Work Text:
Rumi had always approached life like it was her personal playground, and today, that playground was her kitchen. The chef’s hat and apron her neighbor had gifted her perched proudly on her head and shoulders. Embroidered with her name and a small, fiery emblem, the set gave her an air of authority she absolutely did not deserve.
Her mission? To conquer the teff jar collecting dust on the kitchen shelf.
She didn’t bother looking up a recipe; recipes were for people who didn’t trust themselves. With way too much confidence, Rumi eyeballed what she thought cookies were made of. She grabbed a blender and in went teff, almond flour, cocoa powder, a pinch of baking soda, and whatever else was in sight. It was too liquidity to be a proper cookie dough, so she added chickpea flour. “Extra protein,” she muttered, noting that the bag’s “best by” date was from another lifetime.
She figured maybe the cookie dough would need a zingy kick (or at least something to cover up the taste of the expired chickpea flour), so with one last shrug, she popped in some apple cider vinegar and screwed the cap on.
After whirling for a few seconds, the blender screamed like it was protesting the violation of culinary norms. Rumi struggled to twist the lid off, grunting as it resisted. Then came the hissing sound.
“Why’s it hissing?”
She froze. The dough was alive.
Foam began to bubble from the top of the blender. In a panic, Rumi used all her strength to unscrew the cap, and
“¡¡¡POP!!!”
In an instant, her world transformed. Chocolate teff sludge splattered across the walls, the counters, the ceiling. The water filter dripped goo, and so did the bread holder. Rumi stood in the center of the chaos, blinking as glob dripped down her cheek.
Then she doubled over, gripping the sink for support, gasping between fits of hysterical cackling. She should have learned from elementary school volcano science experiments that vinegar and baking soda don't go well together.
“Well, that’s new,” Rumi said, wiping her face with her apron.
By the time the kitchen was clean—or clean-ish—there was still enough batter left to bake. Rumi plopped the dubious mixture onto a tray, smoothed it out, and slid it into the oven.
Fifteen minutes later, the timer dinged, and Rumi approached the tray cautiously, expecting the worst. What she saw defied reason.
The cookies—or whatever they were—had puffed up like tiny, edible clouds. They shimmered, almost glowing under the kitchen light. She broke off a piece, bracing herself, and took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
“The fuck?”
It was…good. Like, really good. Somehow, the unholy combination of teff, chickpea flour, cocoa powder, and apple cider vinegar had created a soft, fluffy chocolate-ginger masterpiece.
Hawks wandered in (unannounced as always), curious about the smell. “What happened here?” he asked, grabbing a piece, “and why is it shiny?”. Moments later, even he was hooked on the abomination.
By the end of the night, Rumi had christened her creation “lava cookies.” They were a miracle born of chaos.
“Anything can explode given the chance,” Rumi hummed, eyeing the shiny cookies.