Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
"Supposedly baking is a labor of love," she explained patiently, with an exaggerated snobbish twang to her voice that some of the more well-off families in the region had acquired. "It is all about the details, and the effort one puts in... or something like that." She dropped the accent and grinned at him. "Can't say I believe it, though. You whip your cream however you want, brother dearest."
After digging through a cupboard, Maea found little tartlette-moulds and scooped some of the crumble mixture into them. Pressing down with the back of a spoon, she lined them up to be filled, once the mousse mixture was ready.
"Hm, I guess that makes more sense. Though really, they tried to pile books on you; from where I'm standing, that's basically being showered in love. I got the shelf, so... maybe it's just me they don't like." She gave him a wry smile.
After digging through a cupboard, Maea found little tartlette-moulds and scooped some of the crumble mixture into them. Pressing down with the back of a spoon, she lined them up to be filled, once the mousse mixture was ready.
"Hm, I guess that makes more sense. Though really, they tried to pile books on you; from where I'm standing, that's basically being showered in love. I got the shelf, so... maybe it's just me they don't like." She gave him a wry smile.
