see...cake." A laugh. "Uh. It's cake, but I don't know which cake, wow, good job, off to a good start, me," she again laughs, golden-hazel eyes twinkling. Her hair in its natural and dyed hues is up in an octopus clip and cascades down the back of her head like a rooster's fan-tail.

Speak of the Devil, and there she is! Not, granted, that Una has actually spoken it, but inevitably, with their plans planned, Ariadne has been on her mind at least-- and that counts. She turns at the sound of Ariadne's voice, grinning brightly in the barista's direction as fingers waggle in a gesture of greeting.

"I figured the actual cake baking was the least interesting part of the process, so I kickstarted us with that-- I hope that's okay? It'll be cool enough to work with soon, and we can jump in on the more interesting bits." Like frosting. And layering. And decorating. And whatever else is involved in making this kind of fancy little cake.

"Pound cake. Well-- cheater's pound cake, really, since traditionally pound cake is a pound of eggs, butter, flour and sugar, and that's... a lot. But you need a reasonably sturdy cake, otherwise it all falls apart once you start layering, and that is the last thing we want!"

Beat. "Hi. Hello. Welcome. Do you want an apron, or shall we risk flying buttercream?"

"Ah, pound cake," echoes the barista of the Kitchen Cleric while she dries her hands on a towel. An appreciative look at the cake before her attention returns to Una. She then chimes out a laugh or three. "No, not a problem in the least! But yes, an apron, please, I like this shirt and pants and I know just enough about the kitchen to know anything with butter is a pain in the ass to get out of fabric."

She meanders over to the cake itself and leans in, audibly sniffing. It's kind of quaint, how she keeps her hands behind her back in her waist-bend. "Smells very good. I'm such a sucker for pound cake. Whipped cream, strawberries, done. Though, speaking of whipped cream!" She takes any apron offered and gets to donning it, fingers tying the long strings with practiced skill. Una continues getting a cheeky grin the entire time. "Those cookies went over really well. You're good, girlfriend," lauds Una's fellow redhead with more laughter.

Una kicks open one of the kitchen drawers with her foot, scooping out two particularly... delightful frilly aprons, with a somewhat apologetic grimace. "These came with the house, I swear I didn't buy them." They're flower-printed and probably date from the 70s. "But we can both look ridiculous together, right? And save our shirts from flying butter."

Aprons aside, there's no denying the brilliant brightness of her grin for reference to her pastries; indeed, she's quite smug. "They came out better than anticipated... and went down better, too." Intentional innuendo? Who can say. "Anyway, yes. Pound cake is amazing. All cake is, but pound cake... you really don't need to do much to it to make it perfect. I need to plant strawberries."

Beat. "I was actually thinking strawberry and raspberry fillings for these cakes, too; if that works for you?"

Ariadne's apron turns out to be a gleeful patterning of bluebells and ivy greenery on white and goodness, it's about as 70s as one can get. She shrugs at the comment; aprons be aprons and are meant to get messy, it's all good in her book whatever the fabric.

"Went down better too." An echo and snicker to follow. The barista appreciates some good innuendos as much as the next person. "That backyard would be excellent for strawberries, so I'm behind this planting of them. Raspberries can get kind of crazy plus sticker-thorns, so if you plant those, get ready to keep an eye on them. They're not like the Siberian blackberries though, god." A shake of head. "Those are practically Maleficent's creation. Out of Sleeping Beauty," the Disney geek adds. "And those fillings, yes, please. I've actually always wondered how the filling gets into the cake without holes being left behind. It's, like, so viscous that a needle isn't going to do the job, so how? Enlighten me!" Lifting her hands up into the air, Ariadne twinkles fingers. "Learn me!"

"Blackberries are staying the hell away from my garden," promises Una, with a shudder. "I've seen what they do. Poor Seattle, drowning under a sea of blackberries. Talk about prolific. Raspberries, I love, but I think I'll stick to a nice, simple strawberry patch."

She puts on her own apron (gaudy sunflowers and sweet peas), tying the ends tidily behind her, and grins. "Oh, there's always a hole-- you just hide it, usually, either by putting what you've cored out back on top, or just adding more frosting. Sadly, no magic to that. There's lots of ways: melon ballers, apple corers, a piping bag. Or a knife, even. Today, we're going for a bit more basic, though, and just doing lots of tiny layers. First things first, though: we need to make buttercream."

"Softened butter, powdered sugar, milk, and we're going to add some strawberry extract, because we can. And a tiny bit of red food colouring, because... well, because we can, right?"

"Ohhhhhhhh. God, that's so simple and yet makes so much sense." Laughing at herself, Ariadne even pinks up a faint blush. "Of course, you use the frosting to cover the hole and a knife would make a thin one. Duh."

Wafting over to the mixer and the collection of frosting ingredients, the barista tilts her head as if she could listen better this way. "Uh, yeah, because we can and why not? Though, have you ever considered doing purple-blue frosting with strawberry extract just to fuck with people? Like, their faces. They're expecting grape or blackberry and then, bam. Strawberry. I admit, you'd get me with something like that," she grins. "Kind of like eggs with green dye in them. They're just eggs, but they're green and your brain goes, eeeeeeeeeeee."

Alas, one of those bakery secrets, now unveiled to the world! Una has no regrets.

She grins, now, and picks up a few more bottles of food colouring from the table, laying them all out on the bench for Ariadne. "Take your pick," she encourages. "If you want to do purple-blue, and fuck people, I have no objections. Though-- this frosting, it's going inside rather than outside, because we're covering the whole bit in... well, not actually fondant, because that stuff is nasty and no one actually enjoys eating it, but a shiny candy coating. So you can do a couple of different colours, if you like."

Ingredient quantities are named, too, along with instructions: beat the butter until soft, add half the sugar and beat until smooth, add the rest of the ingredients, and food colouring at the end. Simple! Though, as an side, "Eggs with green dye make me want to vomit, somehow. Green food is for vegetables. Maybe mint flavoured things. But otherwise..."

Barista taps her chin and considers the bottles of food dye.

"Maybe save the purple-blue dye for strawberry or apple another time, where it's obvious visually people are expecting the different fruit taste. Like, an outer frosting. Red dye for internal strawberry frosting instead. Also! Seriously, vampire cupcakes for Halloween. Red velvet cake, interior dye-thick glaze, dye everyone's tongues red, laugh mercilessly." Idea? It's an idea. Ariadne goes over and starts fussing with attempting to follow the instructions. They are simple and she doesn't seem stressed, only quite attentive.

"You're not wrong about the eggs though. Think about purple steak." What a visual. "Or...blue lemons. It warps the brain!" She giggles.

"Oh, and black. There is something so incredibly wrong about eating black frosting," puts in Una, who sounds far, far too delighted about this as a concept. The geoducks may have been only the beginning of a reign of baking terror, who can say. "But the vampire cupcakes, absolutely. Really oozy, thick, blood clot-y filling."

Such a happy thought indeed!

Una steps back from the buttercream preparation, happy enough to watch Ariadne do all the work (this is how you learn, right? It's important!), though this part, indeed, is not especially complicated. "Purple steak sounds disgusting. And fruit... no fruit should be blue, except for the obvious blueberries. Blue food is arguably even worse than green."

"Oh, come on. Blue lemons would be hilarious. You could watch people's brains just twist themselves into knots trying to figure out what fruit it was in the first place!" Ingredients mixed, she then turns on the mixer and takes a step back, fists lightly on her waist. Mixer is eyed, ingredients are eyed. Alright, good, the mixer isn't going too fast. "And then they lick it and go blugh-blugh-blugh and seriously, it's brilliant. If you won't do it, I will," grins Ariadne at her fellow redhead.

"But please do black frosting on the vampire cupcakes. Dye tongues black and red. We'll all look like plague victims. Very atmospheric and appropriate for the holiday. Though..." Uh-oh. She appears thoughtful. "...do you think Ravn would have a fit if I went as a vampire for Halloween? You know he hates all the popular and recent tropes for them. Would I get disowned, you think?" What a troublemaking grin the barista sports now.

"Oh, I didn't say I wouldn't do it!" Una promises, raising her voice so that it can be heard about the whirr of the mixer. (Unlike the rest of the kitchen's appliances, the mixer looks relatively new and high end; Una's not a reckless spender in most things, but who wouldn't begrudge themselves new and shiny baking equipment upon receiving an unexpected inheritance?)

