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It’s no small task to come up with a dish befitting one as well-regarded as Aglaea, but with some contemplation, Mydei settles on preparing her a nice lemon parfait. The tanginess of the citrus that, even with enough sugar to ameliorate it, could make one’s tongue recoil in shock, coupled with the richness of the cream, should offer a sublime swirl of flavour that should be a fine supplement for her waning patheia.
The parfait is a silky smooth beauty, the alternating crumbly and creamy layers resembling a sumptuous multi-colored feathery gown one might wear to whimsical festivals for the sole purpose of merry-making. Sour and sweet white-gold decadence neatly packaged in a single glass, ready to be enjoyed by one willing to unravel each plane of flavour. Elegant, practiced buttercream swirls adorn the top of the citrus-scented civilization, dotted with tiny sprinkles for an extra and subtle zing of texture.
Perhaps there is no canyon of difference between baking and dress-making, Mydei assumes; in both regards, each layer must be meticulously crafted so as to create a coherent whole. Even a single element out of place—a wayward thread, inconsistent cream, a mismatched sequin or a darkened fruit slice—can topple the sanctity of the finished creation. Precision is key, be it the instrument a slim needle or a piping bag.
Aglaea is more than pleased when she receives the sweet treat, and although her Garmentmakers are headless (and stomachless), the twitch of their arms and shoulders and the fidgety gait in their gliding suggests to Mydei that they, too, would appreciate a good parfait today.
Anaxa will undoubtedly enjoy the pastry Mydei prepares for him, browned to delectable perfection and stuffed with pistachio and almond paste. The nutty interior is mostly smooth with kicks of crunch to the mix, a firm juxtaposition against the soft, flaky exterior. It kindly offers a dual sensation that’s sure to be enjoyed by the professor.
There are many layers that make up the exterior, the Kremnoan warrior finding placing them a calming repetition. Layer the bottom, spread a thick dollop of filling, layer the top. Rinse and repeat. He generously drizzles each pastry with honey for a syrupy finish, their dewy appearances challenging Mydei not to simply eat them himself.
Collecting the leftover nuts to sprinkle the plate with later, Mydei pauses to ponder for a moment, brows knitting. Does a pistachio sour at the thought of being referred to as a ‘pista?’ Certain cities in Amphoreus prefer to call it that way, for the whole word may be a mouthful when spoken a copious amount of times, especially in the culinary craft. Mydei supposes the specifics of the moniker matter little, just as how the pronunciation of the words ‘tomato’ or ‘potato’ can also vary, yet ultimately mean the same thing.
Still, as Mydei adds delicate coconut flakes to the dish, the white shavings settling like snow upon the earthy tones of the pastry, he makes a mental note to explain to the scholar that this dish comprises pista chios . He may save himself half a headache that way.
The demigod of culinary prowess prepares pumpkin pie for Castorice, the sweet woman she is. The flame-hued flavour is reminiscent of the turning of seasons—when vivid green life begins its gradual blot into red and gold stillness, the cusp of death before returning to vibrancy once more. Succeeding that comes rejuvenation, when everything is born anew once more. The warm flavour shall melt upon the tongue, a gentle jaunt of cinnamon-tinged goodness for a spiced accompaniment to the calmly gliding sweetness.
While the baked crust is particularly thick and appears to serve as a barrier to the softness just beyond, there is beauty in its starkly-contrasting texture. When eaten, it crumbles wonderfully upon the tongue, a gentle savoury assault upon the senses to whet the palate for the smooth sugary caress that follows just close behind. Without it, the pumpkin filling would lose half its charm, a sad excuse for some sort of half-hearted pudding. Every part must be enjoyed together; crust, cream, filling and all. That is what makes it a pumpkin pie worth relishing.
Besides, this pie can still be embellished to entice the apprehensive. Mydei ensures that the crust is decorated with icing flowers, leaving not an inch untouched, each lavender petal piped with meticulous care. May the nether world, too, be adorned with sweet, fragrant flowers; a pleasant aftertaste after savoring the world above to its fullest.
A nice, wriggly plate of strawberry jelly should be a delight to Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon. It’s come out well, if Mydei says so himself. The shiny red sheen is like rubies, like hibiscus in the apex of spring, and like the Passage demigods’ hair. The strawberries used for it are also of the most pristine quality, as though Georios themself had lovingly toiled upon the soil that sourced them.
The beauty of jelly lies in its overall consistency. Take a spoonful of the sweet treat from anywhere—the smooth, flat top surface, the plump side or even smack dab in the middle—and the taste remains a humble constant. Each little part is the whole, no singular piece any more or less relevant than the creation at its greatest. Equally sweet, equally gelatinous, equally soft and squishy.
