souffle_girlek | (no subject)

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Early in the morning, before most of the bar is awake, a tiny time traveler visits the kitchen. She would stay at home for a late-night snack, usually, but...

Well.

Ace already knows way too much about the Wells' romantic life, and about one picosecond downstairs at the farm let her know that sticking around would only teach her more. And since Bar was getting a break in the quiet hours of the night, Ace decides to fetch a snack herself. It's really too bad she left her current project on top of the microwave when she left.

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"Well, you see, it's not as easy as going 'yay, souffle'... well, actually, that's pretty much the whole plan, but you have to make it a flavor first, and there's all sorts of flavors." Oswin explain, her nerves translating to babble as she leads them into the kitchen.

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She hands over a bowl of whipped whites in answer, holding up her hand-mixer as the whisks slowly whir to a stop.

"I'll go get us a pan, shall I?"

"Sounds good," Autor says, letting some cheerfulness seep into his voice. After all, he's making a soufflé, and this is fun. "When do we add the pumpkin?"

"Ack, before the whites, before the whites!" Oswin yelps, fetching a can of pumpkin puree and the spices and handing them over, belatedly. "The whites are all delicate and full of air and temperamental as hell."

"Oh, so like you," Autor teases. He opens the pumpkin can with a can opener and scoops it out into the béchamel. He steps back to let Oswin add the spices.

"Watch it, bookboy, or I'll have the spiderbots steal all of your underwear and use them as lampshades in the bar-room." Oswin huffs, measuring and dumping the aromatic powders.

Autor absolutely believes that she's not only capable of that, but willing, so he shuts up. He breathes in the scent of the spices, wincing at Oswin's sloppy way of measuring.

"Ah, so, do we add the whites to the béchamel or the béchamel to the whites?" Because that's an important distinction.

"Whites to the bechamel, and carefully - mix them in too vigorously and you'll lose all of the fluffy."

Oswin is highly technical in her baking-talk.

Autor steps forward--he's supposed to be the one learning here, after all--and carefully adds the whites to the béchamel. They glop off his spatula into the pumpkin base.

"This smells delicious," he murmurs, and glances over to his friend. "How high do we set the oven?"

"Three-hundred and seventy five degrees." Oswin instructs, hopping up onto one of the non-messy countertops. "And then we wait. Hey, have you ever played 'Risk'?"

Autor scoops the soufflé batter into the buttered pan, leaning forward to smell it again. He sets the oven and the timer, and places the soufflé inside.

"'Risk'?" he says, shaking his head. "No, I've never played. I don't get up to risky business very often."

"Oh, we are so playing this game now, you're going to love it." Oswin crows, sending a rat to go fetch the board game.

They are deep into a bitter drawn-out war over the Middle East when Oswin perks up, frowning.

"Do you smell that?"

Autor inhales a breath through his nose, and his eyes widen. "Oh, no," he says, and walks over to peer into the oven. "Fire!"

Oswin curses in a language he probably hasn't stumbled across yet and scoops up the fire extinguisher - she's become way too well acquainted with these, but at least it lets her charge forward with confidence.

Once the oven and its contents are sprayed down with a heavy layer of foam (and then some more, just for good measure), she takes a moment to assess the situation.

"... maybe Bar will give us a souffle."

"A pumpkin soufflé," Autor says mournfully, shaking his head. "That's too bad. Nice work with the extinguisher."

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