Eyes can't really dance, but hers fill with mirth and may as well look like they're dancing, in answer to Ariadne's latest idea. "You would, and it would be utterly epic. Watch him tie himself into knots over it, and throw every trope you can think of into the whole mix." Una's affection for the Dane is hard to miss; her joy in supporting the teasing of him, equally so. "We need Itzhak the glitter pirate, you as the vampire... I'm sure we'll come up with more, we have a few months to work it all out."

"Ooh, yes, glitter pirate!!! But you know what would really twist Ravn in knots?" Since we're gently teasing the Dane in question. "There are three brides of Dracula. Let's do a headcount." Uh oh. "Me..." One finger gestured out and pad-to-pad. "Dita..." Surely the Kitchen Cleric knows where this is going by now. "And you!" Ariadne finishes, then holding up the three fingers like she's successfully passed preschool. "And we do corsets and capes and super high heels we're all going to die in and false fangs and you know there's going to need to be some sort of high mica content blush involved for dusting of cheeks and collarbones so we sparkle."

Both hands out to jazz fingers. "And then, boom. His folklorist head explodes. Hmm? I think I'm brilliant." Now she can't help laughing.

One, ah ah ah.

Two, ah ah ah.

Three, ah ah ah.

Una has absolutely picked up where this is going somewhere along the way, her cheeks taking on a dusting of pink that is more amusement than actual embarrassment, though by the end, she's giggling outright. "His poor head. He might never get over it. I'd be in." Too much fun. Just... too much fun.

"How's the consistency of that frosting now? Smooth?"

"It's an ideeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaa," singsongs the one wearing the t-shirt proclaiming devilry in turn. Dimples aglow as she then heeds Una's warning, she makes another sound more akin to 'blrk' and flips off the mixing machine.

A squint at the buttercream frosting in the silver mixing bowl. "I don't think I overbeat it? But then again, whipping isn't my forte. I mean. Mixing." Yes, it was a deliberately-formed slip on her part by the snort-titter to follow. "I don't think it's too runny? But how do you plump it up again if it does get overbeaten? More powdered sugar? Or you're just screwed at this point?"

"You're full of excellent ideas," excellent and evil, but Una doesn't go so far as to specify that. "Teach me. I, too, want to master the devilry."

She steps forward, this time, to give the buttercream a quick eyeballing. ('Whipping' twitches her smile, but she doesn't laugh outright... well, okay, maybe only a tiny bit). "Most of the time, there's a way to fix it. You can overbeat to the point of air-bubbles, and that'll not be something that's easily fixed, but other problems-- easy. Chill it, warm it, add some milk, or more sugar, and there's generally a way to fix it, depending on what's gone wrong. But this looks fine. So--"

She gestures, now, towards the cooling cake. "Now we need to cut the cake. In half, lengthways, and then each of those rectangles into three, so we end up with six. And then we'll slice each of those six into two slices. Let me grab a knife." A serrated one, for this.

Devilry. Ariadne can't help her mildly foxy smile. Muahahaha.

She's still the attentive student as Una explains how to fix the oops of overbeaten-frosting -- yes, she catches the tiny laugh in turn and seems pleased for it, score -- and then rubs hands together as she considers the cooled pound cake in turn. "You meet your demise, deliciousness," she informs the cake. "Any last words, Mister Bond?" Such a heavy Eastern European accent whipped out of nowhere and just as easily pocketed again. A hand is held out for the knife and when received, she gets to following instructions.

"And my brand of devilry is easy, I'd like to think. Is the idea fun? Is it fun for the person targeted? Is the person easy-going enough to not backhand you or to roll with it because they too are secretly an enabler? Idea on. If one of those boxes aren't checked? It's mean and the idea is not executed." She shrugs and glances over at Una with a grin nonetheless. "Ravn is a good sport and I love teasing him, but honestly? How fun is it to wear a corset and cape? Remember how I still want one of those heavily-hooded cape anyways? Why not have a fun reason to wear one, y'know?"

Una displays good, solid knife etiquette in handing it over to her fellow redhead, and once again steps back to allow the barista to do all the heavy lifting (or, as in this case, cutting). "I think you're supposed to monologue before you kill him, so he's got a chance to escape," she points out-- no accent for her, but she's grinning. "On the other hand, that's half the problem, isn't it? Meet your doom, pound cake! Take a... pounding." Go on.

She'll watch, though, as the cutting is undertaken. "That makes sense," is quiet agreement. "It's no fun, if the other person isn't having fun. There's quiet embarrassment, and then there's... uncomfortable embarrassment. I'm a pro at both, so hopefully I'm good at recognising it in others, too. Ravn's definitely easy to tease, but..."

A broader, brighter, happier smile. "I take the point. What colour cape would you wear, if you had your choice?"

"Oh man. What color cape... Lemme think about my villainous monologue while I cut this cake and I'll think about the cape color too."

Cake meets its ever-shrinking pieced-out demise. Ariadne seems at least familiar with the knife in that the lines are straight enough to pass muster.

"Probably...if I said 'amaranthine'? That super dark shade of purple that's not black? The last bit of color you see before night. A cape in that color with a deep hood. Oh man." She can't help but laugh softly at herself. "Not going to lie, that would be...amazing to have one of those. Such swish, much mystery, much wow. My inner Lord of the Rings enthusiast would squee along with me aloud. Maybe I can find one before Halloween! You never know, right? What about you? You know you wan a cape too." Funning eyebrow wiggle at Una.

There's a speculative expression on Una's face as she waits for Ariadne's answer-- and a broader grin when she gets it. "That would look spectacular," she agrees. "Particularly with your hair, and with an appropriately coloured corset underneath. I'd probably-- mm. I mean, yes, of course I want a cape too. What fantasy nerd girl never dreamed of a cape, right?"

It takes her longer to reach her own conclusion, but eventually she says, "I think I'd go for a really rich, dark blue. Velvety, and with-- mmm, maybe silver lining? Or maybe that would be too much. I don't know, I'd have to see. But a cape, and a corset, and a long flowing skirt, and really, that would be my childhood dreams coming to life, you know?"

"Ooooooooh, oh my god, yes. That would be an amazing color on you!" A high-five is offered out, the knife's motions on pause. "I'd say go for the silver lining, either an interior entire lining or maybe some hemming on it? Around the edges? Cape, corset, long flowing skirt, some nice boots -- bam, done. I'm telling you, this Dracula's brides thing has potential. But see, there's other things to do with that as well, which is awesome if suddenly minds change. Anything medieval, within reason. So many book characters or movie characters."

Ariadne goes back to slicing up the pound cake to the appropriate sizings. "Dragon tamer? Have a little stuffed dragon for your shoulder?" She glances over at Una, still grinning. "Reminds me of a card from the game 'Munchkins'. It's called Cute Shoulder Dragon. It grants +4 to your attack power, which is a pretty high number for a card in the deck."

High five, indeed. Una's expression is pleased but also speculative; plotting. No doubt whatever that plan is, it will come clear soon enough.

She turns, now, rewashing her hands at the sink.

"Ohhhh-- Munchkin, yes, I've played that. We had someone's old copy come through the thrift shop I worked in, back in Seattle. That could work. I always did like dragons. Though," her laugh is a little self-effacing. "Really, if I were a dragon tamer, I'd want to be riding the dragons, too, and that definitely means pants. But--" Floofy skirts, though! So many options. Plenty of time to work it through. "I'm definitely down for the shoulder dragon. A few pins... or maybe I could take one apart and add some wire so the tail can curve around the neck and stay on that way? Costumes are fun. Pretending to be someone else, just for a little while."

"It's always a blast to pretend to be someone else, yeah, just for a little bit. A break from the world in a way." Deeming the pound cake cut into the appropriate and designed slice sizes, the barista then walks over to the sink to do a quick rinse of the knife. She glances over at Una again while she holds the blade beneath the water. "And nothing wrong with a skort to go with your corset? Skirt-shorts. Or a pants-suit beneath the corset? Or, I mean, leggings, in the vein of the somewhat medieval aspect of things."

Rather than risk cutting herself, Ariadne briefly returns her attention to the blade. Once cleaned, she sets it aside to dry. "I like the idea of the tail about the neck though. Ooh, have you ever seen those great dragon ear cuffs? The ones which curl up and around the outside of your ear? Like an earring, but not." Pulling out her phone, she does a quick search and pulls up an image. "Like this." The design of the not-quite earring curls the body of the creature around the back of the shell of the ear with the tail and over-shell hang of dragon's upper body and head as anchor points. It gleams in bronze with a small faux-emerald eye.