Mydei smiles as the little demigods gush over how perfect the towering mound of jelly looks, so enticing and ready to be ravaged. Then he laughs under his breath when they begin to whack at it with their spoons, marveling at the way it wriggles and writhes like a plush mountain, but never comes falling apart. They gobble it up with voracity until only one tiny piece is left and decide to preserve it for later, when they can quarrel about who gets that last bite.
Hyacine is far from picky when it comes to desserts—when presenting her with a sweet treat, Mydei must take into consideration the boundless stomach of her pegasus friend instead. Little Ica is a peerless, apathetic devourer of all things edible (and perhaps even inedible), and Mydei would like to ensure their stomach is satiated enough not to come for any of his men.
Cinnamon rolls seem like the way to go. Mouth-watering cinnamon-blessed swirls, soft and fluffy like clouds of a distant land thanks to dissolving yeast in a milk and butter mixture. Add a substantial amount of warm vanilla cream, dribbling over each roll generously like sunshine on a summer day, and they’re the kind of snack nobody would be willing to say no to. Ah, and more cinnamon powder to top it off.
Tilting his head, Mydei observes the cinnamon rolls from a distance. They look a lot like eyes, with the vanilla spread over the rolls offering the appearance of sclerae, the dark powdery centres the irises. Well, Hyacine is short, so she won’t get such an…aerial view of these rolls. (And Ica is Ica.)
A small batch of it for Hyacine, and exactly one hundred for Ica. When they arrive, the pudgy pegasus devours their share before the man can even blink, and as they tear through them like they’re nothing, Mydei frowns, wondering if this magical creature ever gets digestion issues. By the end of it, ninety-nine of the hundred eye-like rolls are done, one saved for later. And Hyacine, ever chirpy, relishes her own share and then posts a lovely selfie with an awkwardly-smiling Mydei to her blog.
All tales of Cipher come from the Goldweaver, for that infamous feline thief is but a fleeting shadow, a quiet pitter of steps playing a paradoxical rhythm. And by the time the listener can glean even a thread of meaning from such a jaunt, they would find their wallet lighter, their pearl-adorned neck barren, their hair undone from the shining pin that had just prior been holding it up.
For such an elusive cat, a refreshing blueberry-mint mojito seems like the ideal choice. Her thirst for shinies may never be quenched, but her thirst for something refreshing to drink can be.
So Mydei prepares the cool drink, ensuring the colors are as muted as can be. Cipher, from what he understands, prefers to work exclusively in the shadows, so pops of color may be unfitting for her. They could serve as a rare contrast, but the Kremnoan prince feels rather like matching the drink to the receiver today.
Condensation trickles down the glass, a testament to the freshness of each blueberry and mint leaf constituting the mojito. The fizzy bubbles silently gurgle within the eventide-hued liquid, floating to the top to create foamy clouds. Perhaps this is one place that brilliant Dawn Device cannot touch.
Mydei sets the glass on the counter, then turns to sift through the cupboard for a kitty paw-themed drink topper for the finishing touch. There seems to be an unfortunate dearth of such designs today, for he comes up empty.
It proves unnecessary, though, for when Mydei turns back around, the mojito has already been purloined from the counter.
Phainon is a wildcard among the Heirs, in Mydei’s opinion. If he were to ask the snow-hued man what he would like to have as dessert, he would probably say, “I want your spiciest creation. So excruciatingly spicy that the average person would choke back tears with each daunting bite!”
Still, Mydei prepares a nice, comfortable cheesecake for him. Aesthetically quite a simple-looking dish, hardly any room for ostentatiousness. Yet, it is this simplicity that lends itself to a variety of styles. Slather any flavour of sauce onto it and it will taste equally lovely each time (putting preferences aside).
The crust is a rich golden-brown, ostensibly the same shade as those serene, sun-dappled wheat fields swiped away by the claw of fate Phainon keeps telling him about. The cheese is thick and spongy—cheese is good for a warrior, Mydei had always told Phainon. Sure, it may not be as healthy when wrapped up with a neat sugary ribbon, but regardless, this is a dessert the Deliverer will not want to pass up on.
He drizzles caramel sauce on top, letting it drip languidly down the side and paint the plate with a touch of gold. Incidentally, it does look a little too much like golden blood, but one bite of the fluffy dessert should dissipate the ominous suggestion.
The cheesecake has been chilled to perfection. Mydei hopes, as he dusts the plate with ground biscuits, that as Phainon’s spoon digs into it and revels in the soft texture, he will remember that revenge, too, is a dish best served cold, so that he may forge ahead to ward off the mired tides that have stolen away his homeland.
Perhaps Mydei should make himself something delectable, too, when all is said and done. His companions’ bellies are full and happy, and his heart swells with pride, knowing his endeavours have yielded sweet fruit of satiation. A tall pile of Golden Honeycakes is in order—and for all his efforts, he deserves extra syrup. Maybe this time he’ll even add chocolate chips. He can share some with the children, too.