Ariadne's full of ideas, and Una's eyes light with thoughtful interest accordingly, though she doesn't comment specifically on where her thoughts go; nonetheless, there is clearly some kind of plan being formed, given the way she grins, winding her way back to the table to fetch the jam, and from one of the drawers, a cake decorating blade.

"That," she says, leaning in to get a better look at the image on Ariadne's phone, "is perfect. I can't believe I'd never seen those before! I'll definitely have to track down one of those for myself, costume or no costume."

Jam, cake decorating knife, normal butter knife, and buttercream are assembled, in the meantime. It's a good thing Una's kitchen is well-sized, given the amount of cake pieces involved. "Ready for your next step?"

"Right?" grins the barista. Away goes her phone and she goes to rinse off her hands because cooking and clean hands and that's the rule! "I particularly like how a lot of the options don't require ear piercings. I mean, mine are," and she gestures up towards her own; simple gold ball-studs sit at each earlobe. "But some people don't have them. You're not denied the ability to wear an ear cuff if no piercings." Hands are dried off with the kitchen towel before meandering over by Una once more.

Implements and ingredients are eyed. "I am indeed, maestro -- maestra? -- show me what to do," Una's fellow redhead laughs. "I have this feeling the outside layer of frosting is something like...you figure out how much volume per blob of frosting on the knife and then smoosh-smoosh-smoosh, all the sides, one smooth paint of knife. Maybe?"

"How do they stay on, with no piercing? I guess it just... clamps on?" Una's thoughtful as she wonders, though given she, too, has pierced ears, it's probably not a practical concern. "I like that too, though. Not everyone's ok with needles, and nor should they need to be."

"Soooooort of," she adds, grinning, as she eyes the cake and the assembled ingredients for herself. "But first things first: we're going to take a rectangle of cake, and spread it with buttercream-- a good thick layer, about as thick as the cake itself." The cake, having been sliced horizontally, is perhaps only half an inch thick. "Then we add another layer of cake on top, and spread a thin layer of jam on that. And then one final cake layer. And then we need to cut these suckers out, too. But-- one thing at a time. You start with this stack, and I'll start a second one over here."

"Clips or clamps, yep," confirms Ariadne of the ear cuffs. "Or a good molding to the metal, where the cartilage can be slipped into and held by the shape."

She then listens, idly tapping a pointer fingernail on the nearby surface. Buttercream spread, layer cake, jam on that, cake layer, cut these suckers out. "Aye-aye, mon capitan," and the barista salutes two fingers off of her temple. The butter knife is taken up and she moves to begin assembling the first stacking. "Oh, no, wait," and she swaps butter knife for frosting knife because butter knife seems like it should be for the jam. "So."

Light words and an equally light glance. "I'm...going to be nosy and you can tell me to butt out, you really can. Jules is okay?"

"Clever," says Una, of the ear cuffs. And it is.

The baker goes back to the drawer in order to fetch her own implements (trust her to have multiple frosting blades; of course she does), setting up her first layer of cake on a board a few steps away from Ariadne. So she's not going to make the other redhead do all the work, at least.

So. It makes her hesitate, blade covered in buttercream but not yet spreading it. She does at least continue that after a moment, though the work is done distractedly, and likely without the finesse she'd otherwise generally have. Slowly: "Mostly. I mean... she was bitten by a cougar and lived to tell the tale, so that's something."

It does not sound, given Una's tone of voice, like she's particularly happy or content with that something. "She seems to think the cougar was training her, and maybe it was. It still hurt her, though. And it'll heal-- though she's refused to let anyone heal her-- but it's just... ugh."

"Hmm." Ariadne has paused not only to watch how Una moves the knife about in the spread of frosting, but also to listen. Her regard flicks back and forth between cake and her fellow redhead's face. Her lips, lightly pursed, echo the faint divot of her brows. A silent nod as she looks back to her own cake in turn.

It might seem like she's got no comment, but it's merely formulating thoughts. Granted, this does take about half a minute or so which might seem like a relative eternity in a quiet kitchen. "Being bitten by a cougar is no small deal, I'll give you that. And being a stubborn ass about not letting yourself be healed is a personal choice which...yeah, doesn't exactly make a ton of sense to me, but then again? She's her own woman. From what I've gathered, there was a very important reason for this trip of hers. I might not understand it, but I respect it. If it means she has to heal of her own accord? Then it does. Now."

Another glance over at Una. "Does this invalidate our concern? No, it does not. It's perfectly logical to be concerned. Hell, I'm concerned. If I can, I'll be asking her about it with the addendum of slapping my wrist if I'm too nosy."

It's a long silence, and Una-- well, it's not that she wilts during it, but she certainly keeps her gaze lowered, focusing on her cake with abrupt intensity, especially as she carefully sets down the second layer atop the buttercream and reaches for the jam. Ariadne's answer comes before she actually gets so far as applying the jam, and momentarily stills her hands, which are pale and tense.

An exhale, then: sharp and open. Now she glances up, aiming a crooked, rueful smile at her fellow redhead. "Right," she agrees. "Thank you. I know she was doing it for a reason, and I know she was confident about it, and all the rest. But it is something to be concerned over, and it isn't something I really understand, or probably ever well. It feels reckless. Jules seems reckless, sometimes, and I know that's just her way, but it... I worry. And every time I see that scar, it's going to remind me, and then I'm going to worry some more."

"Sure, I'd worry about a scar too. But...my two cents on things. My opinion. Everyone has them, I know," and thankfully, Ariadne's gesturing with the knife doesn't send a splotch of frosting across the kitchen indecorously. "Scars are signs of survival. That means not only did Jules survive, she's stronger for it because she knows how to overcome it. It's okay to worry, but do you -- you personally -- think time might make things easier to see?"

She tilts her head at Una curiously, in a bird-like way she perhaps doesn't recognize in herself in turn.

To her credit, Una pauses to listen, those big brown eyes of hers fixed on Ariadne as the other woman speaks. She listens-- and then she considers, holding her silence for more than a few seconds, before her lips press together, and she shrugs.

"I worry that all it will do is remind me that she can be reckless, and that if she was reckless once, she'll probably be reckless again. And maybe next time she won't be so lucky. And... maybe that will ease in time. Maybe. I don't know."

By now, she's dropped her gaze again, and scooped some of the jam out onto the second layer of her cake stack. The jar gets set down again so that she can spread with her butter knife: long, even strokes.

"Right. That's the worst damn part, the not knowing." Ariadne's gaze on Una is utterly sympathetic, down to the half-smile she gives to make sure the conversation remains at least a little light. "It's something I struggle with too. Not knowing if someone's going to be safe or not. That was my little sister for a long time. Well...still is, to an extent. I was the perfect child, so she had to be seen, right? All sorts of shenanigans and some of them were dangerous. She ended up black-out drunk more than once when we were both in college and somehow got out of those with only a nosebleed."

The redhead shakes her head in turn, looking back to her work. She's still at the part of spreading frosting on the first two layers. "So...all I can do is hope she learns and be there for her like a fucking lioness if she needs help."

Una's seriousness is disrupted ever so slightly by Ariadne's claim to perfection, the corners of her mouth drawing up into an amused little smile. Still, there's a thoughtful seriousness in her eyes, even then, and eventually, too, in her slow little nod. Her hands have stilled again, as if they're taking turns, though she clutches her knife as if it were a lifeline. "A lioness," she repeats, and maybe that broadens her smile just a little.

"I like that. And-- yes. All of this. I do take the point. I can worry, but it's up to Jules to decide her own path, just like it's up to--" she hesitates, "--your sister, as well. I'm trying. I really don't enjoy the spiralling feeling. I hope your sister learns. I hope you don't need to keep worrying, though... I bet you will. I don't think we ever stop, with people we care about."

"A motherfucking lioness. Grr." Smirking at herself, the barista gives Una a fond glance and then actually gets to completing her first frosting-covered towering of cake and jam alike. She glances over again at the young woman after this first example is done and shifted to one side.

"Yeah, worrying is a thing. I accept it. I just...how to put it. This is me and how my brain works, I'm not trying to tell you how to do anything." She insists this gently before continuing: "I accept that adults are adults. And they're going to make adult decisions. And if they make a bad decision and I can help? Then I help. If I can't help? Then I can't and it's on them to learn their lessons, even if it hurts to watch them do it. And if they keep making mistakes? I try to help again. But there's only so much help I can give before it becomes the other person just...needing to figure things out for themselves. It doesn't mean that I'm not there. But it does mean that this other person has some serious thinking to do, y'know?" A little shrug, as if she was half-certain her own thoughts were still unpalatable somehow.

A lopsided smile, first: grr, indeed.

"These need to go in the fridge to firm up," says Una, who scoots in to scoop up Ariadne's tower along with her own, both carefully stowed in the fridge (which has finally been cleared out of all leftovers from last week's barbecue). It's perhaps a distraction from the topic at hand, taking those few moments to tetris the cakes in, but she comes back around to it as the door closes and she leans up against it for a moment though there are, of course, two more cake stacks to put together.

"Mmm," she says, her voice holding a certain amount of uncertainty. "Maybe. I mean-- yes, that makes sense, I guess." She guesses. If she has to. "Jules is not my responsibility; I know that. She's my friend and my housemate, but not by responsibility. I just-- don't think I know how to convince my brain of that. But I'll get there, right? I'm fine. Okay-- two more towers to make, right? And then we can start cutting. Do you want to do little squares, or circles? Or... I don't know. I think I have hearts and stars, too."

There goes the first tower. Ariadne watches it disappear in quiet curiosity -- oh, right, firming up.

"Hmm. Let's keep the squares for now? Since I'm not brave enough for more complicated stuff." She's still not afraid to laugh at herself by the soft titter. It's just baking, but...the whole adage about the 'perfect child' hadn't been too off. "And yeah, you'll get there. It takes time. No hurry. Your timeline is your own, mine is my own, insert wisdom here. Or something. I dunno. But!" A point of the frosting-covered knife at Una. "How are those plants doing? Are they responding well to your help?" The 'special help', as it were.

"Squares is definitely easier," grins Una, reaching to set another rectangle of cake on her board. "Fewer fiddly corners to worry about, once we get to the fondant-- though did I mention? We're cheating with that. Fondant is gross."

She spreads buttercream with a liberal hand, finally lifting her attention back towards Ariadne. "Oh, they're going well! I harvested carrots, last week, and they were all-- proper carrots, you know? Big and long and thi--" She pauses. Innuendo possibly not intentional, but definitely noted, now, given the way her cheeks pink and she laughs, a little wryly. "Point is: they came out beautifully. I'm doing some tomatoes, next. I'll donate as many to HOPE as I can, and can the rest, I guess. I've never canned a thing in my life, but it can't be that difficult, right?"

"I was hoping no fondant." The revelation comes with a grin equally amused and guilty. She defers to the Kitchen Cleric in these things, but still -- whew! No fondant.

Big and long and th... Ariadne's grin goes slowly more and more cheeky as her fellow redhead waxes on politely about the veggies and their eventual fates. She's pleased to hear about HOPE, having volunteered the idea at the barbecue. "I admit, I don't know a thing about canning -- " Why is her tone so light. " -- but hey, you've got your carrots and I've got my mollusks and Ravn's got -- "

Realizing where her mouth has taken her, Ariadne then shuts it and pinks up. "Ravn's got his explanations," she decides in the MOST DIGNIFIED MANNER POSSIBLE. "Because he's good at explaining things. Yes."

The 'no fondant' reaction makes Una grin, satisfied and amused: solidarity, though, in mutual agreement of the grossness of fondant (no matter how pretty it looks).

Satisfied amusement, however, fades to momentary confusion, and then-- her eyes grow wide and she goes positively scarlet in response. Ariadne's attempt at dignity results in her dropping her knife, both hands clasping to her mouth as she-- valiantly!-- holds back her giggles. Oh, her eyes are gleaming with mirth, and she's still horrendously red in the face, but at least the laughter doesn't entirely spill out.

She coughs. Once. A second time. Finally: "Yes. Good at explaining things. Yes." Yes indeed.

"OH MY GOD, UNA, I MEANT EXPLAINING THINGS!"

And really, Ariadne is a hue nearing that same blush in turn before she can't help but erupt into helpless laughter because dude. She's just dropped her knife too and fuck it, like she's really fooling anybody and her lack of filter is mortifying and please, nobody tell Ravn about this because he'll give her That Look and she'll die more on the inside and what's breathing anyways. Plop. The barista lands on her butt and holds herself, wheezing and fanning her own face.

"God -- fuck -- my mouth -- sorry, Una -- " We're still laughing, please hold.

This time, Una lifts both hands, as if to indicate her innocence-- and to be fair, she's... well, okay, probably not entirely innocent here, no.

This time, she does start to giggle, leaning up against the counter (carefully out of reach of the cake), eyes closed, just laughing.

It takes a moment. Two. Three even. Then, attempting to compose herself, though that laugh is never far from the surface, she says, "If I were someone else, I'd probably continue this conversation with a comment on his smart mouth. But I'm not that person, so you're safe. I just want you to know that."

"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-ho-ho-ho, UNA!!!!"

Smart mouth. Help. Nope. Barista down, call a medic, it's death by laughter. Her hair fans out on the kitchen floor as she lies on her back and drums the pads of her feet on the flooring.

"I hate you!" But not really, since she dug this hole for herself and really, it's completely natural for Una to tease all the more. "I hate you, friend!" More laughter, ow, her stomach hurts.

"I know," says Una, not without a repressed chuckle in her voice. "I'm the worst. I blame you and your stupid dick clams, just so we're clear, though. They have unleashed a monster, and I'm not sure I ever want that monster hidden away again."

That's probably an exaggeration-- this is clearly not the first time in her life Una has made innuendo-laden jokes-- but there's an element of something in there, anyway. A grain of truth: the repressed slightly less so.

"Are you dying down there? Am I going to have to explain to Ravn that it was all my fault, so sorry?"

A hand raises as one might in a classroom. "I am guilty!" declares Ariadne of the dick clam jokes and then proceeds to keep wheezing away. Another short tattoo of foot-pad drumming on the floor.

"Noooooo-ho-ho, I am NOT DYING. I'm mothtly dead," she replies in a quote from The Princess Bride. "You have mothtly killed me. Don't explain to Ravn, noooooooo!" A deep breath and grunt as she sits up and wipes under her eyes. "I am...an adult! And I can STOP LAUGHING. Right now. Ahem. Obser-her-her-herve. AHEM." Shaking her head, she then sees about fixing her hair as she sits on the floor, still tittering on and off. "You're wickedly funny and I hope you know it," she informs Una with a bright grin.

Laughter begets more laughter, but Una is doing a surprisingly good job of not losing herself to it entirely; that doesn't mean she's not grinning like a loon (and yes, the Princess Bride reference gets a snort of laughter, independent to the rest).

"Yes, yes," she agrees. "You're an adult, and you have full control over yourself; I believe you. I do. I promise, I won't tell Ravn. He'd probably die, and I'd hate to be responsible for that, either."

Is she funny? She seems pleased by the remark, though doesn't comment on it.

That, dear reader, is Ariadne sticking her tongue out in funning at Una because she's an Adult. Apparently.

Still, with a grunt, she gets up to her feet again and sighs, still unable to help laughing a few more times. "You are funny," insists the barista as she walks to the sink to wash her palms off. "And no killing Ravn." One can see her open to mouth to tartly continue that thought, but instead, she click-snorts. "Ahem. No killing Ravn." A point at Una, insistent and smirking. No Dane murdering. "I'm rather fond of him. Okay, now that my immature ass has it out of her system, another round of layering of cakes, right?" Hands are dried once more.

"I'll let him live," allows Una, imperiously, and still with a twitch of mirth about her mouth, not to mention the sparkle in her eyes. "Because you're fond of him, and I'm fond of watching the two of you be adorable together, so really, it's in my best interest. I promise, too, no more risque jokes, otherwise we might never end up with cake at the end of this, and also, my floor may not be able to take it. My heart may not be able to take it."

She, too, reclaims her position, and her knife: buttercream gets spread in careful, even strokes. "I do mean that, by the way. You are absolutely adorable together. I'm happy for you." There's a hesitation, there, as if there might be more she wants to say, but... doesn't.

"Yeah? Thank you." There's a shy pride in turn shown by Ariadne. She isn't, however, too enamored by the compliments to miss out on the hitch in thought. Una gets a lingering look, quietly curious, and the barista takes the time to begin frosting up her own collection of cake-lets before she speaks again.

"Something on your mind though?" So gently, she asks this with another glance up. "I ask because I'm your friend."

"Yeah," says Una, after a moment's pause. She adds the second, rectangular layer to her cake, now, hesitating over the jam before she begins. "When... Ravn told me, about you two, he said something about-- worrying he was competing with me, and not wanting to compete, and it being a thing. And that came up before, too, I just didn't realise until then that it was me he was worried about. And mostly... I just wanted to reassure you that it's not a thing. I think you're amazing, and I think he's amazing, and I am absolutely one hundred per cent not-- you know."

The words kind of blurt out; she's blushing, too.

Buttercream bunches up where Ariadne's knife slows. Her face doesn't evince any concern, not yet, more one of those moues of semi-intense focus. It might hard sometimes, being friends with a scientist, for how the emotion all but evaporates to be replaced by cool contemplation in turn. In Ariadne's case? Her brows lift. Yes, she knows about Ravn not wishing to compete, they too had discussed this more than once in the dance steps of figuring out just what was going on.

Once Una is done speaking, the barista's mouth in its silent oval slowly spreads to a smile utterly fond. "Ohhh, the both of you. God, I adore you both." Setting her buttercream knife down, she walks over to lean on the counter. "You, little miss, are amazing too and I am one-hundred percent sure that I follow you exactly. You? You're my tribe, girlfriend. You showed a new gal kindness and fed her more than once when she didn't have food. Hell, you even took the time to dye her hair. I'm going to be like that ultra-friendly alley cat you just can't get rid of. If you're alright with it? I'd like to be your friend until...well, forever. Hug?" And she opens her arms wide in clear invitation.

As she speaks, Una's kept her gaze downwards, likely trying to avoid getting any sign of Ariadne's reaction lest it prevent her from being able to finish in the first place: some things require full concentration, and this is one of them.

But the barista's 'ohhh' and the words that immediately follow it seem to give her leave to look up, to meet her gaze with a crooked-smiled expression, and eyes that are wide and guileless. "I'd like that," is probably more for the BFFs than for the hug, given the moment of hesitation that follows it. Una's not always good at physical affection, even in this, most innocent of forms; sometimes she turns it down, freezes up, walks away.

But whatever thoughts are still going through her head right now, evidently that's one thing she's worked out with reasonable quickness: she sets down her knife altogether, and steps forward so that she can move in to Ariadne's embrace, her own arms wrapping a little tentatively around the other woman's waist. "Thank you," she murmurs, a little muffled.

"C'mere, you," mumbles Ariadne right back. She's from a family of huggers, apparently, and knows how to give a firm one without it turning into rib-creaking territory. A 'skwudge', as her father might call them. "You're very welcome, girlfriend. You've been more than kind. Being here for you in turn is the least I can do, especially with how well we all get along to boot. Ravn has talked about how he wants to make sure I get along with his guy-pals. I'm so blessed to not have to worry about that...really at all with you and the others."

Given she's told Una's shoulder this, she takes a step back without breaking all contact; gently, her palms remain at Una's biceps. "You're an amazing person and I need you to know it, yeah?" A fond grin for her fellow redhead and subtle cant of head.

Una is a little stiff, at first, but softens after a moment or two: the firmness of Ariadne's embrace is comforting in its solidity, and easy to relax into.

When the other woman steps back, Una's reaction is to retreat, but she's stayed by that continued comfort, her chin lifting as she attempts-- and then, finally succeeds-- in meeting her gaze. "So are you," she says, quietly, and without hesitation. "I'm incredibly grateful, truly. And I'm happy, seeing my friends pair up and be happy. And I'm happy, too, that no one is walking away from me as a result. Truly-- I'm just really happy."

"Nah. Us, leave you?" Her smile turns just the right balance of sad and still fond. "That's not how it works around here. You're important to us. We're going nowhere, you're going nowhere, and if we were to go somewhere? We'd expect you to tag along because you are important. You're a critical puzzle piece in the fabric of this town and a right colorful one at that. One of the fun pieces to find," Ariadne continues the allusion with a little giggle. Yes, it's a ridiculous comparison, but somehow, it still works.

Another gentle squeeze at the younger redhead's biceps. "Can't have a full picture without you."

Una gives a crooked smile, this time, and then laughs. "Dita said something about fully expecting me to track her down, if she left town. And I would-- somehow. No one's allowed to leave, not without me." But that smile broadens, too, and she nods-- a little more certain, a little more sure. "I'm here," she agrees. "And I belong, as much as all of you. So-- yes. We're all good. All parts of the whole, bringing our own gifts to the table."

That little rueful note to her voice is probably only this: she didn't mean to devolve this down into that old insecurity yet again. She didn't! It was supposed to be no more than 'you and your boyfriend are adorable'.

"Hey, I'd help you track Dita down. Woe betide. I have Sam and he has a nose."

Except he's a sighthound, really, and Ariadne would be putting a lot of faith in him -- and Dita's far smarter than to leave any sort of trail like that. But it's the thought which counts!

"Yep, all parts of the whole. Great way to put it." Another beam for Una. "So we'll keep being the sum of the parts and keep putting the Veil on its back-foot every time it gets saucy with us. Yiss. Olden-timey threats, what ho," she then says, mocking one of those Stiff Upper-Lip British accents (that drives Ravn insane). A last squeeze of the younger redhead's biceps and Ariadne returns to her section of the counter.

"She'd stand no chance at all," says Una, grinning, true or not. It's the thought that counts, maybe.

She's got a giggle, too, for Ariadne's 'British' accent, but forestalls further comment until she's picked up her knife again, all the better to spread the jam quickly and evenly. "The first trays of cake should be ready to slice up into little sections, once we're done with these. Then we'll freeze them briefly while we make our glaze. Candy melts and cream: much superior to fondant, and much easier to work with, too."

Ariadne too gets to working a bit more quickly. Conversation means temperature gradient changes and she can tell these could be good or bad for the process of the cakes thus far. She's spreading her layer of jam as well while Una explains and nods brightly.

"I'm down with it. I figure, what...the freezing helps keep everything stable? Like, the buttercream doesn't start becoming too malleable. I imagine if you try to cover the outside of the cake while the buttercream is too warm, it goes fwoop!" A flick of her knife. Thankfully -- this time -- the buttercream frosting doesn't go sailing across the kitchen at Una like some sudden delicious bombardment. "I remember one time, my mom made my dad a birthday cake and it was too warm outside. He's an August baby, my dad. The cake's top layer slid right off itself and PLOP."

Oh, Una. This time? Total aerial frosting bombardment. Does anybody dodge it?

Una's merry laugh is, given the timing of it, first for the knife flick that does not send buttercream everywhere, and secondly for the birthday cake that went plop. Ariadne's right in her conjecture, and the nod that comes with the laugh confirms it.

Words would probably follow, except: splat.

Does Una even see the frosting coming? Maybe not, given her abrupt shriek the the flying wad hits her square in the mouth.

"Oh -- SHIT -- SORRY -- "

And Ariadne is sorry. She is. So sorry. But also, so laughing hysterically again and not watching where she puts down her knife-holding hand.

FLIP -- there goes her own bowl of buttercream. Una's an excellent baker and knows better than to use breakable bowls. Frosting still, per the rules of physics, flips up to splash along Ariadne's arm and on her neck. She yelp-laughs and then starts cussing in Hungarian with liberal splashings of standard English. "GAH -- FUCK -- NO-HO-HO -- HOW DARE -- " How dare what precisely, karma? Either way, she's now laughing hard enough for her eyes to glitter and it's truly helplessly as she tries to make her way over towards the sink without dislodging frosting to the kitchen floor.

Buttercream drips down Una's chin, mostly because she's laughing too hard to try and do anything else with it: swallow, or spit, or wipe it away.

But that laughter's got nothing on what follows, as the bowl goes flip and Ariadne, too, gets a healthy coating of buttercream. This time, it's Una's turn to sink down towards the floor, crouching there with one hand holding on to the rim of the counter to keep her from falling further, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck," she says, trying to breathe around the laughter.

Whoever knew that baking was so dangerous?

Baking is apparently incredibly dangerous. It obeys all rules of Newtonian physics.

"Stop -- laughing -- DAMNIT -- " Kind of hypocritical when Ariadne too is howling like an asthmatic hyena by the sink. The shirt needs a wash. A soaked washrag is at least in the process of getting the frosting off of her arm. Neck is next. "And just -- for fuck's sake -- use your tongue for the fr..."

What's English. Unable to finish the sentence because, just...look, okay? Look. It's frosting and a mouth and really, god help them all. Ariadne ends up collapsed on the edge of the sink, face buried in her folded arms, still laughing to wake the dead.

By this point, the laughter is surely loud enough to rouse anyone else who might be home-- perhaps no one is. Perhaps the insulation is just really, really good. Who can tell?

Una's trying to stop laughing, still clinging on to the counter for dear life, but Ariadne's laughing, and laughter is contagious, and-- grasping fingers hook accidentally against the two layers of cake she was in the process of layering, and fumble. The angle's wrong for the cake to go flying, but that doesn't mean her fingers don't sink straight through it, grasping at cake instead of for purchase on the solidity of the countertop.

She falls, sliding out of her crouch and onto the ground, taking a big, jammy, buttercream-y handful with her.

The laughter's not going to stop anytime soon, is it?

"Oh -- Jesus fuck -- "

What are words? Ariadne's stomach and ribs are beginning to hurt in earnest, but she can't -- stop -- wheezing -- because -- cake strangulation --

Her glance over at Una upon hearing the sounds of counter fumbling had been perfect. Now, the Kitchen Cleric has sustained cake damage and god help her because Ariadne's a Bard and really only good for aggrandizing this story until it sounds like the two of them all but started a turf war with buttercream frosting and cake squares. If Ariadne hasn't noticed her helpless, slow slump down the front of the kitchen sink cupboards has smeared frosting up into her hair?

Samwise will! Helpful dogs are helpful.

The laughter could well continue forever, except that there's only so much punishment lungs and ribs can take, really. Una's slows, finally, until she's hiccoughing instead of laughing, breathing heavily, staring blindly at her cake-and-frosting-and-jam covered fingers, not to mention the pieces of cake that have fallen down to the floor with her.

"That," she says, finally. "Was not meant to happen."

Beat. "I need a drink."

"Oh my god, can I have one too?" wheezes Ariadne from over by the sink where she's a half-melted, frosting-coated slump of barista. Una's cake-coated fingers send her into another short reel and she holds her hand over her mouth to half-hide this until she finds her breath again. "Shit -- shit, my ribs, I give -- please, no more!"

She's able to glance over at Una safely after another moment or two. "God, yes, a drink, and we get these damn things figured out and chilled because there's a next step. If the petit fours end up less like squares and more like rectangles or whatever? They're also edible. I also promise to get all of the frosting off of your sink and cupboards, oh my god." Cue tittering as Ariadne makes her way to her feet to see about the frosting on her neck she can feel.

Una's gaze darts around the kitchen, taking in the mess. It doesn't seem to bother her much: in truth, she may have stopped herself from laughing, but the grin is undiminished. Now, finally, she finds herself a napkin, wiping down her face, and then her hand, and then dabbing at the front of her shirt, too, where that helpful apron hasn't quite covered as much as it needs to. "It'll clean," she promises Ariadne, unfazed. "I think my tower here may be done for, though: what a mess!"

It's true: her stack of cake has big mashed finger marks in it, and while perhaps the far corner could be salvaged, it's probably not worth it. "Good thing there's plenty of cake. Right. Yes. Beer? Or there's some bourbon. Because we are going to get these things done, whatever happens. They can be wobbly, they can be misshapen, they can be ugly as hell... but they are going to be finished."

After a thoughtful glance over: "Beer," announces the barista while she re-wets the washcloth for more daubing at her shirt. Her neck? Clean. Her hair? Will need a wash. The shirt? Same thing, but at least most of the frosting is coming out with some dedicated work. "Since you keep the good stuff and Ravn's not around to tell me I have terrible taste. Pfft. He's such a hypocrite," she chides fondly of the Dane. "He drinks dishwater, for fuck's sake." Headshake, tsk-tsk.

"Also, cake is edible even if it's ugly, so yes -- let's get the Leaning Towers of Piza-Fours figured out here, one way or another! I'll eat the misshapen ones anyways. Or maybe I can take them to work, my coworkers will be very impressed. Though..." She gives Una a curious look. "If the café were to ask you about baking goodies once a week for us to put out, would you do it? A little extra side money...?"

Una's attempt at cleaning herself up has been only partly successful, but at least the buttercream is no longer lingering about her mouth and chin. The rest? That can wait. Baking is messy, after all; it's really only to be expected. "Beer," she confirms. "The good stuff, and not the terrible dishwater your boyfriend prefers. No taste, that man." Beat. "Aside from dating you, obviously, and being my friend."

She's slower to answer the rest, taking a moment to hunt through the fridge for appropriately good beer, and then find a bottle opener with which to open the two bottles. She sets one carefully down near Ariadne's work station (a good long distance from the edge of the bench, let's be clear), and another near her own, where she can eye the remnants of her cake again. "I mean, I vote we just cut off the handprint bits of this one, and eat it with dollops of frosting, when we're done. I'd-- maybe. I don't want to make a proper business of the baking, but some? I'd consider that. Too much, and it would take the fun out of it, maybe. But small-scale, maybe."

Silvery laughs wisps out from over by the sink. "Yeah, he's got good taste in those things." Both things, in the woman he's dating and the friends he chooses.

Shirt will just need a wash, alas. At least any other spatters have been stopped by her apron. Ariadne finishes rinsing out the rag and hangs it over the side of the sink before returning to her own bench. Taking up the beer, she lifts it in silent cheers towards Una. A deep swig and then it's set aside out of accidental bump reach. Wise, given their experience with frosting. "Number one, agreed about eating cut-off handprint bits. Twist my arm. Number two -- yeah, I follow. This is fun. A business does take a little fun out of it, you're not wrong. But hey, it's an idea, right? No need to follow through on it."

Una lifts her drink in reply, and takes a happy quaff of her own. Setting it down, she shifts her cake out of the way, moving it to the table where it can await its eventual consumption. "Arm appropriately twisted, excellent," she says, with a gleeful little laugh. "And-- yeah. It's an idea. I'll give it some thought, anyway. Not that everything you guys serve is disappointing, but... " Professional discourtesy requires her to be dismissive anyway, albeit with that quirked little smug of amusement.

"Okay," she says. "How's your bit going? Ready for the fridge? I'm going to get out one of the others and start chopping it up. Hopefully I can manage that without incident... no funny business while I have a knife in my hand, you hear? Promise me."

"Cross my heart." And indeed, Ariadne does etch a criss-cross line on her apron above her heart -- with a clean fingertip, mind you, no more frosting smeared on her clothing if she can manage it. "No funny business while the knife is in your hand. Also."

A finger is shaken at the Kitchen Cleric. "Don't you sass our pastries, missy! They're waaaaaay better than a lot of places sell and you know it! But almost done with my bit, promise." There: another smearing of buttercream frosting (where it should be smeared, thank you very much) and her stack o' cake squares is complete. She brings her little tray over to the fridge and inserts it. Then, curious as to how the cooled tower of pound cake is going to cut, she lingers by Una's bench -- after retrieving her beer, of course.

The crossing of Ariadne's heart makes Una grin, and the laugh: way to bring back childhood memories. Of Espresso Yourself's baked goods, however? "Pfft. Okay, fine. Yes. They're a lot better than plenty of places, I know, I know." Such an admission. "And your coffee is definitely better than mine, even if I am just drinking black filter coffee anyway. Maybe it's just the joy of drinking it somewhere that isn't here? I don't know."

The first of the chilled trays of cakes is fetched out of the fridge, and Una demonstrates the slicing with an experienced hand: long, even cuts, breaking the rectangle up into (more or less) 1" squares. "Bite-sized," she says, with a laugh, demonstrating with a wave of her hand. "In theory, we should add more buttercream around each side. For absolutely perfect squares, you do a crumb coat, which sort of... glues the cake down, so it can't escape and ruin your straight lines? And then you add a thicker layer of buttercream on top of that, and then the glaze. But... let's embrace the imperfections and just go for the glaze, yes?"

"Crumb coat," echoes Ariadne in mildly bewildered sotto-voce, eyebrowing at the one inch-sized squares with their two sides lacking frosting. Another sip of her beer and she nods, glancing at Una again. "I'd say go for the glaze, yes, since it's me learning and there's no baking contest involved. Like I said, I'd like to pawn off the majority of them once you've taken your share. It's only me at the apartment these days."

A beat. "Well. Mostly only me, but still. Sam can't have one of these without serious tummy upset. I want to watch you do the glaze first though, please?"

Nice save.

"Mostly?" Una's chin lifts as she raises her attention from the cake to Ariadne, all innocent smiles. "See, these are almost small enough you might get Ravn to eat one. Maybe."

Not that she lets her attention stay there for too long, not when there's one more slice to be made, not to mention the tray to be put in the freezer, and the next tray lifted from the fridge. "Crumb coat is a really thin layer of buttercream. Sorry-- all these fancy terms, I know." Her beer is positively languishing, though she does pause, now, to take another sip of it.

While Ariadne might try for innocence of expression in return, she fails. There, the twitch of lips and faint dusting of pink on her cheeks. Still, she sips her own beer and nods.

"That's admittedly a little counterintuitive, 'crumb coat' being a layer of frosting, because my brain went, 'somehow, you dust a layer of frosting with crumbs and then add more frosting' like it was some sort of extra adhering property. But it makes sense now. Like, it's a layer of frosting against crumbs. To keep the cake in place." She walks over to the fridge after setting her beer aside and fetches one of the cooled sheets. "So now comes the glazing?"

Una can tease, but she's not the kind who is inclined to press: that's one topic she leaves alone.

"Exactly," she agrees. "Like a raincoat, but protecting the outer layer from the inner layer. Baking is full of ridiculous terms that makes sense when you know them, but not otherwise. I guess that's a lot like science, though, right? Lots of very specific terminology?"

She doesn't wait for the answer, though it's clear enough she's interested. Instead, she grabs another bowl, and to this, adds a bag of candy melts and thickened cream. "Now comes the glazing," she confirms. "Melts and cream. Pink for this too? Or purple? I can't do-- uh, the colour you mentioned earlier. Amaranthine? But a paler purple, maybe. Or blue."

A tap-tap of fingernail against her teeth after Ariadne moves the cooled tray to her bench. She's set to cut this tower up as demonstrated earlier. "Uh. Paler purple? I feel like you'd need a lot of dye to get towards amaranthine. The purple could compliment the yellow of the cake?" She shrugs in question. "But you're also not wrong about the bit about science. Baking might as well be a science in itself. I know a few people who would argue it's a literal science. What's that term... Maillard browning and all. Precise measurements and temperatures, etcetera."

Her own knife gets to sizing out the smaller squares now in rough approximations of Una's earlier examples.

"You'd end up dying everyone's mouths purple, and as fun as it is to do that on some occasions, it's probably not what you want with dainty little cakes," agrees Una, with a laugh. "Paler purple, however, is perfectly doable."

The bowl goes in the microwave, which is turned on for a few seconds. Una glances back, reaching to reclaim her drink while she waits. "Baking is absolutely a science. Maillard browning, yes. I mean, when you think about it... how cool is it that combining eggs and flour and milk and sugar makes cake. How did we figure that out? I mean-- bread first, I guess. Flat bread, and then some accident with yeast and suddenly... leavened bread. It's amazing."

Ah-hah: candy melts and cream get microwaved. A thoughtful nod from Ariadne before she glances back at Una again.

"It's really trippy to consider, yes. Like...some of what we take for granted comes from total accidents. I think I've heard that about chocolate chip cookies. Or some kind of cookie. Or was it cheese-covered potatoes. Like, something which hadn't been done before and someone's cook was like, 'shit, I don't have an ingredient, I'll have to make do' and BAM: a pastry we take for granted today. Also, leavened bread is delicious and now I want some, how dare you," the barista laughs.

"That's my real superpower," Una says, laughing outright. "Making people hungry. I win again!"

Microwave goes bing. Bowl gets taken out, the resulting mixture stirred. The shorter of the two redheads glances up. "I mean, that's the same with a lot of science, I think? So many random discoveries. New treatments for things discovered by accident, when trying to create a treatment for something else. Happy accidents are amazing. Experimentation, too."

Ariadne laughs along with. "How very dare," she reiterates jokingly before going back to cutting the cake towers up. The sizing of the squares seems about right now, she thinks as she steps back, angling the frosting-and-crumb-coated knife off to one side.

"Precisely." A bright smile for Una. "Happy scientific accidents are just plain awesome. Sometimes, they even lead to better accidents. I mean, I'm a simple creature, I like combining baking soda and vinegar for homemade volcanos. Mentos and Coke isn't half-bad either. I was always jealous of the liquid nitrogen and the rose my science prof dipped into it. The rose comes out so glittering and fragile; like, he tapped it on the counter and it shattered like glass. Just...so freakin' cool how that worked."

"They look good," Una says, indicating the cake pieces with a bob of her head. "Pop them in the freezer with the others?" The glaze goes back in the microwave, but not for long: another 20 seconds, on the clock.

"Ohhh, the homemade volcanos, yes! I remember doing that experiment in grade school. I've never seen the liquid nitrogen trick, though I think I've heard about it, because that sounds eerily familiar. Maybe there was a YouTube video. That's awesome. I love this world, you know? Even without anyone needing to step into the Other Side, this world is... amazing."

"It is very flippin' cool. I could play with liquid nitrogen for a week. Though, if you want a hilarious video series, look up, 'Does It Blend' followed by 'Does It Microwave'. I'm fairly certain nothing terrible is put in, mostly things like cell phones and other objects you want nowhere near an industrial blender but always wanted to know what would happen. Because...industrial blenders."

Ariadne can't help laughing as she puts the tray back into the freezers. "I haven't been to this Other Side. You have?"

Una's eyes light. Chances of her looking up this videos in the near future? High. Very high. "Industrial blenders, because why not. That's exactly what they were made for." Not true, but oh, if only it were.

"No," she adds, as the microwave goes ding again, and she lifts the bowl out. This time, it gets a harder stir, and an experimental lift-and-drip of the contents: it's becoming nicely runny. "No, I haven't. But it feels like people keep getting excited about it. I mean... maybe it's kind of cool that there's another Gray Harbor over there? Maybe. But I like this world. There would need to be a very specific reason for me to seek out the other. Not just curiosity."

Nicely runny indeed, Ariadne thinks as she meanders over to observe the consistency of this glaze-to-be.

"I'm with you. Unless there's some sort of guide book about it or I have a guide myself? Nope. I don't want to know if there's another me out there. Sorry. I think one of me is enough for this world and my sanity," the barista laughs as she leans on the counter a bit of the way down from Una and the microwave. "I dunno. I'm just...one of those people who needs more information when it comes to adventures. I'm for being spontaneous, yes, but I have to know all of the variables. Or most of them so I can predict them. I know." A wave of her bottle. "Control freak."

"Scientist," Una counters, with a crooked smile. She pauses, now, so that she can add food colouring to the mixture: a carefully precise amount of drops of blue and red to make the nice pale purple promised. One more round in the microwave, though, and as she gets that going, she adds, "I don't know if that's being a control freak. That's-- being smart, to my mind. There are so many unknowns about all of this, right? And it's dangerous. We know it's dangerous; we've seen it. Physically, via Dreams, but also... also the rest of it."

She keeps her eyes on the microwave. "I can play my part in all of this from right here, for now. If that changes... well, we'll deal with that, if it comes up. If there's a need to go walkabout."

Another long tip of her beer to her mouth and Ariadne nods as she swallows. "Right, only a need for it. I'm fine staying here and keeping an eye on things. Ravn can be the brave one and do walkabouts as he wants. Not that he has, lately, but...he thinks aloud about it now and then. It makes me worry." Her sigh is, indeed, concerned. Lashes momentarily drop as her gaze drops in turn, tracking across the kitchen floor to the window, where the lawn can be seen.

"But that's me not knowing variables as a scientist," she adds with a self-effacing little smile at Una. "I'd be worried for any of you if you went walking into the Other Side."

The microwave goes beep again, but Una stays where she is, watching Ariadne. "I haven't seen anything to suggest that it's not something to be worried about," she murmurs. "And in general, I'd be the last one to judge anyone on their worry. I know what Ravn talks about. I know he's not suicidally rash or anything like that. But-- I will worry about anyone, yes. Just like you. Because it's not a happy place. And... you know, I don't want to go, but the idea of sitting here and waiting for people to come back? That freaks me out too."

"Right, because...you just don't know what's going on and that's the worst part."

Ariadne sighs almost into her beer. A leaning-slide down the counter as she sees about leaning shoulder to shoulder and then resting head on Una's shoulder in turn. "Hopefully nobody's that reckless, right?" Her soft laugh can be heard and possibly felt. "Hopefully. God. I think a lot of us have a bit of a 'white knight' complex...or at least an impulsive urge to fix a problem now...which isn't a bad thing. It's not. It's just sometimes...impulsive." Another sip of her beer.

It can be felt. Una's warm and still, her exhale reverberating as she leans her head back against Ariadne's-- tentatively, perhaps, but still. "Have you met Jules?" is a little wry, but there's a blurt of laughter, too. "or Ava. I think you're right: part of the appeal of this place is the community, and how can you be part of a community without wanting to help other people, or make things better? But the point is to find the ways that you can, and not... tilt at windmills, I guess, just in the hopes of making them be something they aren't. That's where the problems come."

Snort-laugh. "I have, in fact, met Jules...and Ava. They're my prime examples. They're missing horses for their knighthood. I aspire to be like them, in a way. Movers-and-shakers."

Ariadne continues leaning. The beer, on an empty stomach, is beginning to give a light buzz. That, and Una hasn't moved. "But I'd rather not tilt at windmills, yeah, and the current issues I'm aware of are at least kettles with lids. Nothing's boiling over. I'm not about to go turning up the heat on something which doesn't need any more interference. I prefer to save up energy and focus it all on a problem so not only is it resolved? It's resolved." That required extra emphasis, apparently. A sigh. "It'd probably be bad manners if I stuck my finger in the glaze to taste-test it, right?" Giggle.

"I'd say Jules is more barbarian than paladin," says Una, after a moment's consideration. "Ava, I'm not so sure of. Cleric. Druid, maybe. I don't know that I ever want to be like them; I think I'm happy being a support member of the party."

Una clearly hasn't drunk enough of her own beer, yet, but she's been soothed into an easiness all the same; it does the job. "I think there are a lot of things that are threatening to boil over, though-- and some that maybe have had fuel added to them. I don't know. I don't know enough, I think is the problem. I want to research. I'll help, but you have to do things in an orderly and logical fashion."

At least she laughs for that. Or maybe it's for the glaze? It's a reminder-- and it means she pulls away, maybe reluctantly, but maybe also with purpose: to get the glaze out of the microwave again, and to suggest, "Teaspoon? Dribble some on the cake remnants. I think it's ready to go now anyway."

"Okaaaaaaaaay." Ariadne's teasing by the 'put out' tone she evinces. Grinning, she then moves aside for the revelation of the readied glaze and kills her beer with a few gulps. A soft burp behind her fist -- "Excuse me!" -- and she goes to put the bottle away into the recycling bin.

"I like your assignments though. Cleric for Ava, yes, if not Druid. Jules as someone who can whallop somebody? Yes. But maybe still a Paladin, in a way. I'm sure there's some happy middle involved no matter what. I..." Another laugh as she lingers by the bench where the soon-to-be-glazed cake towers await. "It's silly, but imagine with our powers combined! Or something. Those nearly-boiling pots? Could jam lids on them nice and hard. After some research," the marine biologist still agrees.

The put out tone makes Una laugh, but not as much as that burp, which sets her eyes to glittering with amusement.

"Yeah," she agrees. "Jules is a crusader. That's true. Clearly she's cross-classed somewhere along the line. Dual-classed? Whatever. I don't know what the term is."

The glaze gets set down on the bench between their two workstations, and given another quick stir. Then, she digs into the drawer again to pull out a handful of thin metal skewers. "I-- yes, yes exactly. Jam the lids down on them, or maybe, better yet, turn the heat off. I like to think we can do that. I hope we can. Okay-- you ready for this? We're going to skewer each little cake tower, dunk into the glaze, and then set out on the tray. Easy. Messy, but easy."

"I'm pretty sure we can turn off the heat. Just might take some effort first." Ariadne grins in that easy-going way of hers. Power in numbers? Hell yes, and she'll believe it until the day she dies.

But! There are cakes to skewer and for some reason, she giggles at this. "Okay, got it, dunk into glaze and set on tray, make mess, lick fingers and pretend we didn't do it. Have an extra skewer? Enable meeeeeee," she singsongs, clearly and comfortable lightly buzzed now.

The corners of Una's mouth twist up with unrepentant enthusiasm. "Exactly right," she agrees. "Any licking didn't happen, you can't prove it, don't you dare suggest otherwise. Here you go, m'lady." A spare skewer is handed over with a flourish: like a ceremonial sword, though she does not go so far as to try and knight Ariadne with it first.

"I'm not unwilling to put in effort," she adds, fetching cake pieces from the freezer, then reaching to stick her skewer into the first piece of cake. She's lucky: she manages to get her piece of cake all the way into the bowl, swirled around in it, and then out again and onto the tray without losing it in the glaze (or anywhere else for that matter). It's all very pretty: even dripping, the candy glaze is shiny and smooth.

Maybe Una should have knighted her assistant in this endeavor.

Ariadne watches how the piece of layered cake is dipped, turned and lifted out before being set down. The glaze even fills the tiny skewer hole in the center and la voila: it's so -- "Prettyyyyyyy," she coos, leaning in to look at it and how the glaze spreads nicely through gravity and shaping of cake in turn. "Okay, my turn."

Cake is skewered -- "Grr!" It required sound effects, okay? -- and then dipped.

And then lost when Ariadne pulls the skewer back too quickly. "Nuuuuuuuu!" Stab. Fail. Fail stab again. Cake, sinking, like the Titanic. "Never let go, Jack! SHIT!" Save the cake! SAVE IT!

Una's pleased and a little proud of how well the little petit four comes out, and having set it down so very carefully, claims her beer-- she can safely drink while Ariadne takes her turn, right?

Possibly not. The 'grr' earns a giggle that nearly results in sprayed beer, and the rest?

A bright cackle of laughter-- thankfully she's stopped drinking before then, and only needs to hastily wipe at her mouth to catch any remnants. "Noooooo, man overboard. Alas, alack... do you think we can save him? Do you want, um, hm. Tongs? Something?"

Giggle. Snicker. Tiny, careful sip of beer.

"Nuuuuuuuuu!" It continues, the attempt to fish out the half-lost squaring of layered cake, but the skewer isn't enough. It even has the audacity to let a forlorn bubble of air pop on the surface of the glaze.

Such a SIGH. "Yeeeeeeeessssssss, fine, tongs." Ariande raspberries at the glaze bowl and waits for the tongs. "I promise not to lose the next one. This has that same inconvenience level as losing a chip in dip, I swear to god. You know? When a chip breaks and you're like, well, shit, I wanted chip AND dip, not just broken chip."

Una stares at that air bubble as if she sees it as a personal betrayal. How could it. How dare it.

It doesn't mean she can't keep laughing all the way to the drawer and back, giving the tongs an experimental (and vital: it's just not done to use tongs without testing them first) test snap just to make sure they still work. Or... because reasons. Because. She hands them over, going back to her beer.

"Ugh, yes. Broken chip is useless, because the ratio is all off. And you can try and dig it out with another chip, but then you end up with layered chips, and crumbs, and just... not the way it is supposed to go. Okay: excavate. You can do it!"

"It's like you've suffered this conundrum with chips and dip before," laughs Ariadne as she takes the tongs and gives them her own experimental snap. Snap-snap, kitchen castanets, beautiful.

What's not so beautiful? -- is the barista trying to fish out the mostly-sunk cake from the glaze. She has it...and then she doesn't. Plorp. "The fuck." She has it again, but this time, she squeezes too hard, and now it's glaze-soaked mishmash falling apart into the glaze while Ariadne continues letting out this semi-howl of disappointment: "NUUUUUUU, damnit! Come on! Cake! You're embarrassing me in front of the baker!"

Oh well. It's edible, at least, what pieces she fishes out (three of them) to put on the tray. At this point, she's just laughing again. Help.

This time, it takes significantly longer for Una's giggles to clear, no doubt aided by the fact that she's now drunk a fair amount of her beer and is rapidly joining Ariadne in the world of tipsiness. That's when she makes another attempt of her own, getting the skewered cake all the way into the bowl without incident... but utterly failing to get it out again.

They're cursed.

This, too, results in giggles. And finally: "I think... maybe the cake isn't cold enough. Let's put this all back into the freezer and... um try again later?"

Eventually they might get more than one perfect petit four. But the jury's still out.

"Oh noooooooo, Jack, NEVER LET GO!"

It's funny as hell when buzzed, okay? Ariadne holds her stomach and nods while she laughs more. "I'm fine with that, yes, trying again later. We eat some of the mess, take a break, watch a movie, come back when we're more sober. Here, stuff gets put away." And indeed, without dropping any bowls this time, the barista manages to assist Una in getting everything put away where it temporarily should be. After this?

Movie time! Later, more petit fours because they will triumph!